I would like to show you what my bookshelves look like right now, but I can't do it. They're completely jam-packed with books, two or three layers deep. They look wonderful, and they look like hell.
See, I like books. A lot. And for the last few years I have had access to new books at very affordable prices. So I've bought books. A lot.
I bought books because I liked the covers. I bought books because I had heard something about the author. I bought books I wanted to read, and books I thought I should read. I bought books that reflected the kind of person I would like to be.
I filled up the shelves, then filled them some more, then insinuated books into every crack, cranny and crevice I could find on a shelf.
You can guess what happened next.
I ran out of room.
It's a comforting sight I'll never lack for anything to read, no matter what my mood. But it's too much. It's too much for the room. It's too much for the pretty bookcases.
So begins the Great Bookcase Cleanup of Ought-Seven.
(Thanks to The Nonist's Hot Library Smut for the above photo of Prague's Strahov Monastery library.)