Having come to terms with my addictive personality–the bad habit forming kind and not the effervescent, irresistible kind–I am more aware of the many addictions I have that ebb and flow over time. Understanding these little voids that demand to be filled is an elusive exercise, and as any admitted addict knows, is a process that stretches far out from the point at which the denial stops.

My most recent indulgence has been the collection of books–real, paper books–faster than I could possibly read them. Like any addiction, it seems harmless until it predictably escalates out of control. Bibliomania, they call it. During a quick scan to define my predicament, I found that Holbrook Jackson refers to it as “a genial mania, less harmful than the sanity of the sane.” Precious. And then I read that an eighteenth century Earl-of-Somewhere wrote a letter to his son to warn that he should avoid bibliomania like the bubonic plague. Now we’re talking! My cute affectation was now an affliction with some gravitas, and deserving of a support group.

Sometimes I worry about becoming one of those pitiful hoarders on that television reality show. That show is so upsetting in its unapologetic display of truly repulsive behavior that I’m just waiting for a new show all about fat, hairy mid-westerners with a preference for drinking beer out of tall-boy cans and watching the football game while naked. Early touchdown, and fat dude number one gets a bit too excited. At half time, the guys all pretend that their bellybuttons can talk. Slow third quarter, and the syncopated ball scratching ensues. One hour of that show couldn’t possibly be anymore tragic and bile inducing than the investigation of the home of a hoarder. But I guarantee you that when such a program airs, I’ll watch exactly one episode of it.

Addicts tend to be quite thoughtful people, and much of this thought is spent on concocting logical explanations for their own behavior. I have a number of prepared methods of rationalizing my book addiction. One of a number of explanations is always ready to recite if someone, likely my wife Jen, questions the freestanding towers growing like fungi around the overstuffed bookshelves in my office. Sure, I have always been of the camp that believes that the best writing education comes from reading everything you can get your hands on, and reviewing it critically–that, and writing. I am not, however, toiling under any allusions for my problem. I am fully aware that this explanation doesn’t quite cover the extent of my obsession.

I’ve returned home from numerous business trips with luggage filled with plastic-wrapped volumes, and each time offer that it was impossible not to blow some per diem money on the books that are sold at a deep discount in the predominantly non-English speaking country. Also, as a frequent-flyer club member, I have extra luggage weight allowance that I hate to see wasted. I cannot abide unexplored privilege; not even that quaint little porcelain bowl of cold salted almonds. Actually, I normally ask for seconds.

Typically though, my reasoning, while practical, is not as fiscally responsible though it is honourably discharged. Over morning coffee, I scan book reviews in Kirkus or the New York Times and if something grabs my interest, the title will end up on my perpetual must-read list. Of course, being the great big man-child that I am, my list has a five second expiration and must be fulfilled immediately. This isn’t as crazy as it sounds in these times of commerce-driven book retail monopolies. A store like Chapters-Indigo will only feature and stock a title for so long, and the moment its sales begin to slow it disappears from the restocking list or is labeled with the dreaded “Usually available in 6 to 8 weeks” caveat on the website. So there is a certain sense of chivalry to my gathering in this regard; I’m simply helping to promote various titles and protecting the livelihood of deserving authors against the profit-whoring retail giants. Well, someone needs to do it and it might as well be me. You could have knocked me down with a feather when I saw that Book City–one of the last Canadian independents–was still alive and kicking in the Toronto Beach neighbourhood. It takes a village, as they say.

My heroic rescue of writers in distress begins to take on a more suspect shade when I drive to the nearest Chapters-Indigo with the sole intention of picking up a gift card for myself. I can use these like cash on the company’s website, and the same books are usually purchased at up to one-third off the jacket price. This really gets me going, like those rabid young women at an annual wedding dress clearance sale. I just bought Gary Shteyngart’s new $30 hardcover novel for $19.97! How can the new Chapters-Indigo loyalty rewards for in-store shopping possibly beat this? Really…is the lure of five percent off my book purchase after I accumulate fifty bazillion Plum Points going to top a thirty-three percent online discount? I don’t think so, Chooch. This works for me as long as I can steel myself for the drudgery of monitoring the online shipping and delivery status, and refrain from haunting my bedroom window which has a direct view of our communal mail drop box. Not that there is that much traffic on my suburban street, but I don’t even have to be near the window to pinpoint the high pitched whir of the postal truck’s electric motor.

