Tag: project bookshelf

Project Bookshelf: Claire Melanie Svec

A stack of books sitting horizontally against a white wall on wood flooring. From top to bottom, the titles read: Salvador by Joan Didion, The Ear Issue 26, The Hatred of Poetry by Ben Lerner, Paris in Our View, poems selected by Shakespeare and Company, The Carrying by Ada Limón, Call Us What We Carry by Amanda Gorman, Then the War by Carl Phillips, From, From by Monica Youn, The Hurting Kind by Ada Limón, Very Cold People by Sarah Manguso, Her Body and Other Parties by Carmen Maria Machado, Bloodchild by Olivia Butler, Milk Blood Heat by Dantiel Moniz, Where the Dead Sit Talking by Brandon Hobson, American Psycho by Brett Easton Ellis, The Rules of Attraction by Brett Easton Ellis, and I'm Glad My Mom Died by Jennette McCurdy.

As my husband and I prepare for a year-long stay in Paris, where he will be attending school and I will be writing, I’ve gathered the most cherished books from my collection for this project. I’ve taken them out of their boxes and stacked them on the floor to serve as my traveling “bookshelf.”

A stack of books sitting horizontally against a white wall on wood flooring. A dilute calico cat is touching its nose to the top of the stack.
Kisa headbutting my stack.

This post would not be complete without acknowledging my cat, Kisa, who loved rubbing her face against the book covers and lounging next to the scattered paperbacks on the carpet as I took these photos. (Is this a bookshelf or a cat appreciation post?)

My collection includes several signed copies from author events I attended in college, and a few recommendations from a fiction professor, curated based on my workshop submissions. Admittedly, many of these books are partially read, especially the short story and poetry collections, which I’ve enjoyed on and off as my interest piqued for individual pieces.

I will highlight the most noteworthy of the stack. The book with the skinny green spine is an assigned reading from a Debates in Creative Writing class, The Hatred of Poetry by Ben Lerner. Despite my love for poetry, I appreciate this book’s candid examination of poetry’s inaccessibility and the struggle for poets to reach an audience. This reading, in particular, has deepened my appreciation for poets whose words spring to life and grab the reader (like Amanda Gorman, Ada Limón, and Carl Philips, whose collections are included here.)

There is also Paris in Our View, a unique poetry collection about Paris from authors all over the world. I picked this up from the Shakespeare and Company bookstore, where I made a brief stop as a tourist during a vacation in Paris last summer with my mom and sister. When my husband and I move this August, I hope to frequent this bookstore for its rumored status as the hub of English-speaking literary events, in addition to another bookstore called The Red Wheelbarrow.

Four books lay side-by-side on carpeted flooring. A calico cat sits in the top left corner of the picture. The titles of the book read from left to right: Where the Dead Sit Talking by Brandon Hobson, Milk Blood Heat by Dantiel Moniz, The Rules of Attraction by Brett Easton Ellis, and American Psycho by Brett Easton Ellis.
The aforementioned recommendations from my fiction professor at UC Irvine, William Eng.

And then, of course, who could resist a title like I’m Glad My Mom Died? This memoir by Jennette McCurdy is nostalgic, insightful, and heartbreaking. Plus, the copy serves as a memento from when she visited my college, where I saw her speak in a live interview on her book. I remember her raw sincerity, how she candidly spoke to us on eating disorders and familial trauma. She stayed long after the allotted event time to answer our questions and tell more anecdotes about her nearby hometown, Anaheim, and other familiar spots close to the UC Irvine campus.

The last book I’ll mention is my physical copy of the literary magazine I was published in, Issue 26 of The Ear. I’ve flipped through it a few times, reading the other short story candidates, as well as the poetry of authors I had met the night of the launch party. I cherish this copy for the experience it’s linked to: standing at a podium, presenting a live reading, hearing praises from enthusiastic strangers, and connecting with talented writers.

These are not all my books, as I’ve moved from college to a city near my hometown, and now abroad. Not shown is my current Audible selection: Carrie by Stephen King. In an effort to catch up on missed-out classics, I gravitated toward Carrie for a couple of reasons: it’s King’s shortest work, and he and I share a similar interest in human morality. Also, I thought it’d be a good start to my audiobook collection, an initiative I’ve taken to make more time for reading amongst all of this packing chaos in my life currently.

Five books sit side-by-side on carpeted flooring. From left to right, the titles read: The Hurting Kind by Ada Limón, The Carrying by Ada Limón, Very Cold People by Sarah Manguso, From, From by Monica Youn, and Then the War by Carl Phillips.
My signed copies from attending author events at UC Irvine.

My collection is small but intentional. Truthfully, I often have a difficult time choosing what to consume, whether it is books, movies, or TV shows. Too often, I’ve invested in stories that decline in quality or fail to keep me interested. Tired tropes and unoriginal observations turn me away, in addition to anything that feels too cheesy or juvenile.

