Sometime in the mid-nineties, I ran out of space to store my books. I was living in a small apartment and the only shelf unit I had was crammed into my tiny bedroom. It was packed solid with books. I had gone slightly crazy in the previous few years buying books by new-to-me mystery writers. I’d read them all. Some I’d liked, others I didn’t. I kept them all because, in many cases, they had been signed by the authors.

In the past, when I’d run out of space, I had simply packed the books I didn’t want in paper grocery bags or cardboard boxes, and donated them to public libraries or Goodwill.

This time around, I thought I’d try something different.