I used to spend hours getting lost in the pages of a magazine. Seriously. Hours. I'd be the goofy, nerdy kid who literally would get goosebumps just from walking into a library. The smell of all those books and the fact that there were sooooo many made me instantly feel better.
To this day, one way for me to combat anxiety is to walk into a book store. Granted, the choices available can get me all riled up, but the shelves and shelves of books and magazines can have a calming effect.
Well, it can also be a bit of a problem.
Every corner of my home in Los Angeles and every nook in my NYC apartment is filled. They're on coffee tables, side tables, as decor on a mantle, stacked high and used as a bedside table, piled under a table lamp on a table that isn't high enough, on a shelf in the bathroom, under a cart in the kitchen, above the stove, in a large wooden crate, in a bin made of recycled tires, stacked waist high next to me favorite chair, and of course they fill the traditional book and magazine hangouts--bookcases and magazine racks.
Every so often I weed and edit through them. I can't be too methodical or judicious about the process, or it would never get done and eventually I would perish in a pile of printed and bound paper. There are worse fates.
I toss out mags, donate or giveaway books without the slightest hesitation. It's not a natural process, it's just the way it has to be.