Some museum curators travel the globe to acquire items of significance. A more budget-friendly strategy: pick up the phone and graciously accept when, out of the blue, a caller offers to donate and deliver something exceptional. Actually, that’s the only approach if your institution operates on almost no budget with a part-time staff of one.
That’s my mom. The artifact just acquired by the Fannin County Museum of History: a custom hand-tooled saddle that belonged to famed cowboy photographer Erwin E. Smith, she reported last week. (FCM, incidentally, honors another local boy-- electric guitar pioneer Charlie Christian.)
The donation sounded beautiful and impressive, but I did wonder if a photograph or something documented its belonging to Smith. Should I ask about provenance? I worried---just as Mom’s excited description continued with “…and along the edge, Mr. Smith’s name embossed in big letters.” Provenance—check!
For our Antiques Roadshow-viewing household, ownership history creates the most rewarding moments: handwritten notes evidencing humor or kindness, furniture fakes attesting to trusting natures, photographs demonstrating how far back in time a necklace was worn—or how proudly a uniform was displayed in the subject’s last portrait in this life.
With some discoveries come jaw-dropping insurance valuations that prove how documentation translates into dollars. No wonder readers seeking books about art and museum treasures so often find them cataloged with the terms “forgeries” or “theft”.
And what were the odds that I’d discover two books with “heist” in the title side by side on the Large Print shelf? Molly Caldwell Crosby’s The Great Pearl Heist (one reviewer called it “a gem”) is a true-crime delight, recounting the 1913 theft in London of a strand of perfectly matched pink pearls valued at “twice the price of the Hope Diamond.” (Leonardo da Vinci’s Mona Lisa, stolen in 1911, was returned to the Louvre that same year.) Ulrich Boser’s The Gardner Heist addresses the $500 million dollar theft from the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum (“one of history’s greatest unsolved mysteries”) that included Rembrandt’s only seascape.
In contrast to these nonfiction accounts of thieves fully cognizant of their targets’ provenance, the library’s New Fiction shelf offers Sonya Cobb’s The Objects of Her Affection, imagining a museum curator’s wife in need of some quick cash to fend off mortgage foreclosure. Spying a cart of miscellaneous museum donations unguarded (thus, she thinks, of no particular value) she guesses that a couple of them wouldn’t be missed…
Susan Vreeland’s new Lisette’s List portrays a small art collection lovingly displayed in a humble French home, affording their owner comfort and inspiration but attracting covetous attention from occupying German forces. Viewed alternately as trophies for Hitler and family heirlooms, the paintings act as great characters do--inspiring schemes, radiating hope, embodying unique viewpoints.
Historical fiction fans and readers who savored the artistic insights in Vreeland’s Girl in Hyacinth Blue and Tracy Chevalier’s Girl with a Pearl Earring will love this novel. The story attests to the life-affirming power of art, and, with Vreeland’s name on it, carries a solid provenance.
Did you celebrate New Year’s last week?
Beginning October 1, City of Round Rock is operating in fiscal year 2014-15. Friends of the Round Rock Public Library hosted a clever “End of Fiscal Year” event on September 30 for staffers with homemade goodies, non-alcoholic fruit "champagne" in glamorous bottles, and a cake. Now, that’s how an annual wrap-up of acquisitions, deliveries, and accounting was meant to be observed!
As the sugar rush subsided, I realized that Banned Books Week had passed without much hoopla this year (see aforementioned FY deadline)--though Ron Pitchman’s photo with a copy of Captain Underpants on the library’s Facebook page was decidedly a highlight.
But we believe in honoring BBW’s principle—“freedom to read”—all year, every year. Libraries ensure access to resources so that everyone can select (or not!) according to his/her own taste and needs while allowing others the same privilege.
Controversial literature has been with us always. We've heard those back-in-the-day anecdotes about books kept behind the library counters or simply not acquired in some locales due to prevailing standards and tastes. Now, many of those once-maligned titles occupy slots on recommended reading lists for college bound students.
Those lists come in handy (suggestions, not mandates) when customers ask to be shown “the classics section”-- a shelving area that doesn’t exist physically but certainly occupies mental real estate. We believe that classics represent enduring works--the best of the best. But “best” in what regard—admirable prose, relevant theme, beloved characters? For some, the “classic” designation is reserved solely for titles proven to be genteel or “safe”.
Of course, there are ways to avoid tricky literary judgments. Some recent fiction offerings suggest that we can simply wait for circumstances to whittle down our options.
Citizens in Ally Condie’s young adult-level Matched trilogy are never overwhelmed when selecting works of art, poems, or books. With only one hundred Society-approved choices for each, little deliberation is required. All other options have been eliminated; the cultural landscape is devoid of “clutter”.
(As a librarian, I should regard this scenario with horror. I do, after first pragmatically reflecting how simple it would be, with only 100 titles on offer, to stay within budget while supplying oodles of copies --print, large print, audio CD, MP3 player, downloadable audio, ebook…)
Erika Johansen’s The Queen of the Tearling imagines a society with medieval trappings existing after, not in advance of, a high-tech age. Following a world-shattering event, this society’s ancestors set sail for a new land where books now exist, but only those salvaged from the earlier life. The printing press has not yet been re-invented.
