As I write, I sit.

As I sit, I stare.

I am looking at a wall of books in front of me...nine feet tall, about five-and-a-half feet wide. They sit on white shelves, colorful and silent, inviting and intimidating.

And the best part is...they're in my living room.

About three months ago, a very generous friend of mine made me a giant bookcase for my house. It was made to fit right inside of the wall of my living room. It is made of what my carpenter-friend calls MDF, which I can only assume stands for "Multi-Dimensional Foam," which is odd considering it is nothing like foam and a great deal like wood. It can, however, boast that it exists in all three dimensions.

...that was three months ago.

For the last 90 days, give or take, it has been sitting in pieces in the corner of my living room. The day after I got it, in my new-bookcase zeal, I primed it with white primer paint. (For the uninitiated, primer paint is a lot like regular paint except you can put it on with a great deal less care, as you're just going to paint over it anyway. I think it is less a painting technique and more just a right of passage). Then, I stacked the shelves inside the empty case, and put my painting and sealing materials down below the bottom shelf.

...and then I walked away.

...and I haven't touched it in three months.

...until yesterday.

...(forgive me, but ellipses were on sale again this week, so I stocked up).

Yesterday, I got tired of staring at the barren shelves stacked up inside of the empty bookcase...so I did what any responsible homeowning husband would do with a disassembled half-painted bookcase would do...

I just hung the damn shelves and put books on them.

Sure, sure...I could have painted them. I could have dragged them outside in the 35-degree afternoon, painted one side, waited for it to dry, painted the other side, and re-caulked the half-caulked bookcase in the meantime. Then I could have waited for it to dry. Then I could have sanded it, repainted, waited for that to dry, and then hung the shelves.

And I could have perhaps invented a cure for square-toe, baked a pineapple bundt cake, and called my mom just to chat. But I didn't. I just hung the damn shelves and put books on them.

And, if you don't mind me saying so, they look awfully nice, thank you very much.

At some point I had to be realistic with myself. I'm not going to paint those shelves. Not soon, anyway. I'm searching for time to do the things I love and that I absolutely need to do, and painting my bookshelf falls in neither category. However, my poor wife has had to stare at the half-assembled bookshelf long enough. So, I took a long, hard, honest look at myself, and I saw a man who does not paint bookshelves. At least, not right now.

So, I dug a few boxes of my books out of the basement and stuck 'em up there. I would guess I've got 400 or so up there...just random selections from the boxes...and stuck 'em up there in no particular order at all.

And as I sit, staring at this bookshelf...I am very, very pleased. There is so much potential up there. I haven't read all those books...there are still some left to read. And that is potential. If you'd like to borrow something, let me know...I'll see if I have it.

And if I do, I'm going to just reach up and grab it off of my bookshelf.

Because I can.

Peace,
Justin