Mail order addiction fulfillment directly contravenes the reality that the books must be had pronto, immédiatement, giddy-up! The real meaning behind the Chapters-Indigo offer of free shipping for purchases of $25 or more is this: If you are so parsimonious that you won’t come into the store and pay full price, so thrifty that you won’t pay for expedited shipping to receive your must-have books in a timely manner, then you forfeit your right to good quality customer service. This is why their website displays tracking information for your order “with the convenience of not needing a Canada Post tracking number”. They can tell you that your order is being processed at the postal facility when it is actually sitting under the arse of some donut-eating, coffee-swilling warehouse lackey. When he’s done, you get your books, you cheap bastard.

As for my quick fix, I have also rediscovered the public library system after a long period of forgetting about it completely. Momentarily casting aside my drooling desire for book possession through ownership, it’s a good way to test out authors that are new to me and to stop my hands from shaking. I recently returned to my local branch after a three-year absence, and joined the silent denizens in reverent browsing. I recognized an old woman sitting at a reading table with a picture book open in front of her, and I’m sure she was sitting in that exact spot the last time I was there. Public libraries still have the stuffy smell of a kindergarten classroom–that inexplicable combination of barf and soiled underpants, with a certain amount of time passed to mellow out the bouquet.

Every means of acquiring books has its own demographic, whether it’s a retail chain, a used bookstore or a library. I was happy to see that the library scene has not changed; still a mix of seventh-grade nerds, stay-at-home moms desperate for distraction, the under-employed, lonely septuagenarians, and my people–the bookaholics. It’s like inviting winos to a vineyard open house. Free books, you say? For me, the bookaholic, free is rarely free. After recovering from my wonderment that the library contains many of the very same books that the bookstore offers, that they indeed have heard of some of the authors that I am interested in, I greedily amass a stack of books that I have absolutely no business checking out for one three-week period. So not only do I feel the pressure of reading these particular books before the borrowing deadline runs out, I have to resist being wistfully seduced by some other title or author in the meantime. I am weighted with the responsibility to read these books, and also make sure the checked-out books are returned on time. All these conditions, and the books don’t even belong to me. Needless to say, my three-year absence from the library was mainly due to a hefty late fine that I steadfastly refused to pay out of some forgotten principal, until recently. On my previous library visit, I noticed that the spine of the Camilla Gibb novel that I had reserved was completely broken. Wanting to be a good citizen and protect my own ass, I reported it to the on-duty librarian. She examined it, stamped it, and told me I could keep it. It felt like victory. Or stealing.

And then there’s my favourite; the 12-year old Scotch on the rocks in Waterford crystal of book addiction: the stately used bookstore. Actually, this bastard child of the publishing world is not as stately as it once was. Part of this might be due to the clear and present threat to print media. If you were to ask someone in a publishing company about their feelings on used bookstores, they would probably respond with a derisive comment about the lost royalty profits of this invisible trade in books. While it is certainly a contentious issue for the publishing world and Freakonomics disciples, especially the growing online sales of used books, you don’t hear of publishers sending teams of lawyers after Mom & Pop proprietors. After all, these small-time swindlers don’t quite resemble the specter of the caffeine-fueled Internet pirate trading countless terabytes of copyrighted material on peer-to-peer networks. The rising sales and illegal downloading of e-books might change all that. Depending on how desperate things get, we may yet see gangs of publishing industry suits trolling the neighbourhoods with torches and pitchforks in hand, and hungry looking writers busting into used bookstores like crazed zombies looking to eat the brains of some old lady in a frayed cardigan quietly reading a book at her stool behind a musty shop counter.

