I really love my bookshelf because my friend Mark put it up for me, in exchange for a delicious dinner and some beer (I think I won there). It's made from reconditioned wood, and I did some of the most important work myself, aka the sanding, and also drilling one of the most important holes.
I can’t stop buying books. It’s a problem that I never want to fix, but I recognise that I buy more than I can read. I vaguely group my books together: classics, poetry, short stories, YA. There are also lots of research books, about travellers for Infinite Sky, and about soldiers for my follow up book. There are lots of books about writing: Betsy Lerner’s The Forest for the Trees, Dorothea Brande’s Becoming A Writer, Robert McKee’s Story, Stephen King's On Writing.
Some of my favourite things, besides all the books, are on my bookshelf too: my table tennis bat, a photo of my mum, dad and brother on a camel together in Morocco before I was born and imbued their lives with intense and beautiful meaning, and a weird cup that my friend Tashwa made for me a few years ago, featuring a three-headed, many moustachioed creature of her invention.
And just in case you’re thinking there aren’t that many books there, don’t worry. There are many, many more at my Dad’s house. Okay, not that many, but some. There are also piles of the things on the floor. And by my bed.
In fact, this bookshelf, marvellous as it is, is actually too small for my growing collection of books. I might need to see if my friend is ready for another delicious dinner...