There's a song by The Lonely Forest called "Woe Is Me... I Am Ruined." Kind of an emo title, I know. But wait until you hear the lyrics from the chorus!
All I can do / is make others bleed / a prideful ego fire / I'm eager to feed / and they say I'm a good guy / and they say I'm a good guy
Yeah, real ooey gooey stuff there.
I've been feeling a lot like that lately. Like instead of the Midas touch I have a touch that turns everything to poison. That breaks it, or consumes it somehow. Or like the Shadowbrute in C.S. Lewis's Till We Have Faces: "some say the loving and the devouring are the same thing."
I don't know how to be close to people. I don't know how to let people in. I've never particularly understood some of the very basic things involved in being a Human Person Who Interacts With Other Human Persons. I can be selfish and small-minded. I hurt people. I mess up.
But it makes me sad how easily we give up on each other. How quick we are to say "here's a hurt that cannot be mended."
There's another song lyric I go to again and again. Maybe it should be the thing I get as a tattoo. It's from the Tori Amos song "Job's Coffin":
You must outcreate that destructive tendency
And that's the only thing I know how to do. When I hurt people. When I let them down. When they turn away from me and give up on me and I realize that maybe they're right about me -
All I can do is try to make stuff. Keep making stuff. New stories, new art, new music, whatever I can do to add things to this world. A feeble attempt to make up for all the things I've messed up and broken in my time here.
Wednesday, October 1, 2014
Friday, September 19, 2014
Stories
I'm sitting at a cafe. I'm supposed to be editing my book, or writing the last story. Instead, I'm listening to the conversation at the next table.
It's two girls. (Young women? I'm 28 and still refer to myself as a girl, so I'm the wrong person to ask about the terminology.) They're discussing books they're writing. And I'm listening, and some of it sounds really good, and some of it sounds kind of cliche, but all of it is making me really happy because I've totally been there.
They're talking about characters like old friends, about plot turns (with the occasional interjection: "Oh wait! I can't tell you about that part yet. It'll spoil the ending."), about world-building, about making maps and pronunciation guides, about restructuring so that this part of the story actually comes at the end instead of the middle...
I love it.
Maybe it's that I'm young still. I was reading an introduction by Chuck Palahnuik, and he was talking about how when you're a young reader you want books that are mirrors. You want to see yourself, or something you can relate to. Sitting here listening to these girls talking about their books, it's like a mirror, or maybe a window to the past. It's me and Liz sitting around talking about the Red Quarter or the Doorkeeper. Or me and Amber swapping emails about Proverbs stories and Wishbook.
It's fun.
That's been the problem with the Halloween Stories, and why I'm kind of happy to be bringing that whole chapter to an end. As things have gone on, it's no longer fun. It's not the challenge or the new shiny thing it was at the beginning.
So I'm going to bring it to a close, focus on Doors and Half Miracle and Wishbook and whatever other stories creep in meanwhile.
It doesn't have to be a career or cause for stress. It can just be sitting around telling stories. That's really the way it should be.
It's two girls. (Young women? I'm 28 and still refer to myself as a girl, so I'm the wrong person to ask about the terminology.) They're discussing books they're writing. And I'm listening, and some of it sounds really good, and some of it sounds kind of cliche, but all of it is making me really happy because I've totally been there.
They're talking about characters like old friends, about plot turns (with the occasional interjection: "Oh wait! I can't tell you about that part yet. It'll spoil the ending."), about world-building, about making maps and pronunciation guides, about restructuring so that this part of the story actually comes at the end instead of the middle...
I love it.
Maybe it's that I'm young still. I was reading an introduction by Chuck Palahnuik, and he was talking about how when you're a young reader you want books that are mirrors. You want to see yourself, or something you can relate to. Sitting here listening to these girls talking about their books, it's like a mirror, or maybe a window to the past. It's me and Liz sitting around talking about the Red Quarter or the Doorkeeper. Or me and Amber swapping emails about Proverbs stories and Wishbook.
It's fun.
That's been the problem with the Halloween Stories, and why I'm kind of happy to be bringing that whole chapter to an end. As things have gone on, it's no longer fun. It's not the challenge or the new shiny thing it was at the beginning.
So I'm going to bring it to a close, focus on Doors and Half Miracle and Wishbook and whatever other stories creep in meanwhile.
It doesn't have to be a career or cause for stress. It can just be sitting around telling stories. That's really the way it should be.
Tuesday, September 16, 2014
A Rule
So, let's make a rule.
If you like someone, and you tell them how you feel, and they are honest with you and tell you that they don't return the feeling, here's where we're at...