As the newly crowned young queen (a major fiction fan) encourages castle workers and their children to borrow her volumes freely, a royal guardsman unable to comprehend the readers’ enthusiasm comments “I don’t understand your fascination with the damned things. They don’t feed or protect you. They don’t keep you alive. But I see that they’re important to you”.
That’s a nice take on “freedom to read”; even better is Johansen’s observation that, while books by Tuchman, Rowling, and Tolkien are especially treasured in the royal library, “there seemed to be something for everyone.”
Which of these is the wrong answer to a reference question?
A. You're kidding, right?
B. Sorry, no can do.
D. All of the above
I did use "C" recently--following up, thankfully, with useful information.
A customer I'd assisted weeks ago with "readalike" suggestions (he'd finished everything by his favorite author) forgot to bring the list I prepared for him. His kids were waiting downstairs, he was in a hurry, so could I just quickly remember those names and give him another copy?
Of course I came up with another list--but not off the top of my head or exactly like the previous one. And my lack of eidetic memory isn't the only reason.
Readalikes are, like snowflakes, numerous and ephemeral. "What to read next" authors I've used successfully for years get supplanted when I discover newer, more appropriate ones. The best lists derive from multiple sources, and the exact combination is difficult to remember. Also, (as anyone who's consulted Goodreads, Novelist, or other reading troves knows) it's possible to unearth so many potential choices that great matches become lost in the pile.
And success isn't guaranteed. Because readers bring as much to the enjoyment of a book as writers do, the best reading comparisons--like Ebenezer Scrooge's spirits--occur unbidden and in their own good time.
That's what happened with two stellar new novels I read over the weekend; they effortlessly conjured similarly wonderful novels ideal for future list-giving:
In Laird Hunt's Neverhome, "Ash"-- a young Indiana wife who enlists to fight for the Union in the Civil War--relates heart-wrenching adventures vividly, in artless rural rhetoric with surprising eloquence. Hunt's wonderful prose lends major impact to this small volume.
Stephen Crane's battlefield setting and notable imagery in The Red Badge of Courage naturally came to mind, as did Cold Mountain's palpable sense of home-seeking. A favorite Jane Smiley book, The All-True Travels and Adventures of Lidie Newton, memorably chronicles another woman in disguise, this time before the Civil War. DeAnne Blanton and Lauren Cook's nonfiction They Fought Like Demons: Women Soldiers in the Civil War would be a great pre- or post-Neverhome choice. And some of Ash's more desperate moments recalled from Amanda Coplin's The Orchardist the near-feral behavior of other young women cornered by circumstances.
The intriguing story-within-a-story device in Emily St. John Mandel's dystopian Station Eleven brings to mind Margaret Atwood's excellent The Blind Assassin. As in Walter Miller's classic A Canticle for Leibowitz, Mandel's characters are driven to fashion archives of their lost worlds. Fans of the similarly post-apocalyptic World Made By Hand books by James Howard Kunstler will appreciate Mandel's depiction of "new world" resourcefulness and self-governance dilemmas. The pace of calamity in Station Eleven contrasts with the incremental demise of Earth in Karen Thompson Walker's The Age of Miracles, yet both authors achieve a movingly elegiac sense of dawning sorrow for the years ahead.
Next time someone asks me to recommend a great read, I'll think of Neverhome and Station Eleven. And, once you've read them, you'll be thinking how very foolish it would be to ever depart from home without sturdy flat shoes, antibiotics, and a sackful of batteries.
This happened before Youtube and smartphones; otherwise the moment would have inevitably been shared: we're among a summertime gaggle of tourists entering the Alamo--pausing inside the threshold to consider worn, hand-fashioned walls scarred by history. A visitor farther back in line surveys the first sign he sees, taking offense at the polite directive: "Are you kidding me? Who says I have to take my hat off? Whaddaya think this is--a shrine or something?"
I wonder if the thermostat registered that chill in the atmosphere as eyes collectively narrowed and dozens of hatless heads swiveled in his direction.
On a lighter note, a non-Texan friend, respectful but whimsical, couldn't resist the observation that Travis missed a strategic opportunity--he could have posted a sentry on the roof of the Crockett Hotel....
The Crockett did provide a (non-military) solution when my daughter's birthday came around this year. Having changed jobs in the past year, she'd had no chance of a vacation in many months; I proposed a micro-vacation/overnight getaway. San Antonio's museums, Riverwalk, and a re-visit to the Alamo were her choice.
The ghost tour was a lucky last-minute add-on. Shepherded by a young lady attired in a hoop skirt and equipped with an iPad (to display historic photos), about twenty ticketholders met in Alamo Plaza to stroll through downtown, pausing from time to time to admire facades and be regaled with tales imparting equal amounts of history and hauntings. The phantom chambermaid at the Menger Hotel, the swimming pool constructed from old hospital operating tables at the Emily Morgan Hotel, gory hangings and interred ashes at the Holiday Inn Express (former Bexar County Jail), reported apparitions at San Fernando Cathedral and more--all were recounted charmingly as though they'd been just discovered by our guide, not rehearsed nightly.