My tastes have drastically evolved from my childhood, when I enjoyed fiction as vicarious fantasy. First it was the Magic Treehouse series, then Percy Jackson & the Olympians, The Hunger Games Trilogy, Harry Potter, and A Series of Unfortunate Events. Though they fostered fond memories, I now seek entertainment that adds value to my adult life. I choose titles from diverse perspectives that grip me with strong opinions and an investigative voice. This is why I rely on a fellow writer’s recommendation, along with their personal connection to the piece.

All this to say… I am open to book recommendations!

Claire Melanie Svec holds a BA in Psychology with a Minor in Creative Writing from the University of California, Irvine. She is a writer, poet, and singer-songwriter whose work focuses on mental health, morality, and feminism. She has won the first-place prize in fiction for The Ear Literary Magazine‘s Linda Purdy Memorial Prize. In addition to her editorial internship with Sundress Publications, she is currently serving as a fiction reader for West Trade Review.

Project Bookshelf: Ines Pinto

Beach at sunset. The sky is almost completely clear and painted in orange, pink tones. City lights and rocks can be seen on the horizon. The sand is wet and the ocean is calm with barely any waves.
Sesimbra, Portugal. Disclosure: the beach is only this quiet during the winter months.

Growing up, my favorite place to read was on the beach. The sea breeze ruffling through my hair, the warm sand adjusting to my body, and the sound of crashing waves were enough to block out the people around me. My little town was so close to the ocean that I used to go almost every single day from March to October.

The historical fiction books that I loved as a teen are tucked away safely on my mother’s bookshelf. Their pages are stained with signs of salt water, sandy winds, and sunscreen. They encapsulate my past better than any picture could. When I’m home, I like to open them and let my heart swell. These are some of my most precious memories after all.

The English books I bought (because the Portuguese translations were too expensive) all fit on my bedroom’s small bookshelves. My mother doesn’t read these, so I got to keep them all to myself. Shirley Jackson had a shrine, and my favorite books sang from a shelf I reserved just for them.

I knew from an early age that my home was temporary. Within me, a hunger for new horizons was constantly growing. My place had no name, but it was far away. I drank in new languages and new cultures, visiting countries whose capitals I could barely pronounce at times. As a European Union citizen, I was spoiled from birth by the immensity of borderless countries I could dip my toes in. A privilege I took for granted for very long.

So, I flew eastwards and landed in Germany. We had to pick a place to do our exchange period in, you see. And I had picked Paris, Edinburgh, and Montpellier. Safe choices. I knew these places and people from my class were going there too so I wouldn’t be alone. On the day we had to deliver our choices, I woke up sweaty, an uneasiness growing in the pits of my stomach. In an impulse I will never regret, I changed everything. My choices became German cities I had never been to. I sent them out and put the matter to rest until I found out I was bound for Frankfurt am Main all by myself.

In Frankfurt, they had an English theatre and a huge bookshop with tons of English books. My terrible German was not a hindrance, after all. I made friends and met the love of my life there. But most importantly, I came to the very rude conclusion that moving around meant missing the books you had at home. I got a Kobo e-reader, but it was never quite the same.

Since then, I have moved to different countries, cautious of accumulating too many books. In my tiny Leuven studio, my books found their place under my bed and I was constantly bringing them back home, where they would be kept safe. Until I could no longer travel due to the pandemic. COVID-19 made me want to escape reality, so I started binging fantasy books for the first time in my life, amassing quite a collection.

Unfortunately (for my wallet), I also ended up getting lost in incredible Berlin second-hand bookstores, as well as the one with the incredible bagels (the very best in Europe, in my humble opinion), and the one with multiple floors. Unbeknownst to me, I ended up hoarding too many books. My Berlin flat might have been large, but I never got a bookshelf fearing I would fill it up too fast. I stacked them against the walls instead. Aesthetically, it was pleasing. In practice, I nurtured too many bruises trying to get to my next read.

When it came down to packing my things and inevitably moving again, I couldn’t say goodbye to any of my books. DHL benefitted greatly from my unhealthy attachment, but what matters is that they all came back to me. Currently, we’re cramped in a small New York apartment, hoping that we will stay for some time at this destination. We’re missing quite a few though, the ones that are being kept safe in Portugal, so we’re incomplete in a way.

White bookshelves filled with books and decorative objects, such as candles, plush toys and book pots.

I won’t lie and pretend I didn’t go bookshopping since I got to New York. I mean, I wish I hadn’t, but they have signed books over here. I could never resist a signed book, especially since this is not a common feature in the European bookstores I spent my life in. However, no matter how long my to-be-read pile grows, I still make sure my favorites are highlighted so they can bring me some comfort when I’m sad.

Shirley is paired up with Jane Austen, who I’m sure she would potentially enjoy meeting in real life. And they’re promenading right next to my other favorite books. My new copy of The Master & Margarita shines next to Perfume and Sylvia Plath’s poetry because it just makes sense.