(1) You have the right to be disappointed
(2) You have the right to be sad
(3) You DO NOT have the right to be angry
(4) You DO NOT have the right to make that person feel like they are at fault.
It's nobody's fault. You can't help who you are attracted to, and conversely who you are not.
Now, if they're a jerk to you when they tell you this, I guess you'd have the right to be angry. Not for the message, but for the method.
Had this happen to me recently. Someone asked me out. I didn't know how to tell them I wasn't interested, so I accepted, but finally got up the nerve to admit that I had been wrong. I didn't mean to toy with anybody's feelings, but I suppose he may have seen it that way.
I've never been on the other end of it. I've had overwhelming crushes on people, but they were dating someone, or they weren't interested in someone of my gender, or I just knew due to their personality/the context of our relationship that I'd have been denied. So rather than risk it, I curled into a little protective porcupine ball - soft center hidden, scary spikes sticking out.
Dude, there's a reason I'm alone.
That reason is me.
If you like someone, and you tell them how you feel, and they are honest with you and tell you that they don't return the feeling, here's where we're at...
(1) You have the right to be disappointed
(2) You have the right to be sad
(3) You DO NOT have the right to be angry
(4) You DO NOT have the right to make that person feel like they are at fault.
It's nobody's fault. You can't help who you are attracted to, and conversely who you are not.
Now, if they're a jerk to you when they tell you this, I guess you'd have the right to be angry. Not for the message, but for the method.
Had this happen to me recently. Someone asked me out. I didn't know how to tell them I wasn't interested, so I accepted, but finally got up the nerve to admit that I had been wrong. I didn't mean to toy with anybody's feelings, but I suppose he may have seen it that way.
I've never been on the other end of it. I've had overwhelming crushes on people, but they were dating someone, or they weren't interested in someone of my gender, or I just knew due to their personality/the context of our relationship that I'd have been denied. So rather than risk it, I curled into a little protective porcupine ball - soft center hidden, scary spikes sticking out.
Dude, there's a reason I'm alone.
That reason is me.
Sunday, September 7, 2014
10 Books
First of all, that last post was unnecessary terror. My project is 95% funded now! Woohoo! So... yeah.
But on to what this post is really about. Books!
I did this for facebook but also wanted to share here:
But on to what this post is really about. Books!
I did this for facebook but also wanted to share here:
You must list ten books that have stayed with you in some way
without taking more than a few minutes to think too hard about it. They don't
have to be great books, just ones that have affected you in some way.
(1) Where the Wild Things Are, by Maurice Sendak. In a
heartbeat. My teacher read this to us in Kindergarten, and it rocked my entire
world. When people ask me what my favorite book is, I always say this one. Then
they hem and haw a bit and say, “Yes, but what is your favorite book FOR
ADULTS?” and I say this one again. 338 words is sometimes all it takes to tell
the kind of story that sticks with you forever.
(2) I Capture the Castle, by Dodie Smith. This book features
such a funny, charming narrator and a cast of some of the kookiest and most
wonderful characters I’ve met in fiction. It felt like I was reading a friend’s
diary; like these were real people, family even. I read this one again and
again and again.
(3) The Tolkien Reader, by J.R.R. Tolkien. I really should say
Lord of the Rings, but to me it was the book I discovered after reading about
Frodo’s epic journey that has stayed with me so long. The Tolkien Reader is a
collection of Tolkien’s shorter works. The two that impacted me so greatly were
his short story “Leaf by Niggle” (which I think every artist/writer/creative
person should read) and the essay “On Fairy Stories,” which utterly transformed
the way I think about reading, writing, and faith.
(4) The Moorchild, by Eloise McGraw. I still remember being in
Walmart with my mom when I saw the paperback of this book on the sale rack for
$3.95. “Can I get it?” I pleaded, the question all us kids asked constantly on
shopping trips, always expecting the inevitable “NO.” But this time she took a
look at the price and said okay. I brought it home and devoured it. What was on
that cover that so captivated 9-year-old me? A picture of a girl playing a pipe
out on the Scottish moorland, her crazy cloud of hair and slanted violet eyes
indicating that she was anything but an ordinary girl. “The Moorchild” is the
story of what it’s like to be an outsider, to be a part of two different worlds
but to belong fully to neither, to be persecuted for things you cannot control
(your appearance, the circumstances of your birth) and some that you can
(intelligence, ambition). It’s one of those stories supposedly “written for
children,” but that I still enjoy thoroughly as an adult.
