Skip to main content

My Shelves, or the Gift of Gifts

Each year, my dear friend Beth and I get together a few days before Christmas to eat popcorn and pomegranates, drink cider and hot chocolate, talk in general and specific terms about the year that's past, and exchange gifts of the bookish variety. It's one of the loveliest nights of the year. But this year, Beth outdid herself in the gift department. Not only is she a talented writer, but she is something of a consummate artist. What this means is that she is the opposite of myself and can essentially turn her hand to any medium and produce something lovely. 

Artistic ability is not the only way in which we differ. She comes from a family of eleven children, while I am an only. We've enjoyed many a conversation dissecting the ways in which our family life and upbringing contributed to shaping us into who we are and how we look at the world. This year, she prefaced my gift by saying that she has always felt that books came into my life like siblings. So that we could grow up together and always have each other. So that I wouldn't be alone. And to represent that sentiment, she painted my library. 


A number of you have seen pictures of my library, so you'll know that this isn't just a vague representation, but a literal one. Down to each and every book, carefully inked in and watercolored. Including spaces here and there where certain volumes are checked out. From the Lloyd Alexanders on the top left to the 56 yellow Nancy Drews on the next shelf near the bottom. From the Rainbow Rowells and Harry Potters on the next to last shelf near the bottom to the Stewarts, Stiefvaters, and Whalen Turners on the far right.

It's difficult to contain the emotions surrounding such a gift. But there was no question I had to share it because, much like my most beloved books, I knew you would understand. And appreciate the love and thought that went into it. These shelves are my keeper shelves. Many of them have been with me a very long time, while others moved in only recently. Either way, these are the ones who are filled with my favorite of all the words, in combinations that make up the characters and stories that reach inside my soul and remind me I'm not alone.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Angie's 2018 Must Be Mine List

It's time for a clean slate and a brand new list of titles I can't wait to get my hands on. Behold, my most anticipated titles of 2018:




 And no covers on these yet, but I can hardly wait, all the same:
The Comfort Zoneby Sally Thorne
A Court of Frost and Starlightby Sarah J. Maas
Making Upby Lucy Parker
There Will Be Other Summersby Benjamin Alire Saenz
Off the Airby L.H. Cosway
Fall Boys & Dizzy in Paradiseby Jandy Nelson

Which ones are on your list?

Review | Hunted by Meagan Spooner

I'm just going to start off by saying I cannot stop thinking about this book. I finished it weeks ago, but this lovely Beauty and the Beast adaptation will not leave my mind. This is the first book I've really read by Meagan Spooner. I gave These Broken Stars a bit of a go awhile back, but we sort of drifted apart halfway through. Not the case here. The gorgeous cover caught my eye and the early glowing reviews reinforced my conviction. Having finished it, I immediately ran out and purchased copies for a number of the relevant readers in my life. And despite having pushed on and read several books since, Huntedis the one I find my mind and heart returning to over and over again.

Yeva holds a lot of things in. She loves her family—her father, her sisters—and so she sits obediently in the baronessa's chambers. She pretends to make small talk and embroider bits of cloth with the other ladies. She smiles politely at the young man who is said to be courting her (and doesn'…

"I am looped in the loops of her hair"

For the past couple of days I have been somewhat swallowed up in Eva Ibbotson's The Morning Gift. This was the one Ibbotson historical I'd somehow missed. I'm going to finish it tonight, so a review will be forthcoming. But until then, please have this—Christopher Plummer's unparalleled recitation of "Brown Penny" by W.B. Yeats. A line from this poem makes a brief but shatteringly perfect appearance in The Morning Gift, and I can't . . . I can't get it out of my head.