I have problem.

Well, let’s be honest I have many problems; a whole hessian sack of the bastards. But in the lucky dip of issues affecting me, today I’ve decided to yank my book hoarding and ignoring problem out of that mystery bag. Of course, there are other more pressing issues that probably need to be addressed – like the fact that the ulcers in my mouth are making it hard for me to chew – but I reason that, if I have to start somewhere, I should start with the issue I can make a blog post out of.

This problem, I know, is one that a lot of people suffer from. I read an article on the Guardian about it the other day, it’s come up in conversation with friends a few times now and its physical manifestation was confronting enough for a house guest to comment on it during a visit the other night.

I have problems with buying books and not reading them.

I pick them up, marvel at the ways they will enrich my life, shell out good money and then leave them untouched. And I have a lot of them.

I have the luxury of living a complete mess of a life, which means I move around a fair bit and my personal items are scattered between the homes of my various family members. This allows me to forget just how many books I have brought into a life of neglect.

I buy the books, trying to prove to myself that I am an intelligent, cultured and eclectic young woman. I like to think I am well read and my brain sponge longs to soak up the poetic words of others. That I need stimulation I cannot find from entertainment streaming services. In short, that I’m special. But the truth is that I am no longer the avid reader I was in my youth. I am an avid scroller, thumbing trough the numbing abyss of content on my social media feeds.  And every day I feel myself getting dumber. I forget how to spell words. I find myself having to Google words to make sure they mean what I think they mean.

I don’t want to confront the idea that I might actually just be a it of a deadshit, so I’ve prescribed myself with some serious reading to counteract this mental dimness. Reading, I tell myself, will fix this problem. If I replace my screen time with books, I tell myself, all my problems will get smaller. Trouble sleeping? Read. Low energy levels? Read. Crippling anxiety? Read. All communing existential dread? Read.

I’m going to turn it all around, I promise myself. But this means I have to actually pick up a book, shut out everything ease and actually read.

And to do so, I have a knee-high pile of books stacked aggressively on an inconvenient corner of my desk. This is where a good sense of imagination/unhinged mind helps, because I can feel it staring my down when I sit in bed, dicking around on my phone. The inanimate mound glares at me, with piercing judgment. But it’s not just me. A mate who popped round the other night found it just as confronting.

So far, personifying a heap of books has helped – I’ve just crossed over to the second half of Anne Frank: The Diary of a Young Girl. I mean, it’s an important book, but the subject matter is quite depressing and it doesn’t really compel me to keep enduring it, but then I catch a glimpse at that hostile pile. I feel the burn of the imaginary stink eye and I read to avoid the impossible possibility of making eye contact with the judgmental tower.

Here’s a list of the books I still need to get through:

11:22:63 by Stephen King: This one was leant to me by a friend so I have that next up on my list so I can return it to her.

The Road by Cormac McCarthy: I bought this at the Lifeline Bookfest, because I heard about the movie but don’t think I can handle the visuals of watching post-apocalyptic survivors munging on a baby.

Animal Farm by George Orwell: This is one of those books that I feel like I should have read by now. I don’t know if I will enjoy it, but I will enjoy the smug feeling of having read it, so it seems worth it.

Summer in Caprice by Vladislav Vancura: I bought this book when I was in Prague – yes, I’ve been to Europe – and was swept up by the bookish charm of the quaint streets. This was one of the few books I could find that was written in English, plus the cover had rough illustrations and paint smears. It really spoke to the basic bitch Gilmore Girls loving, art appreciating, different-from-other-girls teenager inside me.

Witches, Midwives and Nurses by Barbara Ehrenreich and Deirdre English: Because angry feminist witch is a vibe I can bet behind.

The Weight of Things by Marianne Fritz: I came across a $5 book sale while I was tired and hungry one afternoon and was drawn to the red and pale pink cover.

How to Eat by Nigella Lawson: No explanation needed. I haven’t read this yet because I’m saving it for a treat, but I’ve had it for nearly a year now and still not read a single page, so clearly I need to start being a little kinder to myself.

Invisible Women by Caroline Criado Perez: I’m not ready for how angry this book will make me. It’s a book about the data gender gap, which exists because basically every standard, generic human used for testing models is based on the male. So when car manufacturers test seatbelts, the test dummy is generally a male body or that bullet proof vests are tested on male bodies, meaning they don’t fit well for women. Yeah, it’s going to make me angry and I don’t want to be charged for arson so I have make sure I read it when I can do a lot of running to get my anger out in a non-destructive way.

Judy Garland by Anne Edwards: A juicy tell-all about an old Hollywood icon? Of course I was going to buy it when it was priced at one whole dollar.

For Esme – with Love and Squalor by J D Salinger: I don’t care how clichéd this makes me with my trendy glasses and high-waisted op shop items, I love Salinger. I like the books from the 50s where smoking is glamorous and everyone is from old money. And just when you thought this indie tragic couldn’t get anymore I’m-so-alternative, I bought it at the book market in Berlin across the road from the site of the infamous Nazi book burning. Yeah, I’m that girl.

The Natural Way of Things by Charlotte Wood:The cover is quite pretty and it was going for quite cheap at the Lifeline Bookfest.

Sour Heart by Jenny Zhang: This is was a selection for a now defunct book club I was once part of in my Sydney days. I joined the month after this book was chosen and decided to catch up on my own time.

A Hero in France by Alan Furst:I came across this in a weird $5 book store pop-up just before I went to Europe and thought it would be nice to have some historical fiction to ready on my trip. I didn’t even pack it.

Everywhere I Look by Helen Garner: I heard an interview with Helen Garner on Conversations and was stuck by extreme guilt for not having read a single one of her books. This one was going cheap at the Bookfest.

The Ballad of the Sad Café by Carson McCullers:I can’t even remember buying this one…

Salt, Fat Acid, Heat by Samin Nosrat:This is another book I’ve been saving for treats. It’s just such a beautiful book that I feel like I need to really savour it like a piece of cake and so can’t just read it any old time – it need to be relished in the right setting with the right culinary accompaniment.