(5) Till We Have Faces, by C.S. Lewis. It feels a bit like
choosing which one out of all my limbs I’d want to keep to have to pick just
ONE book by C.S. Lewis for this list. Narnia, That Hideous Strength and its
sequels, and the vast library of his nonfiction writings have all shaped so
much of who I am as a person. But if I must choose a jewel for the center of
this crown, “Till We Have Faces” is the one. It’s a retelling of the myth of
Cupid and Psyche, but since it’s C.S. Lewis you know it’s going to be more than
that. It’s the book that made me realize (with some horror) that I could
completely relate to a character so broken and flawed as the protagonist Orual.
But as the story unfolded I was able (with some hope) to root for her
transformation, all the way up to the paradigm-shifting climactic scene that
gives the book its name.
(6) The Harry Potter series, by J.K. Rowling. This one’s pretty
obvious. Not only did these stories take such vivid hold of my imagination, but
they introduced me to the fandom, this “hidden magical community” of creative, talented,
smart, funny, warm, welcoming, amazing fellow geeks, so many of whom I’m lucky
to count as friends.
(7) Enchantress from the Stars, by Sylvia Engdahl. This is a
weird one. Not a lot of people know Sylvia Engdahl. I only know this book from finding
it at the library, but it quickly became one of my favorites because it manages
to be both science fiction and high fantasy at the same time. It’s the story of
a team from an advanced galactic civilization that is tasked to keep a ship
from a partway-developed planet (one that’s just started space exploration)
from interfering with civilizations on an underdeveloped planet (one that’s
still in its version of the Dark Ages, where early introduction of such
technology as a space craft could be catastrophic). The portions told on the
underdeveloped planet read like swords and sorcery stuff, even though the
reader knows enough of what’s going on to guess at the advanced technology that
would appear as dragons or witchcraft to the natives. In addition to the cool
genre meld, it’s also just a good story – there’s a forbidden love arc between
a girl from the advanced society and a boy from the underdeveloped planet. There’s
the theme throughout of the importance of understanding things from other
perspectives, of acknowledging mindsets different from our own. It’s a
particularly timely book for our day and age since it raises questions about
technology and progress, and whether you can truly consider these things successful
if they are not tempered with restraint and wisdom.
(8) Gnomes, by Wil Huygen and Rien Poortvliet. I found this book
at the library when I was 8 or 9. It’s beautifully illustrated, and written in
the same style as many guides to birds or other wildlife, with drawings and
diagrams and information about the gnome species and their habitats, diet,
appearance, behavior, etc. As a kid, I read it and completely believed it was
real, that there actually were gnomes that lived in the woods (and may even be
living in my own backyard!). Even now that I’m older, I still catch myself
staring into the forest sometimes, fully expecting to catch a flash of a red
cap in among the trees.
(9) The Gifts of the Child Christ, by George MacDonald. The
title is misleading. This isn’t a bunch of sermons, or some preachy moral
lesson trussed up as a story for children. It’s actually a collection of fairy
tales. George MacDonald was a Scottish minister who wrote dozens of books, most
of them realistic fiction, romances, or, yes, books of sermons, but he also wrote
fairy stories, and these were the stories that set him apart. C.S. Lewis, J.R.R.
Tolkien, and Madeleine L’Engle all claim him as an influence on their work. You
may know some of his longer fantasy works (“The Princess and the Goblin” or “At
the Back of the North Wind”), but this book is a collection of his shorter,
weirder stories. My two favorites are “The Golden Key” (which features flying
feathered fish and rainbow stairways and a beautiful parallel with Plato’s “Allegory
of the Cave”) and “Photogen and Nycteris” (about a boy who was raised only ever
seeing daylight, and a girl who was raised only ever seeing night, and what
happens when the witch who looked after them accidentally lets up her guard one
night and the two children escape).
(10) Lost and Found, by Shaun Tan. This is a far newer book,
one I only encountered in the last couple years, but it’s incredible. It’s
three shorter tales in one book, told through both text and visuals. Shaun Tan’s
artwork is weird, beautiful, disturbing, and exhilarating and acts as a perfect
complement to his words. This is a book I know will stay with me for a long time,
especially because of “The Red Leaf.” Reading that story was the first time I
ever found anything that truly expressed how depression makes you feel – not some
clinical explanation, or self-help-guide “solution,” but something far more
visceral and real. I liked it because at the same time that it doesn’t shy away
from the darkness, it still ends with a believable sort of hope. Anything by
Shaun Tan is amazing, but this one in particular – just, WOW.
EDIT:
After I made this list, of course I thought of a million others I could have included. I noticed this book leans heavily toward fantasy/sci-fi and children's titles. But whatever, so do my reading inclinations, so I suppose that makes sense.
