A few weeks ago, I walked through the library doors with my tote bag bulging at the seams.  No, it wasn’t full of library books – at least, not officially, not yet.  I practically danced past the information booth and the new release shelves, over to the blue bin labeled “BOOK DONATIONS” and gleefully turned my tote upside-down.  Into the bin tumbled five of Diana Gabaldon’s Outlander novels, along with The Outlandish Companion, The Jane Austen Book Club, and one of my two copies of What to Expect When You’re Expecting.

Sometimes, I get possessive over my books.  Even if I know I’m never going to read them again, I can’t seem to let go.  They follow me from house to house, even though there’s no room for them on my bookshelves.  These books were piled up in my basement, collecting dust next to a stack of law school texts and hornbooks, and paperbacks from both hubby’s and my college years.  (Hubby, with his English major, wins in the college book races, and I don’t plan to donate any of his books without his permission – obviously – so his lead is destined to grow as I whittle down my own books to only those that I really want to keep.)  I have great intentions to donate books, but then a little voice invades my head with reproaches such as “But you paid for that!” – “That was a gift from your mom!” – “What if you decide to read it again?  Remember The Handmaid’s Tale – you hated that at first and then realized later how great it was.  What if you’d donated it?  You’d have to buy it again!”

Every so often, I manage to tell that chirping voice to – as my high school German teacher would say – “Shutten Sie up!”  And I gather up an armload of books that I know I don’t want, and that I know the library would love to have.  And after I donate them, I feel… free.  Free to give their bookshelf space to a book I really want, that I know I will read again.  Or at least free of a little bit of dusting.

Usually, I am thrilled after making a book donation.  This time was no exception.  I was never going to read any of those books again, and it was time for them to find a more loving home.  But every so often, I regret a loss later.  My Dorothy Dunnett collection, for instance – gone, and I can only hope they’ve found a happier home at the library.  I’m a little sad about those, I must admit.  And a little irked at the way the “What if you want to read it again?” voice is shrieking “I told you so!” at me.

But that’s the exception.  9 times out of 10, I gladly make a donation and I never look back.  Which is good, because… I’m really coveting a set of the new Penguin Drop Caps.  And someone’s going to have to moooooooove over in order to make room for those bad boys on the bookshelf.

Have you ever donated books to your library?  Ever experienced “donator’s remorse” – or do you just dance on over to the bookstore after making a contribution?