The packing has officially begun. Two of the big bookshelves are clear of books, and a good ten percent of the living room is devoted to boxes. I'm wondering whether we're going to run out of space; New York apartments weren't designed for easy packing.
It's times like these that I wish I didn't own so many books. I love them as if they were my children (well, small, inanimate, rectangular children), but part of me wishes that I were living out of a suitcase and free as a bird to move without all this, well, stuff tying me down.
Perodically I go through my bookshelves with the intent of paring down, though, and I rarely find more than four or five books I can bear to part with, so I figure getting rid of my collection probably isn't happening.
Which most of my friends agree is a good thing. :)