I am on the side of people who live in precarious conditions wherein they might be forced to one day chew off their own arm to avoid dying under the pile of books that fell on them and pinned them to the stairwell wall. Of course, I would be very careful to not get any blood on the actual books. The arm we can get rid of. Books? Pfft. Besides joy, my litter of books might also spark a fire, but that’s how I likes it, Shelf-Nazi. (Okay, I’m not as bad as the image below, but this site doesn’t deal in subtleties.)
My office is just books everywhere. There is no order. There is no rhyme or reason. They’re every which way. There are picture books, an old Scrabble board, cookbooks, typewriters, newspapers that have stories that I’m inspired by, fan art that I’ve framed, stickers and finger puppets that kids have given me. I’ve got Spider-Man toys given to me by Marvel, my own books. I should be more organised, but I’m not an organised person. It’s a good example of how my mind works.
The only time I get rid of books is when I have multiples. I send them to schools and to people who need them. I know people say, “What’s the point in keeping them if you’ve already read them?” But they’re reference. This is my craft. These are my tools. That would be like the construction worker saying he has too many hammers.