As I think most regular readers will know, I sold my house in DC and moved my butt back to Minneapolis, a place I haven’t lived in for 24 years. At some point I will do a post about that, but suffice it to say for now, I love pretty much everything about my new life.

I was lucky enough to find a condo to rent that has a den that actually has some built-in shelves. But, as the pictures you are about to see will show, I don’t have near enough room for my collection of books. I hear some of you saying “Time to weed your collection.” But I have cut as far to the bone as I am willing to go. I have about 800 unread novels. No way I’m getting rid of any of those. About 10 years ago, I greatly pared back the novels that I have read–I limit myself to keeping only those I think I may read again. No matter how much I may have liked something, if I don’t think I will read it again, it goes.

Where everything used to go.

49 boxes ready to move half way across the country.

The reality of not having near enough room starting to set in.

I gave up trying to be methodical. I just wanted to get the boxes out of the house, so I was just shoving books wherever there was room.

Stacking them on the shelves with short edges out was necessary to get as many off the floor as possible.

Nothing in any kind of order.

I decided to get as many of the novels that I have already read out of the way by shoving them way up here. Accessible only by ladder, disheveled at best, and not in any order.

I increased capacity by adding one additional shelf to each stack. You can see that one of the rows is just plain old MDF. What you see on the main part of the shelves are all the novels I have yet to read. There are additional novels that I’ve already read tucked away in those somewhat useless cabinets.

Most of my non-fiction unceremoniously stacked in a corner of my coat closet.

Now my non-fiction collection is a bunch of books that I don’t necessarily plan to read. Rather, I tend to use them more as reference books when I want to dip into a topic. My non-fiction consists largely of books about the UK, literary stuff, books on books, some on musicians and composers, and other odd bits. And when it comes to those books I feel without them I don’t have a library, I just have books. These are the volumes that you might peruse when you go to a real library, but are unlikely to check out. Volumes that provide some serendipitous delights or interesting tidbits. Books to open when you want to be bookish but don’t have the presence of mind to sit down and read. I imagine these books in a big old room with a large table, a big dictionary or atlas on a stand, and maybe a globe nearby. You know, a library.

That’s what makes it so hard to see them stacked up like this. Not very easy to gaze at them and randomly pick up one that catches my eye. And don’t even ask me where my Trollope Gazetteer went to. Still, it could be a lot worse. It’s also clarified for me how much book room I want and need when I buy a house or condo eventually.