When you walk into my house the first thing you see is a tall bookcase screaming out, “Hey look at me and all these books! You must think I’m pretty smart, huh?”
There’s a shelf of novels I never finished and a stack of others I reread each year. There’s Roman philosophy, Holocaust horror, and first-hand accounts of the Civil War. Step inside and Awaken The Giant Within, hang with Dale Carnegie, or get lost in the woods with Thoreau.
My self-help section spills over into the “business” and “biography” stacks, taking up precious shelf space. Of course, like Marc Maron once wrote, “All my books are self-help books. Just having them makes me feel better.”
Yes, my Ikea bought tower of knowledge says, “Oh I read alright. Let me tell you.”
There’s just one problem…