A few weeks ago, I decided on the spur of the moment to join my roommate’s family to a library book sale. (Her sister wrote a really excellent guide to getting the most out of your library book sale, and wasn’t even a little bit snarky through the whole thing, no siree.) We went on the last day, when you get to cram books in a grocery bag and pay $5 for it.
I went in only looking for a few specifics, because I know I have too many books, and especially too many unread books. I ended up with a pile of “Oh this cover is pretty” and “Maybe one day I will want to read Edith Wharton’s short stories because MAYBE the problem I have is that her novels just feel SO LONG” books. Then the roommate and her sisters started throwing joke books at me. Then her sister led me around and shoved a bunch of other books into my hands.
I came home with a mountain.
I ran out of room on my bookcase. Yes, the bookcase that once seemed too large for me to ever fill.
And you know what that called for. A new bookshelf.
I’ve been wanting to have a separate shelf for all my special books — the Harry Potters, the pretty collections my brother hoarded on Black Friday, the books I’ve gotten signed, the book I accidentally stole from my favorite professor because he inconsiderately died before I could return it to him — and this new mountain was the perfect excuse for more book space!
It’s nothing too spectacular, but I love it. And it’s the first piece of IKEA furniture I’ve built myself.
It’s (probably) the first thing you see when you walk into my room, and that’s the way it should be: The most important parts of your soul being the first thing people see.
Now I can breathe all the deep breaths, knowing my rainbow shelves aren’t ruined by overflowing. And I can easily find my most precious books.
If you have wonderful bookshelves, please share them with me. I love looking at bookshelves. Seriously.