We didn't follow up on photo-snapping opportunities; somehow, pursuing digital capture of phantom images seemed unfair. But the structured meander through the quiet streets, graced by illuminated horse-drawn carriages and the rapt attention of fellow tourists, was delightful. Besides, ghost stories are a wonderful introduction to any city; they invite one to focus s exploration on sites and past events that promise a personal connection.
Our library offers Haunted Texas Vacations: the Complete Ghostly Guide and similar books about the region's ghost legends. I even momentarily wondered if we should borrow the ghost tour concept for the library. (It would certainly address the ever-present Library Concern: "How can we demonstrate the library's uniqueness--what we offer that sets us apart?")
First drawback: no library ghosts (that we know of). Sure, we could jazz up the unexplained phenomena: "And now, ladies and gentlemen, did you know that library books sometimes leave the library and are never seen again? And here--behold!-- a microfilm printer that (pause to widen eyes and gesture dramatically) sometimes switches off for no apparent reason!"
I know. The tour idea needs (a) paranormal activity and (b) professional help. Who we gonna call?
At the Reference Desk, fear of disappointing our customers should we not possess (or can't for some reason retrieve) the information they seek is ever present. But last Friday a library patron was let down when I did know something.
Appreciating the wonderfully illustrated article received via email, the customer printed an extra copy for me. One glance at the image of sun rays glinting off jeweled fragments strewn on the beach prompted me to exclaim, "Ooooh, sea glass!" The existence of wave-worn discards beautified over the years was meant to be the revelation--but I'd read about it in Anita Shreve's novel concerning a young married couple titled (you guessed it) Sea Glass.
That setting was on the East Coast, so I hastened to own my ignorance of Glass Beach in MacKerricher State Park, information which is valuable since (a) any fact in a librarian's repertoire can be handily applied at some point and (b) next time I'm in California, I want to go there.
Set in the 1920s, Sea Glass is classified "historical fiction", the genre to which I would devote 100% of my reading if book group, reviewing, and collection development responsibilities didn't (beneficially) intervene. Not only does historical background supply plots of the sort that "truth is stranger than", period settings enable the reader to effortlessly assimilate flavor and relevance of times past. This is a multitasking genre, enlightening as it entertains.
From Amy Brill's The Movement of Stars, based on Maria Mitchell, America's first professional female astronomer, I learned about the King of Denmark's medal--Frederick VI's prize to the claimant of the first discovery of a new telescopic comet. Paul Robertson's An Elegant Solution, inspired by a notable family of 18th-century mathematicians, considers the prestige of academic chairs within Basel's university community--positions so esteemed as to instigate Machiavellian strategies to attain them. In The People in the Trees, Hanya Yanagihara depicts the insidious downward career spiral of a Nobel Prize winner whose character was loosely modeled after an actual Nobel Laureate.
Visiting Asheville, North Carolina, recently, I was startled into recalling another based-on-fact fictional gem (Lee Smith's Guests on Earth) as the "historical trolley tour" driver's practiced spiel referenced Highland Hospital, scene of Zelda Fitzgerald's death in a fire.
My latest read (848 pages, one weekend) unabashedly overlays historical fiction with time travels and fantasy. Eighth in Diana Gabaldon's addictive Outlander series, Written in My Own Heart's Blood (Gabaldon calls it MOBY) furthers the century-hopping saga of Claire and Jamie Fraser--devoted, great-looking, and endlessly adaptable--along with their expanding, marvelously diverse extended family. I never tire of Claire's resourcefulness in reconciling 20th-century knowledge with present circumstances (in the 1700s, she applies a Roquefort cheese mixture to her own serious wound, thereby administering penicillin).
Not usually fond of fantasy novels, I am captivated by Gabaldon's (I'm oversimplifying) formula: circled standing stones + faceted gems = time travel--for predisposed individuals. Watching my little Scottish terrier obsessively inspect the cluster of boulders adorning our backyard, I note her utilitarian ID collar: no sparkles, no rhinestones whatsoever--which is fortunate. The Frasers have enough worries already.
We're sometimes asked whether folks who apply for City of Round Rock jobs are required to live here. No--and that's a good thing. Employees who reside elsewhere can share insights from those municipalities experienced from the customer point of view. As one of the resident CORR employees who, in a way, work for ourselves-paying City taxes that fund our salaries--I can report that we already have a varied perspective.
As a librarian, I would love to order every promising new book in all available formats--print, large print, audio CD, Playaway, ebook, digital audio, but the taxpayer in me vetoes the approach as budgetary folly (also, we're out of shelving space). And that nifty art database that my librarian persona would so enjoy? Not a cost-effective acquisition for a limited audience, says Taxpayer Me.
So the two of us especially appreciate endeavors like the Farm to Work program: City employees can purchase baskets of organic produce delivered to a convenient pick-up location each week. We pay a reasonable charge and enjoy having an instant selection of
in-season fruits and vegetables. Employee Me appreciates the freshness and one-stop shopping; Taxpayer Me applauds the notion that we City staffers will eat better, enhance our well-being, and trim health care costs.