My fantasy darlings also stand out on a bookshelf of their own. Strange The Dreamer, The Night Circus, The Starless Sea, and the Winternight Trilogy brought me back from depressing times and made me feel less alone as I started over and over again. So I put them all together.

In the end, I discovered I feel at home wherever my books are. My unquietness still remains within me, but it’s calmed down considerably. Moving is very tiresome after all. I might not be reading on the beach anymore, but the feel of grass against my back and the noises of birds chirping around me have become synonymous with a good time. I bet that in a few years, I will open up my books to discover the marks of lazy park afternoons and smile to myself over these new encapsulated memories.

Ines Pinto (she/her) is from a small beach town near Lisbon, Portugal. She decided to leave those shores behind as she moved around Europe, eventually completing her master’s degree in International Politics. She dreams of a fairer world, so she worked in the non-profit sector to call for the end of corruption and dirty money flows before moving to New York to start a brand new adventure. She is also the proud mother of a spoiled cat named Louis, a certified multilingual Eurovision fan, and a reader with an appreciation for all genres.

Project Bookshelf: Addie Dodge

A variety of books on a shelf

When winter break started this past December, my mother fixed me with a pointed look and told me that I needed to do something about The Piles. What she was referring to, of course, were the small islands of books I have accumulated and scattered around my room over the last few years. Of course, I told my mother, I will do something about The Piles. And I did—I made them into stacks instead. 

My current collection of books is a well-loved time capsule of where I have been and where I want to go. Thrice-owned and annotated poetry collections and classics for past coursework, a few choices that evidence my work in the field of psychology (spot the APA style handbook, if you can), and a variety of books that I have sought out, and continue to reach for, as a lifelong reader and striving writer. 

A stack of books sitting on a wooden table

Upon closer inspection, you’ll probably notice my affinity for Russian literature and Anne Carson, as well as my absolute distaste for sensical organization or, well, bookshelves. I do have some shelf space above the office desk in our home, however there’s something a little less archival, and a little more active, about having all these piles of books splayed around me. Maybe this is me retroactively justifying The Piles, but I enjoy the feeling of living in and amongst my books. 

Memories of friends and loved ones are held within the bindings of the books I own. Poetry collections passed between attentive hands and talked about late into the night, stories that sparked flurries of text conversations, and works given and received as gifts. For me, reading is a deeply communal activity, and as such my books are steeped in my friendships both current and past. 

A variety of books placed on a shelf

I consider myself to be an omnivorous reader, and my collection of books reflects that. I have a particular sweet spot for translated works and discovering what linguistic choices have to be made to preserve the meaning of the original text, and lately I find myself drawn to visceral writing exploring subjects related to grief and motherhood as well (I highly recommend Olga Ravn’s My Work if you’re interested in similar themes).

I will say that my problem with The Piles used to be much, much worse, though a few moves have helped to pare down my collection. These days, I try hard to frequent the library more than the bookstore, and even so, I seem to end up with a perennial pile that changes characters every few weeks when I have new holds available, little slips of paper alerting me to their due dates sticking out of the tops of said books. Yes, I am that person you see at the library struggling to carry all their holds in their arms. Progress over perfection, right?

A stack of books sitting on a wooden table

While I do my best to prioritize going to the library, my local secondhand shop has a way of beckoning to me, and so The Piles continue to grow. Although I’m not too torn up about this persisting phenomena, it comes as no surprise that when I told my mother I had done something about The Piles and proceeded to show her piles turned to stacks, she was not impressed, and reminded me that in the very near future I would have to pay for shipping for these piles turned to stacks to wherever I move this summer. Let the record show that I am aware and ready to pay for the shipping, because these piles turned to stacks are both a tether to my past, and a line cast into my future.

A white woman with short blonde hair is standing in front of a brick wall looking at the camera

Addie Dodge is a student at Colorado College pursuing a BA in Psychology with a Minor in English. She is a writer currently working as an editor for her college’s literary magazine, Cipher, and is also a clinical intern at a domestic violence shelter in Colorado. She fills her free time with hiking in the mountains and lots of reading. 

Project Bookshelf: Kenli Doss

A shelf of actor-edition plays, arranged by color.

I consider myself a professional word consumer. I consume news articles with my morning coffee. I snack on books and poems and stories throughout the day. I spend most of my working hours with my nose pressed firmly in the crease between two pages. I’m also a collector. I forage for these sweet things. I catch my favorite parcels with words and pages and spines, and I store them in my home like jarred prototypes: physical reminders of the metaphysical worlds I’ve visited.

So, naturally, when Sundress prompted me to write about what’s on my bookshelf, the first thought was, “Which shelf?” I bumbled from one bookcase to another looking for inspiration, and, when I eventually found my answer, it wasn’t tucked between Frankenstein and 10 Minute Einstein on a shelf of paper and ink. No, I found the inspiration I was seeking, my panacea, my muse incarnate in the form of a small plastic disk dusted with decades of memories, not a book but a DVD.

