Self on the Shelf
Catherine Urdahl
As a child, I was shy and scared — of othÂer kids, dogs, almost anyÂthing outÂside my fence. My parÂents enrolled me in preschool, hopÂing I’d blosÂsom. I refused to get out of the car. I had everyÂthing I needÂed at home, includÂing a mom who loved readÂing to me. My first book memÂoÂry is Three BedÂtime StoÂries: The Three LitÂtle KitÂtens, The
Mélina Mangal
I looked on my shelves, wonÂderÂing which books to highÂlight. I have sevÂerÂal shelves, scatÂtered around the house. Though I am a school librarÂiÂan, my home shelves are quite fluÂid, as in, they’re not strictÂly orgaÂnized. Books are looseÂly grouped by forÂmat and size, someÂtimes by genre. I realÂly don’t have that many books (I love to visÂit the library!),
Cynthia Grady
In the beginÂning, before I found myself withÂin the pages of a book idenÂtiÂfyÂing with this charÂacÂter or that one, I lisÂtened to my grandÂmothÂer read aloud from My Book House while surÂroundÂed by my eight sibÂlings. The giant, mulÂti-volÂume antholÂoÂgy conÂtains poetÂry from MothÂer Goose to ShakeÂspeare, selecÂtions from the Song of Solomon to ChristiÂna RosÂsetÂti to
Avi
Such is the narÂcisÂsism of youth that, sadÂly, one often learns about some imporÂtant things about a parÂent only when they have passed on. Such was the case of my mothÂer. Even as I began to pubÂlish, she nevÂer told me that she had wantÂed to be a picÂture book writer. I only learned of that when, after she
Elizabeth Verdick
When I picÂture myself as a kid, I think of my bedÂroom in our split-levÂÂÂel West VirÂginia house, a room I loved but had to leave behind at age eleven when my famÂiÂly moved to MaryÂland. For years, that room was my own litÂtle world, my book nook, my place to cudÂdle my cat Rag, colÂlect chiÂÂÂna-cat figÂurines, and, yes,
Melanie Heuiser Hill
This stack is largeÂly the Self-On-The-Shelf stack of my childÂhood. There would be stacks of othÂers, as well, you underÂstand. I was surÂprised how many were missÂing when I went to pull books for this colÂumn, actuÂalÂly. Where were all the Judy Blume books? Where was How To Eat Fried Worms? And, I supÂpose if I’m realÂly honest,
Aimée Bissonette
A few days ago, I scanned my many bookÂshelves in anticÂiÂpaÂtion of writÂing this piece. My charge was to assemÂble a small stack of books that had sigÂnifÂiÂcance to me. PerÂhaps, I thought, I’ll write about my love for mysÂterÂies. After all, I spent countÂless hours as a young girl devourÂing the Hardy Boys and NanÂcy Drew mysÂterÂies before moving
Candice Ransom
Books swept me away, one after the othÂer, this way and that; I made endÂless vows accordÂing to their lights, for I believed them. (Annie DilÂlard, An AmerÂiÂcan ChildÂhood) It’s hard to say which came first: did I adopt traits of the main charÂacÂter in cerÂtain books I read, or did I gravÂiÂtate towards those books because I already had those