As employer review websites like Glassdoor, Indeed, Jobitorial, and CareerBliss demonstrate, not all workplace initiatives anywhere merit in-house approval. Readers may, however, find it difficult to commiserate when a reviewer's biggest complaint is his/her company's failure to furnish all-day free snacks and meals, spa treatments, or pet-sitting, as some firms do. If CORR were to offer staff free lunches and breakfasts every day, I'd be torn-tempted to queue up for some of it, while my taxpayer persona took notes for a what-are-you-thinking letter to the City Manager.
Management tends to attract the most reviewer ire, a trend entertainingly mirrored in fiction successes of recent years: Joshua Ferris' Then We Came to the End, Richard Russo's Empire Falls, Lauren Weisberger's The Devil Wears Prada, and Kathryn Stockett's The Help, and so many others.
Leslie T. Chang observes in her article "Working Titles" in The New Yorker , "the Chinese, some of the hardest-working people on the planet" demonstrate a distinct spare-time reading preference for novels about the workplace.
As for the American fiction market, one forthcoming standout is actually a translation: Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage by Haruki Murakami. Tsukuru finds that achievement of a career doing what he has always dreamed of-designing train stations-does not guarantee happiness and fulfillment.
In Simon Wroe's debut, Chop Chop, the boss, a "culinary dictator", is the centerpiece of the narrative Publisher's Weekly recommends for "anyone with a taste for the morbid and whimsical". The Intern's Handbook by Shane Kuhn stars a hit man disguised as a company intern.
In A Highly Unlikely Scenario or, A Neetsa Pizza Employee's Guide to Saving the World, Rachel Cantor imagines a future ruled by fast-food conglomerates. Only a few brave souls can prevent them from completing the ruin of civilization.
One of them is a librarian. Her workplace probably advocates organic produce, too.
Right now, our new library building exists in that ideal theoretical dimension in which all things are possible and nobody's dreamed-of architectural vision clashes with anyone else's (or with functionality, for that matter). Once the project takes shape in more concrete ways, decisions will be informed by studies and observations of customer usage in the current facility and, of course, the additional needs and wants our patrons have mentioned.
Personally, I'd love to see a single-story plan.
With only one floor, we'd have no stairs or stairwells. Staffers are acclimated to the long flight of steps, navigating them multiple times daily, but customers tend to remark about the experience--after they catch their breath. And cell phone users must not have noticed how sound funnels upward all around the stairwell, amplifying very personal conversations for the benefit of second floor. Especially at the Reference Desk, we are treated to information best left un-broadcast.
Come to think of it, if I took notes, I'd never run short of material for National Novel Writing Month.
But comments from below can be delightful. Take last Wednesday morning: a first-floor mom, hoping to expedite the morning's agenda, focused her child's attention on selecting children's books to take home. But apparently the son or daughter had spied those stairs and inquired about possibilities overhead.
"Oh, it's just boring stuff up there", Mom explained, "Grownup stuff."
Mom anticipated the child's point of view; she doesn't really believe that a floor stocked with dozens of computers, live-person customer service, and thousands of books and magazines is boring. But if you're among those parents who lovingly devote their entire library visit to the kids' section, how would you even know?
The grownup floor is quieter (well, usually) but hardly a snooze-fest. Adults ask fewer questions, but those run the gamut of challenges faced by this demographic: writing research papers for distance learning courses, questioning which credit reporting sites to trust, crafting and updating resumes, and so forth. (Speaking of grownup issues, did you know that with the library's Law Depot online resource you can compose and print a basic will in about 15 minutes? Three of us here at RRPL have successfully done this recently. FYI: my bank's notary wasn't allowed to certify wills, but the UPS Store provides this service at a low cost.)
We've even heard adults clapping their hands and otherwise expressing childlike glee when they hear about upcoming releases of books by favorite authors. These titles are some I predict will be particularly well-received--as soon as we can get our hands on them:
Colleen McCullough's Bittersweet ("epic romance": remember The Thorn Birds? 8/19)
Haruki Murakami's Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and his Years of Pilgrimage (8/12)
Debut author Jessie Burton's historical fiction (17th century Amsterdam) The Miniaturist (8/26)
Quirk Books' latest: Horrorstor by Grady Hendrix (9/23)
Quirk Books products have circulated well at RRPL, and Library Journal gave Horrorstor a good review, but I admit that this one had me at the cover.
Remember when "binge" was a word we didn't take lightly?
Formerly, it applied to individuals straying into saloons or meeting with bad company and succumbing to more beverages than originally intended. Despite advice from embroidered samplers or wise elders, Moderation In All Things proved impossible just then. Such incidents were also called "sprees" (crime sprees were likewise deplorable--unlike shopping sprees, which are somehow cute. But I digress.)
While admitting the dangers of bingeing with drink or food, we recognize how perfectly that word encapsulates excess. So we borrow it for blithely self-confessed (thus excusable) overindulgences of all sorts. At Book Expo America this year, "binge-reading potential" was applied as a compliment for any author whose latest book keeps readers turning the pages well into the night or whose series tempt fans to consume one book after the other, like bon-bons.
The phrase would be music to authors' ears; for readers, it places us in good company. At my house, the sampler would read "Moderation Except Books, Chocolate, and Guacamole." But I don't embroider--I read. And lately my husband and I have also binge-watched House of Cards, thanks to the library's Season One DVD collection. The only reason we haven't zoomed through Season Two in a shockingly brief time span is that we're too frugal to buy the set and are waiting to borrow the library's copy.
