I am a collector. I love every single one of my crime fiction books. Most were bought at stores, but a few were bought at what would broadly be defined as Book Fairs. And maybe I love those books a little more than the rest. Back a few years ago there was a brief time when I collected for profit. Which anyway you look at it was foolish. I bought things I never would have purchased because I thought there was money to made. See? Foolish. As if I would ever sell any of them to reap this profit. Ultimately it meant I bought books that I just did not like. Too my credit I read them, and too my greater credit I never bought another of the author’s books. Supposed profit or not.
But I still collect. Maybe this obvious to everyone already, but the book, the object of my fervor, has little to do with why I collect. It is the pursuit that holds all of the attraction. Even if the pursuit is reduced down to searching the stacks of several Border’s to find the one dust jacket that has not been a obliterated by clumsy customers and the occasionally oafish store clerks.
Long story short read this article about collecting crime fiction.
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