Here are a couple more I should have put down. "Honorable Mentions" if you will. I won't spend nearly as much time describing them as I did the others though.
(11) Born Confused by Tanuja Desai Hidier.
(12) All the Brian Jacques Redwall books.
(13) Catherine Called Birdy by Karen Cushman
(14) James and the Giant Peach by Roald Dahl
(15) Goose Chase by Patrice Kindl
(16) Stargirl by Jerry Spinelli
(17) Holes by Louis Sachar
(18) Howliday Inn by James Howe
(19) Short stories by Edgar Allan Poe
(20) The Boggart by Susan Cooper
I mean, I kept kicking myself that I didn't include them on the list! And honestly, I could go on... I guess that's the problem. There are too many good books in the world.
A good problem to have.
EDIT:
After I made this list, of course I thought of a million others I could have included. I noticed this book leans heavily toward fantasy/sci-fi and children's titles. But whatever, so do my reading inclinations, so I suppose that makes sense.
Here are a couple more I should have put down. "Honorable Mentions" if you will. I won't spend nearly as much time describing them as I did the others though.
(11) Born Confused by Tanuja Desai Hidier.
(12) All the Brian Jacques Redwall books.
(13) Catherine Called Birdy by Karen Cushman
(14) James and the Giant Peach by Roald Dahl
(15) Goose Chase by Patrice Kindl
(16) Stargirl by Jerry Spinelli
(17) Holes by Louis Sachar
(18) Howliday Inn by James Howe
(19) Short stories by Edgar Allan Poe
(20) The Boggart by Susan Cooper
I mean, I kept kicking myself that I didn't include them on the list! And honestly, I could go on... I guess that's the problem. There are too many good books in the world.
A good problem to have.
Tuesday, September 2, 2014
Terrified
I will go into this in more detail in a later post, but right now I'll just say this.
I just launched my first Kickstarter campaign this morning.
I'm terrified.
I'm going off 4 hours of sleep after having spent the day yesterday traveling home from San Antonio where I was visiting Rebekah and her family. I'm starving because I forgot to eat this morning. I have that lack-of-sleep headache which means I really need to get home soon and just recover.
I need to tell people about the project, but if I try to now it'll come out all wrong.
I am panicking. No one's backed it and it's been live for hours now, but of course that's because no one knows, because I've been at work and haven't told them.
No one tells you how naked this makes you feel.
Sticking your art out there and going, "Love me! Love me!"
Worried that they'll laugh at you. But what's worse than laughing at you?
That they won't even care at all.
I just launched my first Kickstarter campaign this morning.
I'm terrified.
I'm going off 4 hours of sleep after having spent the day yesterday traveling home from San Antonio where I was visiting Rebekah and her family. I'm starving because I forgot to eat this morning. I have that lack-of-sleep headache which means I really need to get home soon and just recover.
I need to tell people about the project, but if I try to now it'll come out all wrong.
I am panicking. No one's backed it and it's been live for hours now, but of course that's because no one knows, because I've been at work and haven't told them.
No one tells you how naked this makes you feel.
Sticking your art out there and going, "Love me! Love me!"
Worried that they'll laugh at you. But what's worse than laughing at you?
That they won't even care at all.
Sunday, August 10, 2014
Mess Up
I messed up.
I've been working at the library for the last four and a half years. Not gonna lie: I'm surprised they hired me. I felt like I was getting away with something in a sense. Like I managed to fake it just long enough that they no longer thought to ask questions. I'm surprised they hired me, and I'm surprised it took this long for them to find out I'm not professional, and I don't aspire to a career in this field, and really I'm an immature little brat who's more interested in flexibility/freedom and emotional happiness than in higher pay, longer hours, and so-called "benefits."
I thought maybe the blue hair might have tipped them off, but then that's only been the last six months.
Okay, so here's what happened. Now that a little of the dust has settled I have more clarity than I have for a while now.
My coworker left for a different position in local county government, leaving her Reference position vacant. Like I mentioned before, it involves longer shifts, it offers a retirement plan and the accrual of paid vacation hours, and it is still in my branch, a place I know well and would be reluctant to leave. Taking this position seemed to solve a lot of problems. First, more money. Great. I can pay off debts faster, and not have to worry about not running the A/C or stretching groceries for another week just to make sure I can pay rent. Second, every other person who does teen programming in our library system is a Reference person. It's always caused a little trouble that I've been technically a children's person but not really doing any children's programming. So by taking myself out of children's I'd be easing that issue completely. Third, everybody kept telling me I should do this. The coworker herself told me she hoped I'd apply. People from other branches texted or emailed to recommend I do it. It's a step up the career ladder. It'll be good for you, they said.
