My wife often importunes me to finish a writing project, any writing project, so that I can bring in money and keep her in the manner into which she’s accustomed.
I have my novel, which I’ve been working on for longer than I care to remember. And I have another project which began to take shape after the Las Vegas massacre.
But, last night, I began to formulate yet another project, something a bit light, a bit jaunty, a bit devil-may-care, about a topic on which I know much: being a modern librarian.
It’s something on which I’ve tweeted much, marveling that people think we read all day and how they’d love to have our job. I wish I could read all day. That’s the least I do; which is why I love audiobooks.
Modern librarianship is not an ivory tower endeavor. You’re as likely to call 911 on a meth head as to do reader’s advisory. And the fact that people don’t realize this is rife for comic possibilities.
For, example, I was assaulted at a library at which I was helping out two weeks ago. Actual, honest to goodness assault. Now, I wasn’t hurt, and I would have given as good as I got would it have gotten to that point. But the fact remains that I was assaulted.
I figured I would eventually be assaulted on my job. Why? Because I work with the public, and that seems to be the thing. If students can be mowed down at a high school, I’m not idiotic enough to assume it couldn’t happen at a library.
People have an idea that libraries are oases from the world. Far from it. We’re involved intimately with all of the world’s pathologies. We’re not separate from it, but of it. 99% of the time you come to a library, you’re likely to come away unscathed. But that 1% can ruin your day. And there’s not much we can do about it.
So, I have an idea for a librarian novel. Not a memoir, but a fictional memoir. Might even make a bit of filthy lucre from it.