Happily, delayed gratification isn't an issue with two forthcoming novels: Jane Smiley's Some Luck and Deborah Harkness' trilogy-concluding The Book of Life. Both copies accompanied me home from Book Expo.
Those of us fortunate to receive Harkness' book were asked not to comment on the story until July 15, so I won't (just know that you will not be disappointed.)
But here is the irresistible premise of Some Luck: First of The Last Hundred Years trilogy, the story spans 1920 to 1953, each chapter depicting one year in the life of the Langdons, an Iowa farm family. The trilogy will end with 2020: 100 years, 100 chapters. Incisively viewing social history as the Langdon's five children experience it, the story also brilliantly conveys family dynamics: parental preferences and expectations, implications of birth order, etc. Smiley's gift for interweaving both telling private moments and large-scale events produces an immersive reading experience.
And that's the problem-at least for me. Deeply engaged with the characters in Some Luck, I devoured it, staying up late one night and (thank goodness for weekends) resuming reading the next day, finishing before lunch. I wasn't prepared to part with the Langdons yet, but I couldn't restrain myself from following their fortunes as far as I could as soon as I could.
And now, the interval before the second book will be even longer because this was an advance reading copy.
What do we learn from my example? Probably nothing: I defy you to pace yourself sedately when you get your hands on Some Luck (which may happen for you sooner than the October publication; we'll be offering the autographed ARC as a drawing prize on Facebook sometime in the next couple of weeks).
We understand why library customers ask us The Question (how we
feel about “libraries going away now that we have ebooks and the
Earlier this week, one such inquirer stacked her pile of library books
on the Reference desk while she entered the drawing for this week’s Reader’s
Bonanza tote bag prize--these actions at least partially demonstrating why
ebooks don’t signal our demise.
This lady reads ebooks, too (thank you, Overdrive at RRPL!)
and probably enjoys the amazing convenience of the internet, as do library
staffers and many patrons. But the internet doesn’t answer all your
questions—the reason this valued customer came to the Reference desk.
And let’s not forget that library resources save their users a significant
amount of money.
Digital books and the internet aren’t library replacements—they
represent additional avenues of access for libraries to facilitate—along with
print, still preferred by an impressive percentage of readers. As
publishing options diversify and technology advances, everyone is
guessing how market shares and format preferences will evolve. The
only sure bet—my opinion--is that consumers aren’t thinking “instead of”; they
Librarians are not just OK with publishing upheaval, we tend to be
energized by it, perhaps more comfortable with the changes than our customers
are. When one works at a desk where anyone can approach at any time with
all sorts of questions, one learns to respond with “Hmmmm, let’s see…” rather
than “Oh, no!”
Other reasons for optimism:
The audio age: Audiobooks are
burgeoning in popularity. Library Journal reports a
confluence of factors-- longer commuting times, expanding variety, diversity in
audio formats, convenience of mobile devices—driving the current audio boom.
Audio Publishers Association observes that, “while other areas of the
publishing industry are shrinking, audiobooks are its fastest growing segment”
with, according to APA president Michelle Cobb, “an astonishing 83 percent
increase in audiobook titles produced just from 2011 to 2012”. Yesterday,
a customer who’s an audio enthusiast and I were dropping names of career audiobook
readers, some of whose reputations rival those of film stars. And you’d
be surprised how many celebrity actors (e.g., Bryan Cranston) also work as
Giveaway alert (especially if a road trip is in your future): The
library’s adult services department will offer a dozen unabridged CD audiobooks
as Facebook drawings and in-house “pop-up prizes” in the coming week.
The “buzz” factor: Physical books retain their
power to incite passion, acquisitiveness, and delight. Stephen
Colbert’s advocacy for Edan Lepucki’s forthcoming California will do
wonders for a debut author’s career—but Colbert also has a point to prove about
vendor responsibility toward customers.
At trade conferences like ALA and BEA, limited quantities of
pre-publication giveaway copies are scouted, coveted, and grabbed with alacrity
when the stacks materialize on the floor, signaling availability. Last month at Book Expo, I thought I’d missed
getting the ARC of Deborah Harkness’ The Book of Life, third in her
trilogy. Assuming this to be my due for
having once claimed I didn’t read vampire novels, I had resigned myself when a
colleague alerted me to the still-open autograph line and the last few copies,
after which I gleefully hugged the longed-for volume to my chest.
I hope no one saw that.
the weather like?” That’s the first question co-workers asked about New
York last week (I attended Book Expo America). Answer: “I wore my coat
the forecast for weeklong 70s, I packed light outerwear that made brisk walking
in that unexpectedly cool, windy spell a pleasure--not that I was merely
traipsing from Point A to Point B. Most of the time I hauled armloads of
books back to the hotel to stash in my luggage. Those
treasures and a 45-pound box of publisher giveaways and advance reader copies
shipped from BEA will furnish prizes for
grownup library customers during the "Mad About Reading" summer reading campaign. Check our Facebook
page and library homepage for details next week.
summer, when we held weekly drawings for literary goodies and hosted spontaneous
“Pop-Up Prize” giveaways at the reference desk, we relished seeing customers’
expressions change from puzzled to thrilled as we confirmed: “Take it--it's yours!”
to mind another rewarding variety of takeaway—candid gems from authors whose
work we cherish.
