I stole a book yesterday.
I know, I know, I know. It was stupid, and I really didn’t meant to do it. It just…happened. There’s a Barnes & Noble about a five-minute drive from my place, and I go there more often than I would like to admit. I stroll the literature aisle, take a peek at poetry, flip through magazines, and do other bookstore things. There’s even a decent café to sit in and get some work done.
Yesterday morning I was at home and feeling frustrated. Nothing I was doing came out right. So, I packed a bag with my MacBook, a notebook and three pens. I looked at the table with the “New Fiction,” and then I took a seat in the café. I didn’t really get any work done during the hour I sat there, but it felt good to be out and about, surrounded by other humans. One large coffee later, I came to the realization that I wasn’t going to find any answers sitting there. So, I packed my bag back and went to the bathroom. I looked to see if they had Jeffrey Renard Allen’s short story collection Holding Pattern, which they did, but I did not buy. They also had three copies of a novel by César Aira titled, Ghosts.
Somehow, without any thought, I slipped the Aira book into my bag and walked out. I didn’t realize I had done it until I was back in the car and saw it sitting in my bag. I thought about taking it back inside and admitting fault, but I really wanted to read it. I mean, Chris Andrews translated it.
I don’t know. I’m going to feel crappy about this for some time. What type of writer am I to steal books? Have I no morals? I’m still convinced that it wasn’t my intention to steal it, it just sort of happened. Writer and book thief. Awful.