My bookshelf has long been a point of quiet contention for me.
For one thing, I’m not an aesthetic reader. I listen to mostly audiobooks. I don’t collect trophies of my literary conquests. The books I do have tend to carry personal meaning—trade paperbacks, old literature texts, pulp fiction novelizations from favorite worlds, and a few scattered volumes of Poe and Bradbury tucked in between.
And then there are my knickknacks.
I do love my little trinkets. I crave a bit of whimsy. But before I organized things, they had fallen into disarray—mixed in with old papers and miscellaneous books, everything crammed together without intention.
So, I made some changes.
I gave some books away. I threw some books away.
I know that can feel controversial. Some people would never. But for me, it came down to this: the books I no longer needed went to someone who would read them. The old education texts, long out of date, were simply no longer useful. There is no need to hold on to the past if it can’t serve the future. No need to let old things crowd out the present.
And now, my shelf feels different.
It’s not perfect. It’s still a little cluttered in places. But everything has a home. The books that remain are ones I care about. The trinkets sit where they can be seen and appreciated.
There’s a quiet satisfaction in that.
A sense of space. Of intention.
Of keeping what matters—and letting the rest go.