Journal-sponsored Day of Dialog in the McGraw-Hill building (50th
floor, nice view of the Empire State Building) featured practical discussions:
collection development, formats in transition, etc. But DoD is most known
for stellar assemblages of authors and publishers, all passionate about their
upcoming releases, their enthusiasm contagious. During
presentations--editors’ picks, cookbook trends, women fiction writers, key
contemporary authors—noted panelists offered up choice commentary:
Scottoline’s zingers broke up the room at frequent intervals. She
shared a favorite compliment, bestowed by a gentleman who claimed that he never
bought books authored by women: “You write like a man”.
who loves to visit libraries and has done so countless times, confessed, “I’m a
food writer/restaurant critic Mimi Sheraton, asked what inspired her 1000
Things to Eat Before You Die, smiled, “Well, what motivated me was making a
great deal of money.”
Schrager, author of Fried and True (an entire cookbook about fried
chicken) corrected the notion that this delicacy is of American, specifically Southern,
origin. The true birthplace of FC: Scotland.
the panel’s observation that “women’s fiction” is a label while “men’s fiction”
is not, Sophie Littlefield suggested this alternative: “Fiction
You Will Like”.
James, author of A Brief History of Seven Killings, recounted
anecdotes from his university teaching experience and admitted to a fascination
with the 1970s: “I just wanted to put my characters in polyester.”
Cain, her injured leg cushioned and propped atop a chair, garnered a roomful of
guffaws by announcing the title of her new thriller: One Kick.
which women authors deserved bigger audiences, the “Women Writing Fiction”
panel recommended these up-and-coming talents:
and Stephanie Perkins. The library has books by everyone on this list.
a memorable revelation not from Day of Dialog but overheard at Javits Center in the massive queue
awaiting an autograph and a moment with Cary Elwes of Princess Bride fame: “I missed a friend’s
wedding for this!”
In the run-up to Book Expo America next week, I'm doing my exhibitor homework: assessing which autographed publications and advance reader copies would most interest Round Rock readers.
Paula Daly, I note, has Keep Your Friends Close due out in September. Her suspenseful fiction debut, Just What Kind of Mother are You? has checked out briskly since we acquired it last fall.
That ARC created an awkward scenario, now comical in retrospect. The co-worker whom I elected Reader #2--after me-- was away at an outreach appearance. Rather than wait until our schedules coincided to hand off the copy in person, I propped it on the door frame, visible to anyone passing by.
Now imagine that you arrive at your workstation to spot an offering prominently emblazoned Just What Kind of Mother...?
Fortunately, this colleague (a) has a generous sense of humor and (b) is patently not a candidate for any degree of parenting criticism.
Not only do Daly's titles demand our attention, they also mimic popular nonfiction themes. We tend to deflect acquaintances' uninvited advice, but hints and tips packaged in snazzy covers by people unknown to us are practically irresistible.
Michael Korda's Making the List: A Cultural History of the American Bestseller 1900-1999 (recommended by the RRNN/Barnes & Noble book group) documents both fiction and nonfiction, but Americans' affinity for life-improvement strategies is clear. And purchasing trends in nonfiction mirror evolving society:
Choices scholarly by comparison to today: lots of memoir, history, poetry, biography. Yet Better Meals for Less Money and How to Live on Twenty-Four Hours a Day reflect modern sensibilities.
Notables include The Art of Thinking; Etiquette by Emily Post; Economic Consequences of the Peace by John M. Keynes.
More of what we now term "self-help" emerging: Live Alone and Like It and Orchids on Your Budget by Marjorie Hillis; You Must Relax by Edmund Jacobson; How to Win Friends and Influence People by Dale Carnegie.
Post-war, it's no surprise that How to Stop Worrying and Start Living resonated in 1948; in 1949, two of ten bestsellers were about canasta.
The desire for high-quality everyday living inspires several from Betty Crocker and Better Homes & Gardens; Look Younger, Live Longer by Gayelord Hauer; How to Live 365 Days a Year by John A. Schindler.
1960s and 1970s:
Cookbooks now focus specifically: dessert, salad, casseroles, bread, chicken. And then: Sex and the Single Girl, The Joy of Sex, The Hite Report, and Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex, but Were Afraid to Ask. Erma Bombeck (The Grass is Always Greener over the Septic Tank) scores multiple chart toppers.
1980s and 1990s:
These speak for themselves: Richard Simmons; Beverly Hills Diet; Bill Cosby; Robert Fulghum; "Your Inner Child"; Rush Limbaugh, "Juicing", Men Are From Mars, Who Moved My Cheese.
Finally, a few recent titles I've spotted that might, if left at your door, prompt examination of your co-workers' motives:
If I Were You
Now Look What You've Done
Decisive: How to Make Better Choices
Mother Nature is Trying to Kill You, and
Wear No Evil.
On those first Tuesdays when the library opens an hour later for all-staff meeting, we're almost never discussing what you'd think.
Literary chat would be fun, but other priorities rule the agenda. Administering an information/access/community center--the modern library model--demands customer service updates, new resource training, community awareness presentations.
