One of the real adventures I've discovered in promoting my first book, is much of it has nothing to do with explicit promotion. It's bigger than this one book or me. It's about the discipline of writing, and protecting the writer's ability to keep writing. That protection extends to supporting programs that support tomorrow's writers, contributing to writer friends' Kickstarter/GoFundMe/IndieGogo campaigns, taking the time to read drafts and drafts of other writers' manuscripts (THANK YOU to all who have labored through my drafts!), going to readings, and advocacy.
Speaking specifically of "advocacy", I wish I could say I do more than "like" the odd Facebook status or re-tweet a friend's 140-character petition, but I realize I need to, particularly when it comes to our libraries.
When I can get it together to leave the house early enough, I spend time before work writing at the library near my job. I've done this for the past two years, enjoying the benefit of free wi-fi, and air conditioning/a warm space--and observing one of the results of the push to get the homeless/mentally ill off the streets into temporary shelters, without finding a lasting solution as far as adequate housing and mental healthcare. The homeless/mentally ill hang tough at and near my library, guarding chairs in the outdoor seated area, or waiting patiently in line for the doors to open at the sister library across the street at 8:30a every morning, irrespective of the weather.
When the doors open, they fall into seats and alternately proceed to read, sleep, clean up in the bathroom, surf the net, or just exhibit "crazy" behavior. One spring morning, I decided to have my "room of one's own" moment on the picturesque library steps, under an awning of blossoming trees. As I pulled my laptop open, a woman across the way pointed at me. I initially pointed to myself, using my hands to ask "you talking to me?" I checked my seat. Nothing weird on it or around it. I looked up--no pigeons. Then I ignored her, waiting for the angelic "ah" of my computer's on state; but she advanced, continuing to point.
"You sit there." She said a few times, until I realized I didn't want to wait to see what she would do if I did indeed continue to sit there. So I got up and scooted to the stacks across the street. I handed my bag over for inspection by a security guard before passing the check-out line and an old "read" poster of Daniel Radcliffe. Then I took my seat amongst a mix of people alternately tap-tapping at their laptops, guys playing computer games on old library machines, students sifting through stacks of research tomes, and homeless people. On one occasion, I was writing in the library after work, when I noticed a sketchy couple disappear into the bathroom together for a while, lovers-quarrelling in loud whispers when they finally emerged.
After sending a few tweets about my crazy/funny library experiences, my personal chuckle turned to panic.
Between the old school check-out process, ancient library computers, and the homeless peeps, it became clear to me that we could lose the library. If libraries continue to remain a relic of my '80s childhood, and a de facto shelter, they could be the next casualty in the endless war to cut programs and services that benefit those who don't have libraries in their homes, or can't afford a venti latte at Starbucks.
As I reread this, I feel like the woman in the park was warning me. "You sit there," she was saying, and watch what happens--or get up.
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