Pagemaster (1994) was the film that launched my obsession with all things books. From reading to writing to dreaming of swallowing whole pages, this film sparked the interest that created that proverbial itch for words I hope I never outgrow.

“Are you fiction or non-fiction?”

Adventure, Pagemaster

Unlike Pagemaster‘s tiny hero Richard Tyler (Macaulay Culkin) who faces horror, adventure, and fantasy on the shelf, I have non-fiction to contend with, and a lot of it. That’s not to say I don’t enjoy the odd fantasy novel here and there, but the real-life science, art, and philosophy? That’s where my collection really shines.

A cluttered black bookshelf. A hanging plant in a blue pot can be seen in the corner, and a disco ball hangs from the pot to the lower left, where more books, a green vase, and a lipstick plant sit.

The non-fiction writers generally invited to my shelf include your typical bunch of scientists and philosophers: Marx, Camus, Sartre, Einstein, Neil DeGrasse Tyson. Okay, that last one is new, but his book Astrophysics for People in a Hurry got me through twelve-hour days in college theatre. Besides the scholarly books and baubles, there is also a handful of 19th century gardening books found at an estate sale in Tuscaloosa. Then, there’s the inevitable section for the betterment of my soul, including such editions as Under the Skin: The Hidden Toll of Racism on Health in America by Linda Villarosa and Upton Sinclair’s The Jungle. Each of these books has served as a drop of paint in the mural of my imagination, and I hope the trove only grows.

“You really are a classic.”

Fantasy, Pagemaster

Much like Long John Silver in his search for Treasure Island, I am on my own adventure: a search for something sweeter, shinier, and more impressive. And, like Richard Tyler, I found my gold in the books that beckoned from the shelf, specifically the so-called “classics.”

Jane Austen wrote my soul with edits made by the Brontë sisters. Austen’s Pride and Prejudice is as integral to my heart as any blood vessel, and it would be wrong not to mention such a testament to my mind as a romantic. On my shelf, she’s surrounded by Vonnegut, Poe, Gaskell, Alcott, and Shakespeare. Beside Pride and Prejudice sits my copy of the First Folio of Shakespeare as ruler of my soul. These are my treasures. This is my gold.

“Are you sure that swizzle stick of yours is working right?”

Adventure, Pagemaster

Consuming books isn’t all about reading, and I dedicate a large portion of my study time to annotations. In my head, a book gains more value when a reader scribbles down their thoughts, concerns, and objections in the margins. I would much rather receive any old, used copy with pen marks and highlights and penciled-in exclamations than a stiff-spined, fresh-paged edition. Where’s the soul? Thus, I scribble and encourage others to scribble. The world would be a happier place with more scribblers.

A black bookshelf filled with books. In the foreground, a purple copy of Little Women is stacked on The Gilded Years, also purple. A pumpkin figurine occupies the bottom right.

Toward the end of Pagemaster, after Richard Tyler escapes the murderous dragon and makes it safely to the exit sign, he wants to know what’s going on. He knows the Pagemaster is in control, and he demands an explanation. The Pagemaster explains to young Richard Tyler that if he’d never stepped foot in the library he “never would have found the courage to face [his] own fears.”

“In this very room waiting to strike are forces of evil.”

Dr. Jeckel, Pagemaster

My fears are the feelings of anxiety around what I call the four horsemen of the failed career: Plagiarism, Failure, Dullness, and Rejection. I, too, slay dragons. Only my proverbial fire-breathing monster takes the form of anxiety-induced writer’s block. So, when I find myself glued to the keyboard, fingers stiff and unmoving, brain backfiring, I look to the shelf. Those flimsy pieces of cardstock inked in words and phrases and ideas, they hold the cure. Like Richard Tyler, these treasures offer me a ride out of the beast’s gigantic belly: out of the writer’s block stupor, and onto the page.

Which, at last, brings me to my answer, or as precise an answer as I can give, anyway. What’s on my bookshelf? Hundreds of years of ink and words and treasures of all shapes, sizes, and genres. What’s on my shelf? A glowing lightbulb: my secret to slaying dragons.

A white woman with blonde hair wearing a black turtleneck stands before a blurred background of trees.

Kenli Doss holds a BA in English and a BA in Theatre-Performance from Jacksonville State University. She is a freelance writer and actress based out of Alabama, and she spends her free time painting scenes from nature or writing poetry for her mom. Ken’s works appear in Something Else (a JSU literary arts journal), Bonemilk II by Gutslut Press, Snowflake Magazine, The Shakespeare Project’s Romeo and Juliet Study Guide and A Midsummer Night’s Dream Study Guide, and The White Cresset Arts Journal.

Project Bookshelf: Annie Fay Meitchik

A photo of a book with an orange cover titled "I Will Judge You By Your Bookshelf" at Powell's Books in Portland.

