Bookshelves as Home: A Confession

This is a bit of an embarrassing confession, but I’m going to admit it anyway, because I know I can’t be the only one: we haven’t had bookshelves in our home since we moved.

Bookcases are expensive, especially if you want quality ones that will stand the test of time. Recently, I’ve been really missing the browsability of having my books on shelves, of finding an old favorite and touching the spine, remembering how I felt when I read it for the first, second, twentieth time. I have a little shelf built into my writing desk, but that can house maybe two dozen books, and with all the amazing books I like to keep close, from old inspiring favorites to references for writing (including my very worn out baby name book I’ve had since I was twelve), it simply isn’t enough space.

Since joining Twitter in April 2019 (yes, I was late), I’ve not only been recommended a huge number of wonderful new releases and debuts, I’ve been craving queer fiction and finding it in droves. I believe 2020 was the yeah I purchased the most new books since college, and they were all queer. I don’t have anywhere to keep these new books I’ve been trying to get up the energy and focus (two things hard to come by last year and this one) to read. They’re stacked in random places, forced on the lone shelf on my desk, and sitting on my side table. I read a fair amount of audiobooks last year and this year so far, which thankfully don’t need to be stored anywhere but my phone, but I decided that this year, I’m getting bookcases.

Now, I’ve heard wonderful things about the IKEA BILLY series of bookcases. I thought the white ones looked nice and clean, and could be decorated in a variety of styles. Black cases (like the cheap ones I had in college) always got so visibly dusty, plus white could hypothetically be painted if I decided on a new décor style later. I chose a wide, short bookcase and two standard tall six-shelf ones.

Luckily, before I ordered them, I measured the wall where they’d be going in the spare room that a) I’ve been using as a work-from-home office for my non-writing day job and b) we’ve been storing at least two dozen boxes of books for the last four years and some change.

Foiled by nearly a foot. Dreams dashed, I went back to the IKEA site and decided on two short bookcases to go between the long ones. My vision: a single long shelf between the two tall ones, where I’d keep my TBR books in a neat row as well as a few knick-knacks, with art from my future publications (framed book covers are a dream of mine) on the wall behind. I could decorate it seasonally, and take cute photos for Instagram of my TBR, shelves teeming with books, fanart!

I had a plan! But IKEA had other plans. Not a single shelf I chose was eligible for shipping, and the nearest IKEA to pick up all four shelves (that I wasn’t even sure would fit flat-packed in my tiny car) was a three and a half hour drive away, near DC.

New plan! Target has some similar-ish shelves, and my local one had them available for pickup. In a flurry of frustration, I ordered them, picked them up, struggled to get them inside, and…

Realized I still needed to go through the dozens of boxes of books, and cull those which I no longer wanted or needed. I had to navigate through books I loved as a kid, as a teen, even through college that now carried a bitter feeling like burnt popcorn, knowing that the author would openly despise me. Not just a certain author of a magical boarding school franchise that got me through deaths in my family, feelings of isolation in high school and college, and even the first year of living away from everything I’d ever known. Sci-fi authors, classics. Did I even want these books on my shelf? Did I want them to take up space that could be filled with future new releases, pre-orders, queer books, books by BIPOC, books that would speak to me, tell me they loved me, unconditionally?

The HP books and the merch I’d packed with them got shoved in a closet. I want to reclaim the pages into positive trans-affirming art someday. They were a huge part of my life, and I want closure that I don’t think throwing them in a dumpster will offer that, though I’m not sure if I can ever reread them. Other books were packed up in boxes and put aside to find a good place to donate them.

Getting the shelves physically put together wasn’t too bad after the first one, and once they were all set up I got even more excited about filling them, as soon as we anchored them to the wall so the cats couldn’t pull them over like the little demons they are. Since the cats are spoiled, I’d even allocated a shelf for them to have a space to curl up, but that ended up not working out, tragically.

Next step: books on shelves! I honestly wasn’t sure all our books would FIT on just these shelves, but we got them all stuffed on. My spouse wants to be able to see ALL his books in one go, so some of the trade paperback fantasy overflow had to be stacked on the top top of the bookcase, but I don’t mind double-shelving for my side. The outside shelves are basically two standard books deep so I took advantage of that fact and hid some books that I don’t feel the need to display.

I enjoyed organizing the shelves a lot, and managed to group things together by category. While my spouse has categories like art reference, murder books, “weird” nonfiction (UFO’s, unexplained mysteries, etc.), and manga, my side is organized more on age category, with younger kidlit at the top, mainly MG, a shelf exclusively for queer books of all ages, and then YA and adult further down. The kidlit shelf is near and dear to my heart, made almost entirely of books I’ve carted from the house I grew up, to college, to Seattle and then across the country. My poor copy of Ella Enchanted is illegible from the spine, even though I’d know it anywhere.

Without further ado, my bookshelves!

The books are finally home and so am I

Having books in a house really makes it feel like home, and finally having shelves up after so long has reminded me just how many books there are that I love, that touched and influenced me and my writing since I was little. I see how many authors will inevitably whisper through my own work, and I only hope that one day I’ll be part of that conversation for a new generation of young writers.

Until next time!