My Bookshelf Would Ruin My Reputation

I think my bookshelf would genuinely surprise people.

Actually, no. Shock them.

Not because it’s full of anything outrageous, but because it doesn’t really match the version of me most people think they know.

If you met me at work, you’d probably assume I spend my evenings doing something very sensible. Reading something wholesome. Watching something normal. Going to bed early like a well-behaved little office girl who definitely doesn’t have thoughts that wander too far.

And honestly?

I do let people think that.

It’s funny.

Because meanwhile I’m at home kicking my shoes off, making a coffee at 10pm like a terrible idea, and getting completely distracted by a book I absolutely should not still be reading at that hour.

One chapter becomes three.

Three becomes me sitting there at midnight pretending I’m “just finishing this bit” when really I’ve been fully invested for hours.

And the worst part?

The books that hook me the most are always the ones I probably wouldn’t leave lying openly on my office desk.

That’s definitely not an accident.

I’ve always liked stories with tension in them. Not just romance. Not just obvious attraction. I mean the kind where there’s restraint, confidence, eye contact that lingers too long, people pretending not to notice things they’ve absolutely noticed.

The slow build is always far more distracting to me.

Probably because my brain works exactly the same way.

I think that’s why writing started becoming such a thing for me too.

At first it was just little ideas. Tiny scenes. Random thoughts that would pop into my head while I was supposed to be concentrating on something else entirely.

And instead of ignoring them like a sensible person…

I started writing them down.

Which, looking back, was probably a mistake.

Because once your brain realises it’s allowed to wander, it gets far too comfortable doing it.

Now I catch myself thinking about story ideas at the most inappropriate times.

At work.

On the train.

Making coffee.

Halfway through conversations where I’m supposed to be paying attention properly.

I’ll just suddenly disappear into my own head for a second because my brain has decided to invent a scene I absolutely did not ask for.

And then I have to sit there looking completely normal while mentally trying to remember the line that popped into my head before I lose it.

Nobody around me would ever guess what’s actually going on in my brain half the time.

Which honestly makes it even more entertaining for me.

That’s the funny thing about looking innocent. People trust it immediately.

They hear a soft voice, see a polite smile, and assume your thoughts match the packaging.

Mine definitely don’t.

Not always, anyway.

I think that contrast follows me everywhere.

Quiet girl on the outside.

Far less well-behaved internally.

And weirdly enough, I quite like it that way.

I like having this whole other side to me that nobody would really expect. The side that notices things too much, thinks too much, reads things she probably shouldn’t, and somehow always ends up writing ideas down instead of ignoring them like a responsible adult.

Although honestly, I’m starting to think the writing might be making me worse.

The more time I spend creating characters and scenes and conversations, the more observant I become in real life too.

Especially around men.

Especially confident ones.

Especially the calm, older ones who don’t need to try too hard to hold attention.

Those are always the most distracting.

Which probably explains why half my thoughts end up wandering off in completely inappropriate directions before I can stop them.

And yes, before anyone asks… some of those thoughts definitely end up in my writing too.

Not all of them.

I do keep some secrets to myself 😇

Mwah,

Katie xxx