Call me old-fashioned, but I am very much a one-book kind of a guy.  Once I start a book, I will either finish it or I will abandon it but, what I won’t do is to start another book before my relationship with the first book is resolved.  Matter of principle?  Question of respect?  Whatever, that’s just how I am.

However, plenty of my fellow readers do not display so much integrity.  I’m not judging; I’m just saying.  These polygamous readers might have a couple of books on the go at the same time; maybe several, constantly playing one off against another; roaming backwards and forwards between them with reckless abandon.

It is not for me.

I can’t cope with all the switching of emotions involved; all the loose ends left hanging; having to remember where you left off one and where to pick up the next.

Give me one good book to stick to; through thick and thin; in sickness and in health; till death do us part.

Book monogamist I might be, but I am a serial book monogamist.  I am the Zsa Zsa Gabor, the Elizabeth Taylor, the Ginger Rogers of reading.  I get through my books at a cracking rate of words; start to finish, each relationship may only last a matter of days.  Perhaps it is my very monogamy that is responsible for this furious pace?  Ever faced with the alluring temptation of a fresh read, but unwilling to sacrifice my strict monogamous principles, adds incentive to my reading speed; makes me attempt to reach the book’s climax as quickly as possible.

I don’t like to boast, but my technique means that I end up taking up 120, sometimes 150, different books each year.  Have I a problem?

Am I a bookaholic?

© Fergus Longfellow

Fergus Longfellow goes off to seek help for his addiction.