Like many people, I have too many books. Let’s put the whole question of whether that is a dubious concept – can you have too many books? – for the moment, and take it as a given. My shelves are full. There’s no more room. I’m already a bit like a mad cat lady but with paperbacks. And hardbacks. And strange things with spiral bindings. I haven’t ventured into Kindle territory yet, but if I had one, I’d have filled it.
But they don’t get read enough. And I’m still buying more – or I was until I decided I’d had enough.
So now I’m going to read my stash, and not buy new. And I’m going to let fate decide. I’ve got a little drawing of my bookshelves with them all numbered. I’ll roll a dice – two dice will be needed – and go to the bookshelf chosen by fate. Then I’ll roll for the specific shelf, and for the book on that shelf.
I’ll give myself a little leeway, though. I can count from either end of the shelf, and if the dice give me a three and a two, that could be five, or it could be thirty-two or twenty-three. And I’m confining myself to books in English.
I could get fiction, or I could get a cookery book, an art book, something about the history of Wales, a book about gardening or smallpox or the history of carpets or refugees. Let’s see!