So, one of my duties at the Journal is to write the occasional chick-lit roundup. Quarterly, I'll take the four most interesting books to cross my desk and write maybe fifteen inches total. It's a fun little project and feeds my book habit.

Reviewing twelve books a year doesn't keep up with the three to five books I get in my box each week. It doesn't eve make a dent. I'm constantly swimming in an ocean of trade paperbacks. They used to take up residence in my desk: under the desk, in my drawers, on the desk and for one memorable week, piled on top of my monitor. It's not that I'm lazy about taking the books home, it's more a question of availible real estate in the house.

This past week, I was kind of pulled aside and mentioned it might be in my best interest to go ahead and clear those books out, y'know, least people think they weren't for my professional development or anything.

So I cleared out my desk.



We have now answered that burning question: Just how many trade paperbacks will fit into a Miata's trunk. Answer? Fifty.

Now they're home, there's a question of what to do with them. I can't just leave them stacked on the kitchen table/office desk/office floor. I think there's a trip to Target for another cheap bookcase in my future. I'm also scheming to have a trashy novel party later this spring.



Until then...