Because I long ago conquered another addiction, Gadget Lust, I still don’t own an e-book reader and I don’t plan on it. After a great deal of personal reflection and consultation with my Gadget Lust Anonymous sponsor, I consciously decided that I would gladly struggle through an airport terminal with a fifty-pound carry-on bag full of real books than have to feed the beast by staring at yet another screen. And besides, combined addictions are very dangerous indeed. I am not one of those people that absolutely must read the final paragraph first, nor do I lust for the first sentence of a novel in anticipation of how the author is going to hook me. The first thing that I do with a new book is to open it at roughly the middle, bury my nose in the crack and take a great big whiff. I’m like the nitrous-breathing psycho that Dennis Hopper deliciously played in the movie Blue Velvet, though without all the evil giggling and carrying on and Isabella Rossellini.

This is something that I do not–dare not do with used books. But they do have the alternate allure of the dog-ears where some previous owner chose to pause, and occasionally the thoughtful, hand written margin notes. I especially like the connection to the mysterious past of a book’s journey when I myself count the book as a recent favourite. It reminds me of the grand tradition of oral storytelling, and how one lengthy anecdote is passed from mouth to ear along time’s arrow, ultimately aimed straight at you. A new book is a totally different experience, as there is some sense that the passing on of the story contained therein begins with you.

While used bookstores were once noble destinations located in handsome brownstones, where scruffy bookaholics like me were once revered as esteemed bibliophiles, they have suffered a diminished luster in recent years. You are now more likely to find that the Yellow Pages ad for such a place is followed by the direction “…located in Century Plaza, next to Fatty Patty’s Big Boy Burgers.” Occasionally, a successful used bookstore will manage to burrow into the hollowed out downtown core of your small to mid-sized city, but I find that the suburban strip mall is the most common locale. I have most of the good ones in my hometown pinned on a Google Maps printout. When I say “good ones”, I mean that these are the shops that make a recognizable effort at organization rather than having the feel of a long-term storage locker containing some recently deceased person’s personal library. You can always tell when the shop owners feel pride in their wares, because they’ve done their best to make the place look like a proper retail location. And if they’re successful, the used bookstore will become a hub of sorts for the local artistic/literary community, with the ubiquitous billboard of upcoming gigs and community theatre productions proudly displayed by the door, above the rack of free arts & entertainment newspapers. The other kind of used bookstore, the one that makes you wonder about your personal injury insurance should one of the massive stacks topple onto you, more closely resembles Stieg Larsson’s digestive tract with a liberal helping of masticated V.C. Andrews.

But I will likely have to rely more so on my other book pushers in future, because the era of used bookstores is fading fast. Lately, I’m amazed at the pencil-marked pricing on the inside cover of most books I pick up. Typically, the price is arrived at not by an assessment of the condition of the book or its demand, but by a straight calculation on a percentage of the original cover price–often at fifty percent. I get a bit cranky when I finally find a particular used title that resembles a St. Bernard’s former chew toy only to be charged $7.95 for the damn thing. I can imagine that the prices will eventually drift up to be equal with the original price, as the value proposition becomes “at least it’s not digital.” If I really, really want the book, my scale will tip me back over to the retail giant to buy it new.

The difficulty of used bookstores remaining competitive may have a lot to do with pricing strategies of the legitimate book industry, but I suspect it has more to do with the real estate market. When I find myself entering a frequented shop and feel vaguely guilty for disturbing the hushed environment, I wonder how the place can possibly sustain the overhead of skyrocketing retail-leasing costs? Maybe the used book industry will just continue to dwindle to its own singularity. In future years, if I haven’t overcome my addiction, I will find myself purchasing books in the living room of some four hundred pound, muumuu wearing shut-in, and she’ll point me toward my sweet desire with her monkey-hand back scratcher.

I think I hear the mail delivery truck now…