by Cynthia Swanson
Some years ago, I went on a simplifying rampage that included (gasp!) sending several boxes of hardcover books—mostly fiction—to Goodwill. I’d never read them again, I reasoned. They were unwieldy and awkward to handle. They took up too much space. I’d already loaned them to anyone who might be interested. (In my defense, I also had three kids under the age of four, so there was a lot of pulling of books—my books—off shelves. There was much chewing of corners and ripping of irresistibly colorful, glossy jackets.)
My pared-down hardcover fiction collection provided much smug satisfaction. It took up a single, lonesome shelf (a high one, needless to say). It contained only those novels I truly cherished—beloved authors, sentimental favorites. Since it was such a small collection, I arranged it by coordinating jacket colors, rather than by author or title. It was an exquisite, artful display.
What I didn’t realize at the time was that I was using the exercise of paring down my collection to also pare down my writerly self. I didn’t want to admit it, but my pre-simplified collection had been dragging me down. Looking daily at a vast array of fiction titles only served to remind me of how many books I hadn’t written—much less had time to read and re-read—since marriage and kids came into the picture. Looking back, it’s no coincidence that I hadn’t written a word of fiction—the craft that had been my passion and salvation—since my elder children (twins) were born.
And yet, somehow, I always knew it would come back. When I was ready, I knew writing would be there, ready to resume our relationship right where we’d left off.
Fast forward to 2015. My kids are in middle school and grade school; they have scores of books of their own scattered all over the house. We’ve remodeled, turning what was once a small galley kitchen into a library, with shelf space for plenty of books.
When the kids got a little older and life got a little easier, writing fiction came back into my life, just as I’d been certain it would. My debut novel, The Bookseller, was published this past spring. Yes, in hardcover.
And slowly, over time, I’ve been building my collection back up. I purchase other authors’ debuts—often at their readings, after falling in love with their writing as I hear it in their own voices. Many of the books on my shelves contain personalized messages from writers I’m fortunate to call friends. I’ve acquired novels at events I’ve done with other authors, where we support one another by buying each other’s books. I’ve spent many an hour (and dollar) in the tent at Lit Fest, perusing and procuring the works of marvelous writers who gather each June under the warm skies of a Colorado summer evening.
My hardcover fiction collection is now three shelves wide, and I expect it to continue growing. The color-coding is gone; there are too many titles now to keep track of. Besides, I’ve found I prefer the colorful cacophony that a mix of jacket designs provides on the shelf.
I haven’t read every book in my collection, though I’m slowly working my way through. But passing those shelves numerous times daily, I smile each time. I know my friends are here and I’m in good company.
This post is part of our annual Lit Matters series, in which writers and readers express why supporting and elevating literary arts—the mission of Lighthouse Writers Workshop— is important to them. If you agree, consider supporting Lighthouse on Colorado Gives Day. Mark your calendar for December 8 or schedule your gift now. Thank you!
Longtime Lighthouser Cynthia Swanson is an author and a designer. Her debut novel The Bookseller (HarperCollins) was published to critical acclaim in March 2015 and is being translated into 11 languages. She has published short fiction in numerous journals and has been a Pushcart Prize nominee. You can reach Cynthia at www.integritymodern.com.