In many ways, what I consider to be my bookshelf is amorphous, shared, and exists in numerous locations. The majority of books that have shaped me awaited my discovery during silent reading time in my elementary school classrooms or on library shelves. I love books for the way they teach empathy and make knowledge accessible. My passion for books is deeply connected to the sense of peace I find when entering libraries. These institutions represent to me equal access to information and serve as reminders that art and literature are so deeply valuable that we’ve collectively ensured that they are free and available to everyone.

My bedroom is decorated with books—piled neatly on the floor, stacked on shelves by color, and covering the top of my piano. A lot of the books in my home are relics from my childhood: dog-eared copies of The Babysitter’s Club, well-loved Little Critter books, The Mysterious Benedict Society, and my prized edition of Alice Through the Looking Glass.

As I read well over 100 books every year, I acquire the vast majority of them from public libraries, so, I do not own many of my favorites. However, I do keep an evolving list of my recommendations on the homepage of my portfolio website. I have a special gift for matching people with the right books and enjoy sharing my personal collection with friends and family—Poison for Breakfast by Lemony Snicket has traveled 3,000 miles from my shelf and back.

A photo of three books stacked on top of each other with black spines. The books (from top to bottom) are: "The Decameron Project" compiled by The New York Times Magazine, "The Fran Lebowitz Reader" by Fran Lebowitz, and "Just Kids" by Patti Smith.

What I find so wonderful about books is their ability to be shared and their lack of a need for ownership. While there are a handful of books I enjoy owning and rereading—The Phantom Tollbooth by Norton Juster and Little Weirds by Jenny Slate—the majority of books I’ve loved float in and out of libraries, gaining something magical and intangible with each new reader. So much of what I enjoy about reading is the sense of belonging I feel sharing an experience, a narrative, with strangers who I may cross paths with someday to bond over a favorite author, quote, or story.

Eleven books on a library shelf.
A black and white photo of a woman, the author of this post.

Annie Fay Meitchik is a writer and visual artist with her BA in Creative Writing from The New School and a Certificate in Children’s Book Writing from UC San Diego. Through a career in publishing, Annie aims to amplify the voices of marginalized identities while advocating for equality and inclusivity in art/educational spaces. Her work has been published by Matter Press, 12th Street Literary Journal, and UNiDAYS. To learn more, please visit: www.anniefay.com. 

Project Bookshelf: Robin LaMer Rahija

A photo of books, including Nox by Anne Carson.

Every book, everywhere, all the time. I read several books at once, depending on what room of my apartment I’m in. There are bedside books, living room books, bathroom books. Endless audio books that never show up on the shelves.

I have a lot of poetry. Anne Carson is one of my favorites. I love her translations of Sappho and Autobiography of Red, which I read a long time ago when I was still pretending I didn’t want to be a writer.

I have even more fiction. I can’t remember who said that artists never admit who their real influences are. It would be just too embarrassing. I’m owning up to reading more fiction than poetry, despite calling myself a poet. I’ve read Wittgenstein’s Mistress so many times. It’s my emotional support book. I had to get a second copy after I spilled sunscreen all over the first one. It’s not exactly a traditional beach read, but I kept it and still open it sometimes for the olfactory memory of reading it at Folly Beach.

A photo of books, including Wittgenstein's Mistress, by David Markson.

Everything I ever published as the editor of Rabbit Catastrophe Press is collected together here. It only takes up half a shelf. That half a shelf is a decade of my life. It was the most fun I ever had.

A photo of books, including Jesus' Son by Denis Johnson.

I also love this bin of zines I’ve collected over the years at festivals and books tours in basements and abandoned warehouses. Much has been said about the subversive nature of zines. I believe they contain the most experimental and interesting writing because they’re not (as) tied to the monetization of art. People can write in them what they need to write.

A photo of zines.

The last time I moved, it became clear I had TOO MANY BOOKS. I did a big pare down and gave myself a challenge: buy no books for a year. Instead, I used the library and had an elaborate network of borrowing books from people. I made exceptions if a friend put out a book (you have to support your friends) and if I went to a reading for someone on a book tour (working writers need gas money). I mostly rose to the challenge, and even though I have fewer books now, I think I look at, talk about, run a hand over, and browse through my bookshelves more than I used to. They are filled with books I love by the people I love.

Robin LaMer Rahija (she/her) did her MFA in poetry at the University of Kentucky. Her work has appeared in Puerto Del Sol, FENCE, Guernica, and elsewhere. She is an Editorial Intern at Sundress Publications. She loves books, trees, and Excel documents.

Project Bookshelf: Jillian A. Fantin

A yellow board book propped up on a brown bookshelf. The book reads "The Wonder Book of Clowns" in black and red block letters. The cover illustration is of a bald clown with white face paint, a big red prosthetic nose, a black and red painted smile, and a stuck out tongue.