So I did it. I interviewed.
The interview went terribly... which is interesting, because the last two interviews I've done have gone really well. When I want the position, I feel confident, engaged, and even if my mind goes blank on an answer I can laugh it off and not give into nerves. But with this one I was a mess. I was nervous, stumbling, saying all the things I thought they'd want to hear, and at the very end when they gave me an exercise to do, I burst into tears.
I got it anyway. Go figure. And instead of taking time to weigh my options, I just immediately accepted. It all made sense on paper. It didn't matter that I felt a great unease at the thought of this new position; that was surely just me being fearful about change. I'd get used to it in time.
I didn't. The first week I was just at the home branch covering in children's and working up in circulation. It was overwhelming, and I hadn't even gotten to the new stuff yet. And then some really horrible, crushing news: while my "benefits" give me paid time off, this vacation time accrues at a rate of 6 hours each month. Since my average work day now is 8 hours, that's not even a day a month! I would have to wait 4 months to get three days off. Well, fine, whatever. I don't care about getting paid for time off. But here's the kicker: in this new position, unpaid time off is limited to SEVEN DAYS A YEAR. ONE FREAKING WEEK. THAT'S ALL. Before the change in position, I had already asked for 5 days off for the funeral, and 5 days for Salem in September. My branch manager was being really nice and trying to make this work for me, but you know what? I couldn't get the ringing in my ears to stop. I thought my brain might be melting and oozing out of my ears. SEVEN FREAKING DAYS. A YEAR. A WHOLE YEAR. Any shitty retail job will give you more than that. I was livid. I was so fucking angry. And that anger fortunately manifested itself in tears instead of swearing, because if I hadn't burst into sobs I definitely would have said something that would have gotten me fired. Seven days. Gaaaaaaaaaah. I knew right then that if I stayed in this position, I'd be gone from the library within a year. There's no way I'm missing the Europe trip next year, or cutting it short to fit these ridiculous guidelines. So yeah, that was roadblock #1.
The second week I started training at the main branch, and the first day went okay. It was all really boring, to be honest, but nothing too difficult to grasp. I could do this, surely, given time. I would be able to function as a reference librarian. But the second day I went in to do my reference interview training and halfway through I again burst into tears.
Are you sensing a pattern? I cried in the interview. I cried upon finding out about the limitations to my days off. I cried when being given important reference training.
The woman giving me the training was very kind. I explained I was likely just overly-emotional with my grandmother's funeral on the immediate horizon. I didn't even think about how the last week of summer reading is already just a stressful time in and of itself. And then of course all these changes.
The problem was, once I started crying I couldn't stop. We rescheduled the second half of the training, and I was sent to the back room to work on some database test questions. But people kept popping in to check that I was okay, and every time a new person asked I would start up again. Finally, the head of reference called me to her office and sent me home. Before she did, she told me to think long and hard about whether I really wanted this position, and to report to my home branch the next day instead of to the main branch for training as planned. I was to tell my branch manager my decision.
So I did. I told him that I wanted my old job back if that was still possible. He's checking with our library director, and with human resources at the county government center. I still don't know where all this stands.
Reasons I would be willing to give up more money and more respect and to make myself look like a fool in front of everyone I work with: because the only reason I have stayed at this job as long as I have is because of people and books. The people part is mostly programming, but also all the regulars that come in to the children's section, the folks that need help with book suggestions or finding pictures to go with a report they've written for school, that kind of thing. The books means what's inside the covers. It means talking about books, thinking about books, recommending books. Books as more than objects or statistics. In my new position, well - I'll be honest. The kinds of people I'd have to help wouldn't be nearly as cute or fun. If I ever talked about books, it would be reference texts, and not necessarily as a recommended pleasurable pastime but as a means to an end.
I realized too late that the pride I feel at getting to say I'm a librarian actually stems from getting to say I'm a children's librarian. If I've messed it up and can't do that anymore, maybe it's just time I moved on to something entirely new...
I've been working at the library for the last four and a half years. Not gonna lie: I'm surprised they hired me. I felt like I was getting away with something in a sense. Like I managed to fake it just long enough that they no longer thought to ask questions. I'm surprised they hired me, and I'm surprised it took this long for them to find out I'm not professional, and I don't aspire to a career in this field, and really I'm an immature little brat who's more interested in flexibility/freedom and emotional happiness than in higher pay, longer hours, and so-called "benefits."
I thought maybe the blue hair might have tipped them off, but then that's only been the last six months.
