Let me introduce myself - via my bookshelf.

Alan Bennett once said, “A bookshelf is as particular to its owner as are his or her clothes; a personality is stamped on a library just as a shoe is shaped by the foot.”

A wonderful concept—and, when I look at my own bookshelves, a slightly alarming one.

My excuse is that I’m a writer. It’s a solid excuse. I use it often. In fact, I have a feeling you may soon see a bullet list titled “It’s Because I’m a Writer” appearing in a Denise Howie blog near you.

But to continue with the eclectic-bookshelf reasoning exercise:

Up-Country Swahili—self-explanatory, no explanation required.
Say It in Yiddish, Tropical Diseases, Chicken Soup for the Mother’s Soul, The Observer’s Book of Architecture, and How to Shit in the Woods—ditto.
The thirteen books on murder and police procedures? Watch your back, Kathy Reichs.

I own the Bible and the Koran. I have books on how to get rich, books on how to be happy, and books on how to be both happy and rich. There are two full shelves of seminal writing guides, dozens of poetry collections, and then the inevitable pile of novels stacked at the bottom of the shelves—temporarily, of course. Just until we find space for more shelves. Or until we can no longer reach the books behind them.

This is usually the point where one is expected to name-drop impressive authors, followed by a sheepish confession about the embarrassingly trashy novels hidden behind the Russian classics. But to be honest, I’m no longer sure who’s in and who’s out, so we’ll skip that part entirely.

I am, however, delighted to report that my shelves include books written by people I actually know - real, living humans I’ve shared wine with. I also own a small but perfectly formed collection of books signed by moderately famous people. (The moderately famous people only signed books they actually wrote, just in case that needed clarifying.)

And since you’re getting to know me by way of my bookshelf, you should also know that it’s dotted with rocks, fossils, assorted knick-knacks, and - more often than not - a fine layer of dust.

So hello.
My name is Denise.
And I’m a bibliophile.