When I bought this house three and a half years ago, I knew I’d have some issues related to its age. It was built in 1928, which lends it some charm, but it comes with problems, such as old floors that aren’t quite level. That sort of thing.
I have hundreds and hundreds of books. When I first started unpacking the boxes to put them onto my book shelves a few years ago, I discovered that the weight of the books combined with the slight warps in the floors meant the massive shelves weren’t stable.
Because I was afraid they might fall over and hit one of the cats, I left the books in boxes until I could get around to having someone come in to anchor the shelves to the walls for stability.
Somehow, I’ve never gotten around to doing that. The book boxes have remained the cats’ favorite playground and I’ve gotten accustomed to digging into boxes to find books I need. (One day, I’ll fix the shelves. Honest.)
Tonight, I went looking for a book and I had to empty several boxes in the search. As I looked at the stacks, something struck me.

I’m horrified that it’s become so difficult for me to finish a book
What if narcissistic vampire bit me but he never finished the job?
We’re neither friends nor enemies, just strangers who share the past
Society needs storytellers to help make sense of a changing world
My bad teen poetry suggests I’ve always hungered for missing love
Quit using the word ‘masculinity’
If romantic love is mental illness, do many of us want to be cured?
A warm and loving heart can finally turn to cold indifference