Okay, so here's what happened. Now that a little of the dust has settled I have more clarity than I have for a while now.
My coworker left for a different position in local county government, leaving her Reference position vacant. Like I mentioned before, it involves longer shifts, it offers a retirement plan and the accrual of paid vacation hours, and it is still in my branch, a place I know well and would be reluctant to leave. Taking this position seemed to solve a lot of problems. First, more money. Great. I can pay off debts faster, and not have to worry about not running the A/C or stretching groceries for another week just to make sure I can pay rent. Second, every other person who does teen programming in our library system is a Reference person. It's always caused a little trouble that I've been technically a children's person but not really doing any children's programming. So by taking myself out of children's I'd be easing that issue completely. Third, everybody kept telling me I should do this. The coworker herself told me she hoped I'd apply. People from other branches texted or emailed to recommend I do it. It's a step up the career ladder. It'll be good for you, they said.
So I did it. I interviewed.
The interview went terribly... which is interesting, because the last two interviews I've done have gone really well. When I want the position, I feel confident, engaged, and even if my mind goes blank on an answer I can laugh it off and not give into nerves. But with this one I was a mess. I was nervous, stumbling, saying all the things I thought they'd want to hear, and at the very end when they gave me an exercise to do, I burst into tears.
I got it anyway. Go figure. And instead of taking time to weigh my options, I just immediately accepted. It all made sense on paper. It didn't matter that I felt a great unease at the thought of this new position; that was surely just me being fearful about change. I'd get used to it in time.
I didn't. The first week I was just at the home branch covering in children's and working up in circulation. It was overwhelming, and I hadn't even gotten to the new stuff yet. And then some really horrible, crushing news: while my "benefits" give me paid time off, this vacation time accrues at a rate of 6 hours each month. Since my average work day now is 8 hours, that's not even a day a month! I would have to wait 4 months to get three days off. Well, fine, whatever. I don't care about getting paid for time off. But here's the kicker: in this new position, unpaid time off is limited to SEVEN DAYS A YEAR. ONE FREAKING WEEK. THAT'S ALL. Before the change in position, I had already asked for 5 days off for the funeral, and 5 days for Salem in September. My branch manager was being really nice and trying to make this work for me, but you know what? I couldn't get the ringing in my ears to stop. I thought my brain might be melting and oozing out of my ears. SEVEN FREAKING DAYS. A YEAR. A WHOLE YEAR. Any shitty retail job will give you more than that. I was livid. I was so fucking angry. And that anger fortunately manifested itself in tears instead of swearing, because if I hadn't burst into sobs I definitely would have said something that would have gotten me fired. Seven days. Gaaaaaaaaaah. I knew right then that if I stayed in this position, I'd be gone from the library within a year. There's no way I'm missing the Europe trip next year, or cutting it short to fit these ridiculous guidelines. So yeah, that was roadblock #1.
The second week I started training at the main branch, and the first day went okay. It was all really boring, to be honest, but nothing too difficult to grasp. I could do this, surely, given time. I would be able to function as a reference librarian. But the second day I went in to do my reference interview training and halfway through I again burst into tears.
Are you sensing a pattern? I cried in the interview. I cried upon finding out about the limitations to my days off. I cried when being given important reference training.
The woman giving me the training was very kind. I explained I was likely just overly-emotional with my grandmother's funeral on the immediate horizon. I didn't even think about how the last week of summer reading is already just a stressful time in and of itself. And then of course all these changes.
The problem was, once I started crying I couldn't stop. We rescheduled the second half of the training, and I was sent to the back room to work on some database test questions. But people kept popping in to check that I was okay, and every time a new person asked I would start up again. Finally, the head of reference called me to her office and sent me home. Before she did, she told me to think long and hard about whether I really wanted this position, and to report to my home branch the next day instead of to the main branch for training as planned. I was to tell my branch manager my decision.
So I did. I told him that I wanted my old job back if that was still possible. He's checking with our library director, and with human resources at the county government center. I still don't know where all this stands.
Reasons I would be willing to give up more money and more respect and to make myself look like a fool in front of everyone I work with: because the only reason I have stayed at this job as long as I have is because of people and books. The people part is mostly programming, but also all the regulars that come in to the children's section, the folks that need help with book suggestions or finding pictures to go with a report they've written for school, that kind of thing. The books means what's inside the covers. It means talking about books, thinking about books, recommending books. Books as more than objects or statistics. In my new position, well - I'll be honest. The kinds of people I'd have to help wouldn't be nearly as cute or fun. If I ever talked about books, it would be reference texts, and not necessarily as a recommended pleasurable pastime but as a means to an end.
