Stacks of papers make me quite unhappy [I generally try to ignore]. Stacks of dishes, same reaction. Stacks of dirty [and clean] laundry...daunting. All sorts of stacks are nothing more than "a black fly in [my] chardonnay."
[Yes, I did just do that. Now you too can have that song running through your head. Sorry not sorry.]
But I love stacks of books. Sometimes I stack books in my window sill so I can enjoy them each time I glance outside. Weird, maybe. But in my heart, God created a love for story so ardent, I can do nothing to stem the tide.
My current windowsill assortment:
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