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Every summer at around the same time, the same thing appears on my dresser. Slowly, but surely, three piles of books appear. Each pile varies in size throughout the summer, but if I show restraint, hopefully, once the summer begins, they all keep the same amount of books collectively.

They are all marked with post-its. The first pile reads “To-Read” , the second “Reading” and the Third “Finished.” It’s a very remarkable system, with the problem being that there are no fewwer than fifteen books fed into this system at any given time.

There is something aesthetically pleasing about a large pile of books in the “To-Read” section, with titles ranging from trashy romance novels to stuffy classics, and everything in between. I have always considered reading to be an adventure, something to take with you and enjoy no matter where you are.  I’ve always considered the summer a time for resting, a time of long days and reasons to be outside, and what better thing to do outside but read?

The only problem I seem to have come in contact with during my non-academic required summer reading is the “Reading” pile. As of press time, I seem to have no fewer than five books occupying this pile, with only about three books in the “Finished” pile. There is still an embarassing number of books in the “To-Read” pile, but that’s okay, at least I’m not cracking them!

The worst part seems to be when I find myself wandering through a book store, staring at the new Ken Follet venture and wondering how that could possibly fit in with the order of the books I already have to read. Should I read it before Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrel? Or perhaps after The Count of Monte Cristo? The possibilities are as endless as the books in my “to-read” pile.

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