I realized too late that the pride I feel at getting to say I'm a librarian actually stems from getting to say I'm a children's librarian. If I've messed it up and can't do that anymore, maybe it's just time I moved on to something entirely new...
Saturday, August 9, 2014
Sketchbook
My grandmother's funeral is today. Or memorial service. However you want to say it. She died back in April but was cremated, and we are putting her ashes to rest about 15 hours from now in the grave plot right next to my grandfather. I'm typing this from a hotel room in King of Prussia, PA. I've spent the last hour or so trying to write a eulogy.
Now, I haven't been asked to write a eulogy exactly. More to say a few words about my grandmother. (We called her "Oma.") But for the last several years I haven't seen Oma much, and even when I did see her she didn't seem like herself. Pain and fatigue were wearing constantly away at her edges. Plus, I was (am, really) an egocentric young person, too caught up in the immediate concerns of my own life to put much of an effort into trying to connect with her.
So I've written this eulogy, which I will type up for you below. But I don't like it. It's supposed to be about a person, and I spend most of my time talking about a sketchbook. (Which sounds weird, but I hope it will all make sense...)
So here it is, what I may (or may not) end up saying at the service later today:
I have many memories of days spent with Oma - the time Laura and I went with her to visit Old Sturbridge Village, fun trips to Deep Creek or Cape Cod, Florida or Sedona, and even that time she tried to drive me to a place in uptown Charlotte and we ended up getting lost, on the road for hours taking turn after wrong turn and getting trapped in the crazy mess of rush hour traffic. To me as a little kid it all seemed like a grand adventure, but I'm sure it was really stressful for her. So many memories of doing things, going places, all this exciting stuff happening.
But so much of life is in the still moments. Which is why when I remember spending time with Oma, one of the things I recall with the most fondness is this sketchbook.
I don't know if many of you have looked through this or really know what it is. I mean, basically it's what it looks like: a little sketch journal. Early on it's filled with her pencil drawings - a basket of flowers, a place setting at a table, a vague outline of a chair. She tried things, using watercolor pencils and investigating the different effects she could make. And at a certain point other artists' work start to take up pages as she began to invite us grandchildren to draw in it too.
I won't flip through the whole thing here, but there's a hodgepodge of sketches after this - Zach's depiction of grandfather clock, various attempts by me to try to capture those small toys she would keep on the ledge next to those stairs that led down to the basement, and of course many more drawings of her own.
I know I'm going on and on about this book, when I should be talking about her, but I kind of am talking about her. You've got to understand something about me. I've always been so caught up in my own distractions. I was the girl so busy reading that I'd be in the stands at the baseball game and not even know the score. But Oma wasn't like that. What's amazing about this sketchbook, and even more amazing about the lady who started it, who sketched out that place setting at the table, or the view of the street in Belmont, New Hampshire (even down to that stop sign there in the corner) - well, it's this: To make art like this, you have to be willing to stop and take the time to look at the things and the people around you, to really see them, and not only that but to appreciate that there is something of significance and beauty in them, something worth recording, worth remembering. And that was Oma. I mean, you all remember her stories, don't you? She had so many things in her house that she had collected over the course of her life, but these things, while some of them may have been quite valuable, weren't really important in and of themselves. There was always a story, a history behind an object or photograph, and if she'd catch you looking at something she might even share it with you. That's why they were important, at least to me. Because she said they were. She observed and she noticed things and she cared enough to remember.
I saw her sketches in this book, and I wanted to follow her example. I wanted to try too. Over time it came to be an inevitable part of any visit with her. Whenever we spent time with Oma, several more pages of this book were sure to be filled in. Sketches of beloved pets like Tilly and Bobby and Buffy, of Wes playing Game Boy, of the red glasses and Santa napkin rings on the table at Christmas eleven years ago...
I'm grateful for a lifetime of details like this, not just the big flashy photo-album-worthy times with her, but these little quiet memories that I know will continue to creep in at unexpected moments in the years to come, reminding me of her.
I miss Oma. We all miss her - Oma, Nana, Mother, Adelaide. But I'm glad she's no longer in pain, and I rejoice to think of the fullness of life she now knows in the presence of our Heavenly Father.
It was He who commanded us to "love one another as I have loved you." And what kind of love is this? One that sees beauty and worth even in the unlikeliest of places. A love that does not falter or forget. A sketchbook kind of love.