This week's confab was special, marking our official transition into SRP Mode, best described as a state of high alert with moments of mild panic.
Michelle, our director, likens library summer reading programs to the retail world's Christmas--a potentially game-changing season fraught with conventional expectations and opportunities to innovate. New customers are attracted by SRPs, while current users anticipate another rewarding experience.
Hence, the flurry of questions: Did we order enough reading rewards for children? How will they know when they've qualified for one? Will the online registration work? What prizes will tempt grownups to complete a reading log? Will they like this year's mad scientist theme?
And this issue was tricky: how can everyone enjoy summertime when some define the ideal library visit as calm and thoughtful while others express high spirits in loud tones, sometimes romping around beyond a parent's field of vision?
Did we oversell the "second floor is the quiet floor" concept, and by directing phone calls, conversations, and general noisiness downstairs, foster the impression that first floor is "No Holds Barred" territory?
Our consensus: it's OK--considerate and responsible, in fact--to remind folks about library manners and the need for constant parental supervision in a highly public venue.
I work on the grownup floor and consequently admire the energy (and diplomacy!) required to manage the pleasant chaos resulting from large crowds drawn by summer performers. Still, as part of the team coordinating the adults' SRP, I envy the demographic perks of Youth Services' customer base.
Just think: children aren't encumbered by work responsibilities; grownups devote 40 potential reading and library-visiting hours to their jobs. Parents, mindful of the advantages of early literacy and summertime reinforcement, don't merely encourage library visits--they deliver and accompany their offspring!
The Adult Services audience, meanwhile, gets sidetracked by pesky non-library activities like the aforementioned employment, volunteer responsibilities, home and lawn maintenance, child care, meal preparation, bringing their young to children's programs...
Given our multitasking, responsible demographic, we appreciate each and every completed adult reading log and program attendee.
Not that grownups lack youthful tendencies. We observe "kid in the candy store" moments when overwhelmed adults ask for reading suggestions--"just a few, please!". Like the youngster who much prefers the sturdy packing carton to the shiny gift, a mature reader may bypass the new hardcovers and digital resources that we're most excited about, instead choosing a years-old paperback novel.
And grownups can put one in one's place almost as deftly as kids do. When a retired patron recently reported her 10-15 books per week average, I calculated my meager 1.5 for the past week (which included a book review deadline, work, houseguest). Answering my regretful "I didn't get through many this week", the customer huffed, "Well, I happen to think that reading is important!"
Ever had an unflattering photo making the rounds on social media? This happens to libraries, too. A valued (and justifiably frustrated) customer tweeted an image of the library's copy of Flowers for Algernon open to display facing pages, both thoroughly scribbled with blue ink.
Any parent would recognize the style as that of a child young enough to have believed that he/she was producing something pretty or entertaining. We expressed our regrets to the alert library patron and tagged the record so the damaged item can be taken out of circulation and replaced when it's returned.
These things happen. This anecdote doesn't just remind us what understanding customers we have; it also endorses the practicality of e-books. The library's digital books (Overdrive) are never late, lost, returned to the wrong library, or defaced.
On the other hand, library e-books frequently cost much more than the corresponding print editions, and some desired new titles aren't offered for library purchase and sharing, only to individual buyers. And, of course, so many backlist titles aren't available in digital format.
The perfect borrowing scenario (everything available for free on demand in pristine condition in one's preferred format) doesn't exist. But most of us appreciate and profit from the challenge of seeking out multiple formats. Readers who extol the convenience of collecting e-books and reading on mobile devices should certainly check out the library's Overdrive choices. If a particular title isn't offered there (or is checked out and you're in a rush), purchase from one's favorite online vendor may be the way to go. But remember: that title may be offered in print or audio at the library--at no cost to the borrower.
We've frequently chatted with customers who express delight with their e-readers--and then exit the library with an armload of print and possibly a Playaway or two.
In honor of National Poetry Month, here (with apologies to Robert Frost and his wonderful "The Road Not Taken") is my view of cost-effective reading: "The Savings Not Overlooked":
New novels were praised on a site I admire
But aware that if I bought them all
My wallet would suffer, I required
Of myself a solution, library-inspired
An alternative to financial downfall.
I then recalled Overdrive with borrowing free,
Which grants unto patrons a fourteen-day turn
With no risk of late fees. Then I could foresee
That no-cost e-reading would work handily---
No drawbacks or issues that I could discern.
But wait--for some titles, publishers may elect
To limit their access to just single buyers.
In which case it's savvy my search to direct
Back to print where there's frankly much more to select.
(If you read in both formats, success rates are higher.)
As for purchasing books: if they're masterfully penned,
Or for gifts or discussions, I'll pay Barnes and Noble
(Or Half-Price or Book Nook) glad, in the end,
For multiple options. What I recommend:
Exploit all resources--retail, print, and mobile.
April's first fifteen days may represent other priorities for you, but this is National Poetry Month. The Academy of American Poets website offers a multitude of ways to celebrate, including Poem in Your Pocket Day (4/24).