When people come to visit, they always tend to say a variation of two things in the same sequence:

Wow, that’s a lot of books. Have you read them all?

and

How do you sleep with that clown staring at you?

I love answering those questions, though sometimes it gets old convincing people that clowns* and I get on quite well. When you actually take a look inside this 1955 board book, you find it to be filled with amusing little quatrains bent on explicating the different ways various clowns use their physical bodies to produce laughter. Yes, The Wonder Book of Clowns is a children’s book, a product of a time when clowns—both as a concept and a vessel—functioned as a repository of/for humor. However juvenile, this thirty-five cent picture book serves as a reminder of the brilliant worlds that literature opens for exploration.

Although I recall a number of books from my childhood, I remember most of them all together in a big blob of language that encouraged my continued exploration of the literary arts. I do remember reading, however, one poem in one story in the November/December 2007 issue of American Girl Magazine: “Snow Angel.” The story is quite simple, with one sister plagiarizing another sister’s old poetry assignment, getting in too deep with the lie, and eventually coming clean and writing her own poem and gaining a new perspective on herself and her creative abilities. But that poem. That poem! Simply titled “A Christmas Acrostic,” the story’s central poem cemented itself to my heart and fascinated me to no end. Poems could spell words with their lines? Poems could invoke the senses? Poems could be written in color? Already armed with the power of language in stories, my nine-year-old self now recognized that the abilities of language extended beyond the words themselves.

An upward view of a bookshelf with books stacked both vertically and horizontally on top of each other. A porcelain "Pierrot" doll sits on the shelf, with a purple silk jumpsuit with white pom poms and a white ruff.

That recognition encouraged me to search out poetry that used language holistically and artistically. Rather than words static on a page, the words on the page had to move, glow, invoke the senses. To encourage thought, make me laugh, make me angry. To make me. The frenetic nature of my new craving for poetry reflects itself in the kitsch and stacks of books organized in an outwardly haphazard yet carefully tender abandon. One of the highlights from my bookshelf is Derrick Harriell’s Stripper in Wonderland, an intimate exploration of time and new fatherhood in the event of birth. The book itself serves as a moment in time, a memory of the day Harriell and I talked about poetry over tacos with other poets and some of my professors. His poetry struck me in a similar way as David Bowie’s Hunky Dory: a self-contained world of thought shown sensorially through lyric. Once I read Harriell, I couldn’t stop the force that is poetry. My bookshelf gained lots of new friends to hold, plus another bookshelf to its left to share the weight.

A view of a bookshelf with horizontal stacks of books and some vertically stacked books on the far right side. There is an instant camera in its pink case resting on the shelf.

Electricity in the form of CAConrad’s While Standing In Line For Death ran throughout my entire body, and the book that joined my 2019 hoard eventually leading me to a formal practice. Marilyn Hacker’s Presentation Piece and Joyelle McSweeney’s Toxicon and Arachne brought me in and out of bodies, of grief and of relationships; Johannes Göransson’s PILOT (“JOHANN THE CAROUSEL HORSE”) and Kim Hyesoon’s Sorrowtoothpaste Mirrorcream revealed what happens when language is allowed to ebb and flow beyond the boundaries often placed on the written word; Spring Essence: The Poetry of Hô Xuân Huong introduced me to the erotic and often humor of a short sensorial poetics; and Ava Hoffman’s LOVE POEMS/smallness studies punched me in the face and forced my gaze upon the abilities of poetry to disintegrate structures of power and assert itself into new bodies that ask us to tag along rather than afford us any control.

I suppose it’s time for me to answer those questions from the start, though I think you already know the answers I will provide:

Yes, that is a lot of books. I don’t know if I’ll make it through all of them, but I’m certainly going to let the books that need me take me where I need to go.

and

It’s not the clown that prevents my sleep. It’s the excitement of tomorrow’s poetry that makes me a restless bedmate.

*NOTE: I would certainly be remiss to ignore the United States’ instances of clownery, past and present, used for racist caricature and the maintenance of oppression. Clowns in concept, history, and practice exist for multiple purposes, and I wholly and actively do not support any instances of clownery for the purposes of systemic racism, harmful stereotyping, and the mockery of marginalized communities.

Surrounded by blurred-out houses, fences, and grass, the author is shown from the waist up in a black compression tank with a gold septum ring and a gold nostril hoop. Their right arm contains a number of black and grey tattoos visible, including fuchsia flowers, an American Traditional snake, and an envelope with a heart seal. They have a medium-brown, wavy mullet, dark thick eyebrows, and are looking straight at the camera with a blank stare.

