Can there be too many?

I went to my bookshelf to find a paranormal romance. My next story I think is going to be a romance. Other stuff happens, of course. They get slammed with a spell that takes them back into the past and my main character, Miranda has to figure out how to save them and to do that she has to strengthen her own magic, that she has mostly ignored for years, and they have to figure out the bad guy and why the trap was set, but ...

But that's not the main point of this story. At least not the point I'm going for. The point is making time with a guy she's had a crush on for the last ten years. So I went to look for a paranormal romance so I can read it looking at how it is done. How the romance is the main point, but all the other stuff happens too. How the danger they're in drives the romance instead of the other way around. A suspense romance would probably work too.

So I look for a book to read how someone else has done it and I realize....

I have a lot of books. A LOT of books.

These are next to my chair, in the living room.

These are on the nightstand in my bedroom.

This is the other nightstand and the bookshelf (or curio cabinet) my mother made for me.

Another stack.

The kid's books.

The books in my sewing/writing room. (These really are mostly sewing or writing books, at least.)

The main bookshelf in the study. Don't tell Hubby that they're double-stacked where ever double-stacking will fit. He'd probably guess if he ever really looked at the bookshelf, but he hates double-stacking so we both just pretend they're all normal. The neatly organized white bookshelf to the left is his shelf of gaming books. I'm not allowed to touch that one. My books DO NOT go there.

And the other bookshelf in the study. The built in sort, that was probably meant for little display things rather than books. (Ignore the construction mess where I created a built in desk under the printer, but never got around to finishing up the painting. Maybe that should be my next way to avoid writing?)

And this doesn't even count the cookbooks on their own shelf in the kitchen, or the pile (usually in the kitchen) of new (to me) garage sale books that I haven't found a place for yet.

Is it time for the admitting I might have a problem?

Maybe?