I have stacks of books here and there, but this is the closest thing to a book shelf in my house. It’s actually two cheap DIY closet organizers from Key West Kmart. They’re temporary. Just until I get a string of book deals.
Over the years, my kids have knocked out some of the bookshelf’s faux backing and peeled away pieces of the laminate from the front. Actually, I think some of that just fell off because sometimes you get what you pay for. About two years ago I stopped trying to fill in all the exposed particle board with a brown Sharpie because it looked equally ridiculous and because Sharpies are expensive.
On top are several out-of-control plants that will not die. And a nativity scene that my daughter loves and sets up every year. It’s old. As old as me. I added the bobble head Quitter Pope Benedict to the scene because I think I’m funny and because I’m passive-aggressive.
The dollar store glass crucifix is from my grandma. She probably gave it to me because she loved me and because she wanted to bring me back to Jesus. I like it because it reminds me of my grandma.
Some of the books on the shelf are great. Some are terrible. Everybody throws shit in there. I only dust it if I have a head’s up that my mother-in-law is coming over.
I like books a lot. So very much. But they’re not my whole life. Sometimes writers lie about that.