The librarian writer

I am a writer. I am librarian. I like books.

Honestly, I like books a tad too much. During college, I did a summer abroad in Paris. I added French as a major pretty much so I could justify this study abroad. This awesome outdoor used-book sale popped up on the streets of Paris at one point. I was in heaven. I found all these beautiful, well-aged, and well-loved books. I pictured my grown-up library filled with all these magically adorable books of complementary colors and sizes in English and French and whatever other languages I learned. The most visually pleasing and intellectually stimulating conglomeration of books imaginable would sit on the shelves of my library and announce that I was sophisticated. Une amoureuese de livres (sixteen years later this library has yet to materialize—I keep collecting books for it anyway.) I had this armful of charming books, more than I needed or could reasonably carry and approached the cash register. I set my books carefully down. 

I said something totally inspiring like “J’aime bien les livres.”

And the cashier responded, “c’est une bonne maladie.”

It’s a good sickness. 

This little phrase stuck with me all these years later. I love books, reading them, recommending them, discussing them, and writing them. Sharing books is in my soul

I love to learn and books make things discoverable that may not otherwise be feasible. We explore the unexplored, benefiting from other people’s experience and imaginations. 

Too much of a good thing

When I started taking serious forays into writing, I was reading 5-10 books a week. Books of varying lengths and genres. I would find an author I liked and read everything I could get my hands on—which was whatever I could find through my local libraries. I was listening to audiobooks all day long. Brandon Sanderson, Georgette Heyer, Sarah J Maas, and bajillion or two more. Patrick Rothfuss, I am still waiting!!!

You may not have noticed this, but there are only twenty-four hours in a day. I was listening ten+ hour books in one day. That’s kinda a lot. I was still doing all the things that to get done: laundry, making meals, taking my kids to the park, etc, but I was only half-present.

My husband, as an internal medicine resident, worked twelve-fourteen hour days, twelve days in a row, with a two day break in between another twelve days. I had no family in the area and no friends. I was isolated with two young kids. It was like managing an understaffed retail store without any support from corporate or adequate supplies. I got some relief when I left for my job as the evening shift librarian at the local community college, but it also cut into the few hours I saw my husband, my best friend. Books were my lifeline, my flotation device. They kept me afloat but didn’t help me out of the water. They were my crutch to get through a difficult period of my life.

I can see now how disengaged I had become. I forgot how to live in the moment. I was with my kids all the time but wasn’t all that present. I was not neglectful. I still got my kids food. I still read to them. We still had random dance parties and played pretend ninja battles. I enjoyed being with them and love my kids. But parenting is hard. I used escapism to combat the gnawing loneliness and isolation.

I had to let go of the crutch before I could walk on my own. I had to drop my lifeline and swim to shore on my own, but this took time. I could have made my situation better in a lot of ways. I had options for friends, I simply wasn’t the best at initiating contact. I wanted friendships to simply fall into my lap without any effort on my part.

I wasn’t miserable. There’s a lot I look back at with fondness during my time there, but I can also see that my all-consuming reading habit was not conducive to creating healthy relationships. I wrote my first book with this same frenetic, obsessive intensity. I am grateful for that story, for the drive I had to complete it. I am also grateful for developing a healthier work/life balance in the years since then.

I love books. I still read an absurd amount, but in a healthier way. I ‘unplug’ from reading or listening to truly engage with my family. I listen to audiobooks or podcasts while folding laundry, loading the dishwasher, or other boring tasks that come my way. But I let myself be fully present too. Life is about balance. I find when I’m working on a new book, it helps if I read non-fiction: history, writing, productivity, parenting, other self-help books maintain my attention while teaching me new things, but don’t ‘hook’ me to the same extent as fiction.

And the awesome thing about living a more present life?

It made me a better writer.