My Bookshelf is a Liar and Other Domestic Mysteries

I recently attempted to organize my bookshelf. Bold of me, I know. You’d think I was performing heart surgery with the amount of coffee and motivational quotes I required just to begin. But I had a vision: clean lines, color-coded spines, maybe even a little plant that definitely wouldn’t die in two weeks. Pinterest would weep with joy.

Instead, I uncovered the dark truth: my bookshelf is a liar.

There are books I definitely did not buy. A physics textbook? I barely passed algebra. A guide to perfect parenting? I’ve been known to hide snacks from my stepkids in fake cereal boxes. And a fourth copy of The Phantom of the Opera? One in English, one in French, one in Dutch, and one that might be Italian but I can’t confirm because I can’t read it. Okay, that one’s on me—but in my defense, the covers are all dramatic and it reads like a summary of my love life: intense, dramatic, and full of questionable men in masks.

Then came the bookmarks. Ah, bookmarks. Noble creatures who gallantly sacrificed themselves halfway through a book I swore I’d finish. Every single one whispered, “You got distracted by a new release, didn’t you?” Yes. Yes, I did.

But the pièce de résistance? A novel with a title I definitely wrote. My own book. Buried behind a stack of thrillers as if even my bookshelf was like, “We get it, Clare has issues.”

I blame the Genny system. You know—my brilliant idea to let readers skip chapters if they want. Turns out, even my own bookshelf skipped to a different author. Rude.

So I gave up. I stacked the books into vague “vibes.” “Moody-but-hot protagonist” went next to “Murder, but make it cozy.” The plant? It died. The motivational quotes? Mostly sticky notes that say “DO NOT BUY MORE BOOKS” stuck to receipts from the bookstore.

But hey, at least I found my favorite mug, four pens, and what I think was a very old gummy bear.

Organized? No. Enlightened? Absolutely.

Until next time—between the lines and beneath the clutter.