Books, and a spontaneous rant about people who bash romance novels

M and I like to go to library book sales. The one in my hometown is often particularly good. Paperbacks are $0.35, and we have been known to buy books there for the flimsiest reasons--we can't remember if we already have it, we have read other books by the author, we have wanted to read books by this author, the cover looks neat, someone recommended it, etc. This is also where the bulk of my romance novel addiction is fed. At most any given time, I have a a bunch of books waiting on me. Last fall's reread of Wheel of Time especially didn't allow me to play catch up. (Speaking of which, I didn't start with New Spring, bur promised myself that I would read it afterwards, but I didn't. Hmm.) I have a dedicated bookcase for books I haven't read--hand-made by my grandfather. (I graciously allow my husband to put his own unread books on the bottom shelf. My kindness knows no bounds.)
( I guess I should cut this, it gets long. Very long. )