Begrudgingly Convenient

I had a library debt.

For a book I did not damage.

A year ago.

It made me angry for a long time. Anyone who knows me knows that’s just fucking ludicrous.

In the interest of full disclosure, I had several ulterior motives for paying it. Some were not clear to me until I went to actually do so.

As a Poor Angry Writer, I love my resources. Everyone should love their library.

But the library that charged me this paltry sum of 37.00 had many other sins. That I received it damaged. It was almost as old as me. They refused to return it. I had to force them to, and THAT’S how I got the fucking charge.

It looked like an elementary school library. Most of the floor covered in half-tall shelves you see for kindergarteners. An open story time area that made mid-day unbearable. Computer space that was hidden in the back where only perverts and Mormons gathered. I have no idea what it was about that library that Mormons liked… I always had to order something over, they never had it there. And a huge section where old people would just hang out, raid coupons, read the paper for free, and leave a mess. Awkward cafeteria tables with power strips duct tapped to them for computer stations. It was terrible.

So I held a grudge.

Then it became in my best interest to pay off the scourge. So I could go to a different library. At a new job, there is a library not far, and I could easily go to that one before work, drop stuff off after close. It would be nice.

So fine, amongst the fair amount of catching up I had to do with bills and errands, fuck it, I’ll do that, too. Out of my hair, I’m an upstanding citizen. What the fuck ever.

Then I go in.

And it’s nice.

They’ve remodeled the whole thing. Sectioned off rooms. No half shelves. More floor space given up for books. I paid my fee, and went browsing. Lo and Behold, they have two lectures I’ve been wanting to hear, the Great Courses series on The Symphony and 30 Greatest Orchestral Works. Looking around, it was 37 dollars well spent. When I went to check out, I got the Oh Shit You’re Gonna Expire, Mate!!!

The last staff was mean. And it sounds silly to say the word as an adult, but bitter, unhelpful, rude, and dismissive all fall under that category.

This young lady helped me cheerfully, like she was happy to work with books! And I’m fuck yeah, books!

Truth be told, I’ve missed the library. It’s invaluable.

Maybe, I could be a little less angry.

We’ll see.

Resources

People gravitate, like the stuff of stars they are made of, to what they desire. A middle manager may have a wood workshop, a nurse might have collected as Wilton baking tools and bake her ass off. Cashiers collect historical war books, you get the point.

Even though I spent my youth writing, when I entered the Economic Destiny of the Blue Collar Work Force, I wrote off (haha) the idea that I could write as an adult with any real result. This was my life, as was my mother’s and her mother’s. Work, sleep, whatever you do after your shift, well, that’s just a bonus.

I collected books. At first just a few authors. Then I went through a non-fiction phase and collected those. During that time, a book on the craft of writing had crept in. I don’t know how, or when. But that’s when I started collecting books about writing.

Still, writing was a pipe dream. Work, sleep, clean. Work, sleep, watch a movie. Work, sleep, go to a friend’s house. Work, sleep, read, read, read.

In retrospect, I was writing the whole time. A financial attempt at college, articles and website reviews, little stories, plots and outlines for books. I had never actually stopped using. I just told myself I had. Somehow, I managed to hide it from myself.

Then the bottom fell out. As it did for just about everyone else at the start of the Recession/Working Depression.

Well, this was my chance. I found an angle on a popular theme, and it carved a novel out of my flesh.

From accounting and data, I went to retail. I hadn’t had a standing job for over a decade. But when it comes to work, I’m very Winston Zeddmore, “If there’s a steady paycheck in it, I’ll believe anything you say.” Thanks to whatever or whoever you want to blame, part-time work was all I could get.

A dump truck of shit hit my little life fan, but that’s for another time.

During this time, I had given myself over to Literature as my Lord and Savior.

And I knew no one would help me but me.

So, how do you school yourself in Creative Writing? How do you earn a Faux MFA? How do you teach yourself if you don’t already know?

Those writing books were getting redundant. Like fitness magazines that recommend squats every other month, yoga magazines that feature another wealthy couples unused space into their ashram after the one they visited in India.

Fuck, I’ve only eaten at an actual Indian restaurant once or twice. I’ll probably never make it to India.

I reasoned that there are a few ways to get to the honey ye desire.

Shakespeare. “Classics.” Pulitzer Prize Winners.

That’s where I started.

The public library is okay. Unless you are at a branch office, which has the most recent remodel and “consumer friendly” updates. I used my library card for little else than Great Courses. Those things are expensive. Because they are so fucking good! I already owned a few and bought one for a friend, but the library opened the flood gate of subjects. If I had to recommend just a few for the purpose of this discourse, I would say “How to Listen to and Understand Great Music,” “Reading and Understanding Shakespeare,” and “Books That Have Made History.” (this last title is much longer.) But, please, don’t limit to these three. Great Courses could run a for-profit library on their own.

Chain bookstores are pricey, Amazon isn’t much cheaper, even if you can catch a deal. This is especially true of popular, current classics, and perennial classics. Having constant demand, their price remains constant, too.

However, there is an untapped well, even in the Culture Desert, where people just discard treasure.

Thrift stores.

I’ve gotten more non-fiction, Shakespeare analysis, Cliff Notes, Spark Notes, classic novels, collected works, and textbooks from thrift shops than anywhere else.

Are they dated? Sure. Just like the book of analytical essays on Hamlet that actually had something to say without involving actor’s names. What people throw away. Plato, Hobbes, Erasmus, Faulkner, Hemmingway, Dostoyevsky, Tolstoy, issues of Psychology Today, on and on.

Where do you go when nobody knows your name?

Your private library, where books are less than a quarter each.

And it’s Paradise.