Not that anyone really cares what’s on my bookshelf, but I do. I always keep wishing I’d kept a reading journal starting back when I was a kid, because, mercy, I’ve read a lot of fiction. And a bit of non-fiction. But the fiction? A tsunami of ink has flowed over my gray cerebral folds and left odd bits of flotsam behind. Sci-fi, fantasy, thrillers, international and political intrigue, mysteries, police procedurals, courtroom dramas, and adventure stories have left my head full of strange ideas and weird connections that has my family puzzled at times. Not that I remember the plot lines all that well. Fiction, for me, is a relaxing bubble-bath for the brain—not that I’m a bubble-bath-enjoying sort. But, if I were … well, you’d find me there with a soapy book.

Jennifer and I have tried to catalog just the books I own (forget about the books I