EDIT (THE NEXT DAY):
Yeah. That was really preachy and stupid. I didn't say any of that. Instead, I told a brief story about the time Oma was visiting us when it happened to be a blue moon. Mom, Oma, and I got in the car and drove up to the top of the drive way. It was almost like a little theater: the trees on either side were the parted curtains, and above us was this spectacular star-strewn sky and a huge, bright moon. "God was putting on a show for us that night," I said as I burst into tears. I didn't say a lot of things because I was too busy crying. I guess that's okay.
Now, I haven't been asked to write a eulogy exactly. More to say a few words about my grandmother. (We called her "Oma.") But for the last several years I haven't seen Oma much, and even when I did see her she didn't seem like herself. Pain and fatigue were wearing constantly away at her edges. Plus, I was (am, really) an egocentric young person, too caught up in the immediate concerns of my own life to put much of an effort into trying to connect with her.
So I've written this eulogy, which I will type up for you below. But I don't like it. It's supposed to be about a person, and I spend most of my time talking about a sketchbook. (Which sounds weird, but I hope it will all make sense...)
So here it is, what I may (or may not) end up saying at the service later today:
I have many memories of days spent with Oma - the time Laura and I went with her to visit Old Sturbridge Village, fun trips to Deep Creek or Cape Cod, Florida or Sedona, and even that time she tried to drive me to a place in uptown Charlotte and we ended up getting lost, on the road for hours taking turn after wrong turn and getting trapped in the crazy mess of rush hour traffic. To me as a little kid it all seemed like a grand adventure, but I'm sure it was really stressful for her. So many memories of doing things, going places, all this exciting stuff happening.
But so much of life is in the still moments. Which is why when I remember spending time with Oma, one of the things I recall with the most fondness is this sketchbook.
I don't know if many of you have looked through this or really know what it is. I mean, basically it's what it looks like: a little sketch journal. Early on it's filled with her pencil drawings - a basket of flowers, a place setting at a table, a vague outline of a chair. She tried things, using watercolor pencils and investigating the different effects she could make. And at a certain point other artists' work start to take up pages as she began to invite us grandchildren to draw in it too.
I won't flip through the whole thing here, but there's a hodgepodge of sketches after this - Zach's depiction of grandfather clock, various attempts by me to try to capture those small toys she would keep on the ledge next to those stairs that led down to the basement, and of course many more drawings of her own.
I know I'm going on and on about this book, when I should be talking about her, but I kind of am talking about her. You've got to understand something about me. I've always been so caught up in my own distractions. I was the girl so busy reading that I'd be in the stands at the baseball game and not even know the score. But Oma wasn't like that. What's amazing about this sketchbook, and even more amazing about the lady who started it, who sketched out that place setting at the table, or the view of the street in Belmont, New Hampshire (even down to that stop sign there in the corner) - well, it's this: To make art like this, you have to be willing to stop and take the time to look at the things and the people around you, to really see them, and not only that but to appreciate that there is something of significance and beauty in them, something worth recording, worth remembering. And that was Oma. I mean, you all remember her stories, don't you? She had so many things in her house that she had collected over the course of her life, but these things, while some of them may have been quite valuable, weren't really important in and of themselves. There was always a story, a history behind an object or photograph, and if she'd catch you looking at something she might even share it with you. That's why they were important, at least to me. Because she said they were. She observed and she noticed things and she cared enough to remember.
I saw her sketches in this book, and I wanted to follow her example. I wanted to try too. Over time it came to be an inevitable part of any visit with her. Whenever we spent time with Oma, several more pages of this book were sure to be filled in. Sketches of beloved pets like Tilly and Bobby and Buffy, of Wes playing Game Boy, of the red glasses and Santa napkin rings on the table at Christmas eleven years ago...
I'm grateful for a lifetime of details like this, not just the big flashy photo-album-worthy times with her, but these little quiet memories that I know will continue to creep in at unexpected moments in the years to come, reminding me of her.
I miss Oma. We all miss her - Oma, Nana, Mother, Adelaide. But I'm glad she's no longer in pain, and I rejoice to think of the fullness of life she now knows in the presence of our Heavenly Father.
It was He who commanded us to "love one another as I have loved you." And what kind of love is this? One that sees beauty and worth even in the unlikeliest of places. A love that does not falter or forget. A sketchbook kind of love.
EDIT (THE NEXT DAY):
Yeah. That was really preachy and stupid. I didn't say any of that. Instead, I told a brief story about the time Oma was visiting us when it happened to be a blue moon. Mom, Oma, and I got in the car and drove up to the top of the drive way. It was almost like a little theater: the trees on either side were the parted curtains, and above us was this spectacular star-strewn sky and a huge, bright moon. "God was putting on a show for us that night," I said as I burst into tears. I didn't say a lot of things because I was too busy crying. I guess that's okay.
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