On Wednesday, I decided to step out onto the porch and stand in the bitter cold and sunshine for a few minutes. But when I opened the front door, I ran into a wall of boxes. I could barely open the screen far enough to squeeze outside.
There were 14 boxes sitting on my porch. Each box contained 72 books. Or rather, 72 copies of one book.
For the mathematically challenged among you, that’s 1008 copies of my book that were sitting on my porch. Two very generous friends gave me enough money to buy all those copies so they wouldn’t get slashed and burned (or whatever it is that happens to out-of-print books that no one wants).
I left them on the porch, stepped back inside, and shut the door.
I didn’t open it again till Doug got home. My first inkling that he’d arrived was the shout of laughter I heard. Then I heard him hefting the boxes to the other side of the porch. He couldn’t get to, let alone through, the barely-opening screen. Serves him right for laughing.
Once he could get the screen open, he and Jack carried the boxes into the living room and stacked them there. The boxes took up most of the room. What can I say? We have a rather – how shall I put this delicately? – cozy house.
After dinner and storytime, while Doug was tucking Jane in and Jack was reading The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, I schlepped the boxes down to the basement. Let me tell you, there’s nothing quite like carrying fourteen 24-pound boxes of your own out-of-print book down concrete steps to a dimly lit cinder block room to engender a feeling of futility.
Now I have to figure out what I’m going to do with all these books. Doug suggested I give a free ginsu paring knife to anyone who buys two copies.
Let the shilling begin.
