(This was an English assignment Junior year. I've updated some of it, but a lot of it describes the appearance of something that has been redone, but still has the same feel.)
Do you want to know me? To know all about me? There’s really not that much to figure out. Anyone who ever wanted to know everything about me could do it easily, all in about ten or fifteen minutes, if they paid enough attention, without ever even meeting me face to face. As long as they knew where to look. My entire personality and everything that I value is recorded in one object in my room: my bookshelf.
My bookshelf stands (taller than me, although that’s not really saying much) proudly against the wall opposite my bed, gloating that it holds all my dearest possessions. If I wanted to, I could admire it while lying in bed, waiting for sleep to claim me. Sometimes, at a loss of anything else to do or exhausted from a long day of continuous activity, I’ll sit on chaise louge (a perfect reading spot) next to my shelf and become lost in memories of all the perils and dramas told within each book’s many tempting pages.
Each book tells about my personality. Not only do they tell of my love for reading, but also of my many interests. Every book has its own identity, given life by both the encounters of the author and the experiences of the main character. Each miniature life of every book on my shelf piece together to make my individuality.
My favorite and most beloved books are on my shelf, squeezed together to make room for more so tightly that I almost can’t get them out again. I have fantasy books (six Harry Potters, the Daughter of the Forest trilogy, Eragon and its sequel, Eldest, Gail Carson Levine’s books, including Ella Enchanted and The Two Princesses of Bamarre) that tell stories of magic and wishes that are made of dream worlds. I have comedies, (five Emily books that make a series, and four of the Shopaholic series along with two other books by Sophie Kinsella) books that make me laugh out loud even when I’m reading in public and earn stares that tell me clearly that my peers consider me to be more than just a little batty. Then, in a complete turn around, the shelf contains darker books (like Blue Is For Nightmares and A Great and Terrible Beauty); even some about vampires. My favorite of these is a series by Charlaine Harris. The neighbors of the Charlaine Harris books are comedies about vampires (Undead and Unwed and Undead and Unemployed are the first two of one series, and Got Fangs? is the first of another). I guess you could call these the best of both worlds: the mystery and enchantment of vampires and the humorous misadventures of the books’ heroines, Betsy and Fran.
But the character of my bookshelf isn’t owed completely to the books on it. There are also a number of knick-knacks that each tell its own story. The top shelf is dedicated (in a simple way) solely in tribute to my time spent on the Galena tennis team. There is a framed picture of the entire team that I grew so close to this past season, along with a gold-dipped rose given to every member of the team by one of the girls’ parents and a few black and gold roses that will last forever.
The only award I've kept from all my years in tennis is the single MVP trophy that I was given during my very last season of tennis.
On the next shelf down, joining my books from the Series of Unfortunate Events are the sixth and seventh seasons of Buffy the Vampire Slayer on DVD. The witty humor, dramatic romances, and strong friendships make it my all-time favorite show and a must-have as a display on my beloved bookshelf.
A little further down are souvenirs from Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. Almost every summer the past few years, my parents have gone to Puerto Vallarta. The first time they went they brought me back a set of small, blue, marble dolphins that vary in size. I still think of the set as a dolphin family, the largest being the father of the family, the second largest as the mother, many children, all the way down to the smallest who is the baby of the family. The last time my parents went to Puerto Vallarta, they brought my sisters, my brother, and me with them. While there I bought a tile painted with a beautiful night ocean scene by a street artist. This also adorns my bookshelf, adding bold blues to the vibrant colors of the spines of my books.
There are also many pictures that document my life. One from my thirteenth birthday when my mom took four of my friends and me to San Francisco on a road trip. My friends and I are now in a frame, striking girly poses, frozen in time. Then there’s a picture from further back, a night maybe ten years ago, of my brother and I riding enchanted jeweled horses on a lit-up carousel. The bright lights above our heads standing out in contrast to the black sky, adding to the magic. Pictures of the rest of my life since then aren’t on display for all to see, but if ever I feel like remembering, there’s also a filled to overflowing photo album and another in the process of being filled.
My two very best friends have each given me gifts that now hold places of honor on my shelf. Katie, over the last year, has given me two mini-books, Best Friends Never Have Bad Hair Days first, then Girlfriend Gumbo. Both are filled with humorous and touching friendship sayings. Katie wrote in her own comments that were more personal on the pages. So now I have books filled with memories of my friendship with Katie written for me by my friend herself.
From my other best friend, Chelsea, I have a seashell from one of her few trips to California. To most people, it’s just a small, white shell, simple, and not really worth mentioning. But to me it’s so much more. It shimmers in the light, changing back and forth from its pearly colors of white and pink and green. On the top right corner of the shell are little, pinpoint punctures, proof of other mysterious sea life that once made my seashell a home. But it’s not the look of the shell that makes it worth so much. It’s simply the fact that it’s from Chelsea, who has now moved across the country. The shell helps me remember that Chelsea is still close, even when she’s in Washington D.C.
This is my bookshelf, and therefore, me. It has my life on it: my past, present, and future. The past is in the books I’ve already read, the memories of my years spent playing tennis, and the pictures of my memories. The present is in the book I’m in the process of reading, the most recent photographs, and the gifts from my best friends telling of our present friendships. The future is in the books I’ve yet to read, the notebooks and empty spaces of the photo album I’ve yet to fill. My bookshelf tells of all my passions. If a picture is worth a thousand words, then with all my pictures in all my photo albums and frames, coupled with all my books, my bookshelf contains millions of words. Hundreds of millions. All about me.
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