The Shelf

Greetings from Storeyland. Home of the Storey Shelf.

In my living room, the shelf is a real shelf, as seen in the header of this blog. It is home to books that I own and haven’t read but still want to read, or think I want to read. Until recently, the unread books were scattered over all the other shelves in my home like lost children. I decided to gather them into one place to assess the situation, and now they live on the highest shelf of my tallest bookcase, waiting more visibly (and perhaps a little more impatiently) to be read.

And so, what is this http://storeyshelf, this page, this blog on the internet? Virtual home of the shelf, space to write about what I’m reading, the journey through all the books I at one time wanted to read, and probably still do want to read, but that are never as tempting as the ones I want to read right now. (As I’m writing this, I’m 70 pages into Don DeLillo’s Libra, loving it, but Jonathan Franzen’s Freedom is sitting beside me, released yesterday, receiving nonstop media hype, that blue bird staring at me, its shiny eye unnerving and convincing at the same time).

A place to focus my reading, as the top shelf of my bookcase is in real life.

A place to venture off the shelf and listen to the blue bird. (Really, if Libra has waited all this time, it can wait a little more, can’t it? Only 70 pages in … I’ve abandoned and returned to other books when I’ve been much more committed than that. Underworld being a prime case in point. … Hm. Maybe that’s just the way I read DeLillo?

A place to write. And read. Then write.

Next post: DeLillo.

Or Franzen?

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