Jillian A. Fantin (they/them) is a poet with roots in the American South and north central England. They are a 2021 Martha’s Vineyard Institute of Creative Writing Poet Fellow, a 2020 Jefferson County Memorial Project Research Fellow, and the co-founder and Editor-in-Chief of RENESME LITERARY. Jillian received BAs in English and Political Science with an emphasis in Political Theory from a small university in Birmingham, Alabama, and an MFA in Creative Writing with a focus in Poetry and a graduate minor in Gender Studies from the University of Notre Dame. Their writing appears or is forthcoming in American Journal of Poetry, Spectra Poets, Barrelhouse, and poetry.onl, among others.

Project Bookshelf: Solstice Black

A row of books sit on an oak bookshelf with a crystal in front of them.

The house I grew up in could be considered a library, as, legally, one must only have 500 books to be so named. But, more than legality, this house feels like a library, with many handmade bookshelves draped over the family wall under a vaulted ceiling and other shelves filling the dining room, the office, the living room. Everyone has their own bookshelves in their room, yet still the occasional pile pervades every surface. Daydreaming is encouraged, fanciful thinking embraced. I suppose it comes as no surprise, then, that I grew into an artist and writer, such daydreams fueling my work and public libraries becoming my beloved safe space.

Textbooks sit on a red bookshelf.

I’ve always consumed novels at a gobbling pace the moment they hook my attention. I must have read at least half the fiction in both this house and my section of the library, and still greet my favorites like old friends. But it wasn’t until the pandemic put a temporary end to my Village Books and library visits that I began to expand my taste through poetry, feminist essays, anthropology, and more.

A row of books sit on an oak bookshelf with a small vase of flowers.

When I began college around the beginning of the pandemic, I was introduced to the true expanse of literature, and it lit a fire in me to explore. I’d read poetry before, as the daughter of an English major. But when I began college, I saw the possibilities of the genre and it changed everything. I went head-over-heels for Joy Harjo, Chen Chen, Jane Wong, and so many others. I started looking into feminist essays for assignments and was met with Virginia Woolf, Alice Walker, and Judith Butler. I broadened what types of fiction I read and by whom, and found poetry on women, on bodies, on society, on complicated ways of living. I learned I was bisexual after reading a queer novel. And it was these works that forever altered the way I see myself and the world I live in, and the way I see poetry and the people who write it.

Books sit on a black bookshelf with two colorful rocks in front of them.

So I feel that, in a very immediate way, books built me up. For me, they widened the scope of what was possible in myself and in the world. Of course, having some intense effect on me wasn’t a requirement for my favorite books. Many of my favorites remain fantasy adventure novels, and those, too, live in pride of place on my shelves or make a comforting presence by my bedside, such as my childhood favorites and signed copies of Tamora Pierce books, the books that inspired my childhood adventures. Others don’t live on my bookshelf but remain favorites nonetheless, such as the Throne of Glass series by Sarah J. Maas, Graceling by Kristin Cashore, and The Beautiful by Renée Ahdieh. The Association of Small Bombs by Karan Mahajan, while perhaps not a favorite, also takes pride of place. Perhaps a requirement as an artist, I also have a collection of art and other instructional books, many living near my paints. My bookshelf itself has become an art piece, showcasing art, crystals, family photos, and treasures I’ve collected.

Thus, I feel that this art piece of a bookshelf has come to partially represent who I am. Occasionally chaotic and confusing, colorful, holding rocks in every pocket, perhaps fanciful, and full of deep ideas and poetry.

A young white woman with octagon-shaped glasses and very short bleached hair stands in the foreground. They wear a lacy top and a button up sweater with a blue collar. Greenery is in the background.

Solstice Black (she/they) is a queer poet and novelist living in the Pacific Northwest. They are currently undertaking a bachelor’s degree in creative writing. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Chautauqua, A Forest of Words, and The Fantastic Other, among others. They hope to pursue an MFA in creative writing and a BFA in visual art in the next few years. Her cat is both her greatest joy and torment.

Project Bookshelf: Crysta Montiel

I’ve scattered parts of my bookshelf all over Toronto. Sometimes, on random weekend trips to the west end, I visit local book stores to window shop. I always tell myself that I won’t buy anything, but the city’s talented booksellers tempt me with rare gems. Gems that I have an unfortunate habit of losing.

As Murphy’s law famously states, “anything that can go wrong, will go wrong.” Sometimes I forget my books in transitory places—buses, trains, and planes. Other times, I forget my books at friends’ places, vowing to retrieve them until the statute of limitations finally applies. Either way, I suppose that every book I’ve ever lost goes through a long cycle of finding, trading, borrowing, gifting, and re-gifting. I’m a firm believer in the idea that a book comes to life again every time a new pair of eyes reads it.

Because I’m so giving, and not at all because of my tendency to misplace books, my personal collection remains fairly small. Above my desk, I have a shelf of academic books on English literature, poetry, and philosophy. I keep these on hand because they’re writing resources that I flip through and cite whenever I need to. On an adjacent wall, I have a shelf stacked with fiction, which is mostly untouched because I’ve read them all.

