After the plague

I have to preface this essay by making one thing clear: I have to great love for dystopian visions, or narratives of the apocalypse.

As a much younger man, I reveled in tales of the end of the world, or of the world gone wrong. Nineteen Eighty-four was my lodestar. Brave New World possessed a strange allure, as I in my hubris knew I’d be born as an Alpha. Alas, Babylon was a seminal work in my adolescence. And, of course, who can forget A Canticle for Leibowitz, whose central theme is that the problem is with humanity, regardless of how many chances it gets to get things right.

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Beginning of a memoir

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.

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