Two weeks ago, I finally did it.
I reorganized my bookshelves.
Last year, I came into a slew of new books all at once thanks to ALA and then the Half-Price Books clearance sale bag day, plus quarterly book sale free days at work. More than two dozen new books entered my house and landed, here, on the floor of the den.
I would from, time to time, look at my seemingly full shelves and the stacks and how I hadn’t read any of them yet and feel bad for where they say and my out-of-control TBR pile and this addiction I have clearly about books.
I own four bookshelves. That’s it. Two in the den, two nice ones in the dining room, but they are all smallish.
I took a critical look at how I was shelving things and figured out what I needed to do: the journals had to go somewhere else. I’ve been a journaler since college and I stored the old volumes on the top shelf of one of the dining room bookshelves. After a good 12 years with this habit, we’re talking a dozen volumes (not as many as some, certainly) but enough to fill up 2/3 of a shelf. It was kind of nice to think about all the reflections and whatnot stored therein, but the truth is I very rarely picked up the old volumes.
The journals are now in an under-the-box storage box. The shelf is now full — Graham Greene through Michael Koryta in the dining room (interestingly, I had two copies of Koryta’s “The Cypress House.” Oops.)
As I reshelved things, I pulled out a stack that’s headed to the used book sale at the Library. For all my love of books, there are some that I’m just done with.
There are no rogue piles of books sitting in front of the bookshelf. I’m still technically out of bookshelf space, probably more so than I was before this project. On one shelf, I’ve got mass market paperbacks two deep.
For now, they are are put away and my shelves are happy.