But even helping in small ways was crucial, especially then a little tech assistance, kind attention, and temporary shelter could go quite a long way.
Not help them in big, permanent ways-that was largely beyond our scope at the library.
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I felt invigorated by these encounters-even the troubling ones-which gave me windows into others’ lives, and taught me, slowly, how I might help them. There were some patrons I only encountered once: the woman with impaired vision who called me a “doll baby” after I helped her scan and send two documents the man who became belligerent when I said he couldn’t sell DVDs to the library, only donate them the elderly patron who asked if I thought it was safe for him to get a flu shot despite the burning pains in his arms and legs. I took more pride in that work than I probably should have, but it felt good, after my own creative failure, to create something for someone else, something they cared about, however random the content seemed. She had me arrange these in a careful collage before printing them-in color, of course. It was surprisingly good, at least for the first few sips).Īnother regular, who came in person, brought images on her phone: stock photos of funny cats and dogs, a random shot of a ceiling light fixture, pictures of Disney princesses. Brown’s Celery Soda in town (I sought the soda out myself and tried it. Alternately, he had me search for obscure 1950s memorabilia, and once he had me track down a place where he could buy Dr. Car Show Man wanted me to read him the schedule of upcoming car shows in the area. I would say, “Coming right up,” and we’d chuckle together before he asked me to look up a phone number for him. There was Breakfast Man, for instance, who called every Friday with an order: two eggs over easy, a side of bacon, hash browns, and lightly buttered toast.
Of the calls we received, very few were actually reference-related, but I’d already grown accustomed to that. I worked at the Reference Desk, and mostly answered phone calls, as many patrons were still wary of coming in person. I had my own private, puny sorrow-one that hardly mattered in the grand scheme of things, but wrecked me all the same: I’d written a second novel that no one wanted to publish. Who needed writing anyway, in this tumbledown world? I tried to put it out of my mind. I was glad to have what felt like a noble purpose to be of use. We were one of only a few institutions open to the public at the time it was us, the hospitals, and grocery stores. While I noticed sparrows and starlings in the trees, and the bright sparkle of the sun-dappled river, I felt an instant uplift at the prospect of frequent work: I would be distracted from my troubles, I would make some much-needed money, and I would serve the public, who were greatly in need. It was a relief to step out of my house, and out of my wallowing state of mind, to walk to work along the path to town. In my previous life, I would have hesitated over losing precious writing hours, but now I gave a quick, emphatic yes, and began working more often. Some staff members were-understandably-concerned about returning to public-facing work, so she needed others to step in. My toxic internal voice told me I’d ruined everything with this failure of mine-and I firmly believed it.Īround this time, my supervisor at the library called to ask if I’d be willing to take on more hours. I told myself I would never write another book again-much less sell one-and that our family would lose our hard-won house, have to leave town, and move in with my husband’s parents, who lived on the opposite coast. That gave me some comfort, but still, I suffered, and became insufferable, even to myself. I knew rejection well by then, of course, having been a writer all my life, but because this failure followed a successfully published first novel, it pierced my thickened skin. I was told by numerous well-meaning writer friends that books failed to sell all the time, even books by writers I knew and revered. In the midst of this, I had my own private, puny sorrow-one that hardly mattered in the grand scheme of things, but wrecked me all the same: I’d written a second novel that no one wanted to publish. It was a tumultuous time: the world was reeling from COVID-related chaos, illness, and death, and our country was beginning to reckon, finally, with racially motivated murders by police. In September of 2020, I started working more regularly at my local library, and not exactly on purpose.
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