For an enjoyable and non-intimidating local occasion, consider the poetry reading at Round Rock Public Library. Co-sponsored by the Baca Center's Great Books Discussion Group and the library, this event features readings by poets and those who appreciate them. Each participant is invited to bring his/her own work or a favorite authored by someone else, well-known or otherwise (limit five minutes per speaker)--1:00 P.M. on Tuesday, April 29.
Having attended in previous years, I long ago put this on my calendar. And I am already scouting for my contribution (which probably should not be another Billy Collins selection, just to prove my awareness of other voices). As for the other option--presenting an original work--I annually consider and reject it for the benefit of all. This untitled composition explains why:
A poet lives inside each of us
some say; research has not proven otherwise.
But this line of inquiry bodes ill for me.
Confronted with the question by data-gathering types sporting lab coats and clipboards
I could only reply
(1) Evidently not, in my case
(2) Unless maybe one does--
unrecognizable as such
due to lack of talent
and a wretched sense of timing.
How else to explain the amalgam of
a mythic trickster
and a night-laboring elf
who ventures out of elected obscurity to engineer bizarre scenarios?
If I'm provisioned with a sparkling, quiescent page and comfortable chair
a setting meant to lure my thoughts into memorable self-revelation
this perverse force beams a defiant stare.
Elegantly miming a zipper sealing his lips, he retreats
perhaps pausing to brush the air with his clearly NOT ink-stained fingers, signalling later!
Or he may not. Regardless, he is gone. vanished. useless.
rested from non-exertion
he effects guest appearances on occasions
which I probably need not explain
require no creative expression and may only uncomfortably accommodate it.
He gleefully piles on evocative
in the conversational space allocated for one workmanlike noun:
shadows on neighbors' roofs
newly installed gardening mulch
comparative hues of paper being considered for promotional brochures.
In tribute to such commonplace views
something compels me to to spontaneously apply metaphors where labels should adhere
thus manufacturing poetry's unpopular distant cousin: TMI.
What if I never again bothered to bestow
a serene space
for my inner poet?
Fingertips on dust-furred tabletops
tapered twigs and an expanse of sand
a sad golf pencil and the back view of a grocery list:
only such grudging supplies
offered during hurried and inconvenient moments
would abet literary output.
Which would improve first--
For someone who pokes fun at shallow social networking relationships (one click and you're a "friend") I am awfully quick to claim comradeship with noted authors.
Without demonstrating equal talent, one can still bask in the approbation of kindred opinions.
Masterfully expressing viewpoints I share this week: Rebecca Mead and Annabelle Gurwitch. Mead's My Life in Middlemarch is balm for the souls of George Eliot admirers who love the notably lengthy Middlemarch, often dismissed as dry and irrelevant. Paralleling events and impressions from her own life with those of Eliot and her characters, New Yorker writer Mead conveys the novel's timeless appeal. But then, I've always been a fan.
Gurwitch's new essay collection on the perils of middle age-- I See You Made an Effort--has just fallen into my clutches, so I haven't spent quality time with it yet. Reviewers deem the edgy commentaries "rollicking" and "hilarious". In the library professions, aging is unfashionable these days, so I smiled to note Bob Odenkirk's assessment: "a book about the worst thing a person can do in America: get older".
Among Ms. Gurwitch's other writing and comedic accomplishments you may recall her stint as co-host of TBS' Dinner and a Movie a few years back--which represents a further opportunity for me to glom onto a proven concept: why not suggest themed pairings featuring library stuff?
Some of these resources will be new to your entertainment menu:
1920s DINNER AND DVD:
Try Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries, based on Kerry Greenwood's Phryne Fisher books, with high production values and authentic vintage costumes and settings. You can sample foods trendy in the Twenties (see Food Timeline). Or, search Los Angeles Public Library's Digital Menu Collection with date 192*.
THE ROCKWELL EXPERIENCE:
Read Deborah Solomon's new American Mirror: The Life and Art of Norman Rockwell and enjoy (what else?) Apple Pie; here you'll find step-by-step instructions, each stage illustrated.
WATCH YOUR LANGUAGE:
That's what Mango Languages calls its latest feature, classic films offered in conjunction with your language lessons.
The Saving Mr. Banks soundtrack CD set includes previously unreleased pre-demo recordings by the Sherman brothers. According to Richard Sherman, "Tuppence a Bag"/"Feed the Birds" was Walt Disney's favorite song. You could pair a project with Walt's pick: listen, then search the library's Hobbies & Crafts Reference Center for "bird feeders".
Read The Bohemians: Mark Twain and the San Francisco Writers Who Reinvented American Literature by Ben Tarnoff and savor some of Twain's favorite foods. According to Menus from History by Janet Clarkson, there were many; Twain's list from A Tramp Abroad includes at least three iterations of bacon, fresh seafood, a spectrum of the bread/pone/biscuit family, and "all sorts of American pastry".
Explore (book or audio CD) Talk Like TED: The 9 Public Speaking Secrets of the World's Top Minds, "the ultimate guide to public speaking"; then view a TED Joy of Eating segment.
Input "steampunk" in the library's Catalog Quick Search for a Steampunk fiction read. From there, consider the definition of "Steampunk Cuisine", perhaps even entertaining with "Tips for a Retro-Industrial Steampunk Party". And there's always RRPL's Small Engine Reference Repair Center...
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