Libraries are a magical place where people breathe life into literature over and over again, which is why I gravitate toward them. Toronto Public Library has annual book sales, where they sell donated books and books from their collections. All the profits are used to support library programs, so it’s basically guilt-free shopping. My most prized books are the ones that I picked up there in my youth.

The Graveyard Book by Neil Gaiman was my first coming-of-age book. The protagonist, an orphan boy, is raised by an ensemble of quirky graveyard monsters. Imagine Boyhood (2014) if it was a dark whimsy children’s book. Likewise, I felt seen by Adam Green’s Satsuma Sun-Mover, a comedic tale about a Cambridge philosophy student caught between two warring factions: the Hegelians and the Positivists.

It’s strange to verbalize my love for these books because the feeling is so intimate. For me, the select few books that I keep in my collection are the ones that I’ve attached to core memories.

And, yes, I’ve alleviated my forgetfulness by using an e-reader for most books I buy today. I like being able to highlight and save quotes, bookmark pages, and ctrl+f search for words. The screen also brightens at night if I ever want to read in the dark.

On my e-reader, I probably have over 5000 books now. Even though it’s just a tablet and the books are digital, I like to envision my personal collection looks something like Jorge Luis Borges’ “Library of Babel.” This romantic image makes me feel a lot better about having a collection scattered over the city with books I can’t actually see.

Crysta Montiel is an undergraduate student at the University of Toronto in Canada, where she studies English Literature and Philosophy. She previously worked as an editorial intern at Ayesha Pande Literary Agency. When Crysta’s not digging through treasure troves of queries, she’s completing her Criterion Collection bucket list and playing with her cat. 

Project Bookshelf: Marah Hoffman

For my birthday, my roommate got me a personalized stamp that proclaims, “From the library of Marah Robyn Hoffman.” In the stamp’s center is a simple bee (I have been nicknamed Mother Nature for the magnetic pull I seem to have on small, winged creatures), and around it are leaves and petals. I gasped at the gift’s beauty. In its intricate me-ness, I saw how well my friend pays attention.  

The stamp is a gift for the future. At twenty-two, I do not own a bookshelf, let alone a library. My books, like a child’s stuffed animals, often travel back and forth from various dwellings, mainly from my dorm room to my parents’ house but also to my boyfriend’s row home in Philadelphia, to the beach house we visit every summer, and to my grandfather’s hunting cabin in the deep mountains of Pennsylvania, far from cell service and suburbia.  

Books are my constant companions. I have been known to, on occasion, bring three books to an outing, so I may read according to my mood. On one particularly uneventful trip to the mountains, I inhaled three-and-a-half books. I still reminisce about that vacation fondly.  

“My bookshelf” or, in other words, the obnoxious stacks populating my room, is becoming increasingly obscure and diverse. On the lower rungs of these literary ladders used to climb to other worlds are The Box Car Children, The Hunger Games, Twilight, Harry Potter, and Percy Jackson. But the higher your eyes scan, you see how my interests have evolved beyond the domain of dominant pop culture. You may discover Animals Strike Curious Poses by Elena Passarello, a collection of sixteen essays ruminating on famous animals, or Bluets by Maggie Nelson, a book full of pieces of varying genres each considering the color blue.  

This Christmas, both my boyfriend and my sister complained that buying me presents was like playing a scavenger hunt. My Christmas list was 70% books, but many of them could not be easily found online or in the small, independent bookstores my sister frequents.  

My liberal arts education in the humanities is the culprit. I used to know only fiction, but now, thanks to my professors and my position on my college’s literary magazine, I am acquainted with the existence of prose poems, flash fiction, micro fiction, creative nonfiction, personal essays, braided essays, and hybrid essays. I have become more voracious because I know the vast voices I have yet to hear.  

When I consider my bookshelf, my brain becomes a chorus of these different voices making similar, resonant sounds.  

I hear my dad reading my first favorite books to me as a child snuggled against him on our small couch. These storybooks no longer exist in a physical place; instead, they rest on the shelves of my mind. Current reads echo these old stories. The themes have not fully changed despite their placement in new genres.  

My bookshelf exists in its full capacity only in my mind. Even when I find a true bookshelf for my room after graduation, and even when I someday, hopefully, have an office/library in my own home, my bookshelf will foremost stand in my imagination, holding stories whose names I may forget but whose contents inform future passion.  

Marah Hoffman is a senior double major in English and creative writing at Lebanon Valley College in rural Pennsylvania. Within her campus’s lively literary community, she is a writing tutor, mentor for prospective and new students, co-poetry editor for their literary magazine, and president of her college’s International English Honors Society chapter. Marah enjoys reading classic and contemporary literature. She has written poetry since she was twelve but has lately found herself wandering the realm of creative nonfiction, particularly personal essays. Besides being a bookworm, Marah is an avid runner. She is a member of LVC’s cross country and track teams. When Marah graduates, she hopes to find a position that allows her to continue pursuing her passion for books.