Limestone City

Today I stood on the library steps under a cloudless blue sky. I looked down towards the lake, just visible, like a bright beacon of blue, past the brick and concrete buildings and the green dome of St. Georges. It’s the tail end of summer, but all I could see was a swirl of stinging snowflakes, and Frederick, his heart thudding like a missed train. There he stands, his overdue books tumbled on the steps, their covers obscured by snow. There he stands, his left shoulder registering his recent collision with the librarian. Like a memory, I can see it and feel it, and I reach to pull my fictional scarf up around my sun-blessed face.

“The Ghetto”

After only two nights in Limestone City I can see what Frederick Madrigal neglected to tell us. Whole streets, whole blocks, whole neighbourhoods are filled with student housing. He didn’t ever remark on the number of nineteen-year-olds lounging on porch roofs. He overlooked the awe-inspiring debris of trashed furniture on sidewalks and in driveways: broken pressboard shelving, soggy sofas, tilted lamp stands. He did not once count the number of empty pizza boxes overflowing their recycling containers. He steadfastly turned his gaze away from such vast quantities of beer bottles, cans, and kegs—more on view in 24 hours than I have seen, I think, in my entire life.

Librarians

I can’t let her go. Today, with all the pieces in the right order, I put the librarian back in. Even if the only reason to do so is that you can’t have libraries without books, and you can’t have libraries without librarians. Perhaps there should be a librarian in every book. It is like I am wearing a placard and marching on Parliament Hill: “Save Our Librarians!” Even in the rain.

Winter and Spring, Still at It

Like the worms, I’ve snuck up out of the ground during warm weather and crawled across the pavement—but I’ve been distracted by watching anxiously for birds. Like the worms, I’m going back underground until the frost is well and truly history. Some things need to be created in the dark, and Frederick’s betrayal is one of them. I’ll keep the curtains closed in The Room, and see how much dirt can be transformed.

Finding Spring

Purple and yellow crocus and tiny white snowdrops litter parks and front yards as if spring has truly arrived. On overcast days, like this one, they are closed up tight awaiting the sun. In reality spring seems reluctant to appear, and when she does she is spooked by her own shadow. Inside my head, Frederick and Arbour both search in all the known hiding places, and—look!—spring is finally found in bed with winter, naked as the day she was born.

Winter

It’s just cold, windy, white, and barren. There’s less to say about the writing when every word has to be forced out, a slow drip…drip….drip under an overcast sky that freezes instantly on the page. I can’t melt the ice. Even my breath is too cold and too fleeting.

Cuts

The librarian is gone. This is a sadder cut for me than the others—something about losing that scene where Frederick bumps into her on the library steps in a snowstorm, something about the blinding snow, something about the cold air, something about how we don’t see what we’ve run into until, so often, it’s too late… We’ll see how Frederick gets on without her. We’ll see whether I can really let her go.

Flow

The Tome has come back to me on the one month anniversary of my confinement. It looks fresh, inviting, alluring, seductive. It looks remarkably like a book I have never read before. It looks like a book whose rainbow pages—you never know—might just be in the best order. It sits on the coffee table, hefty and contented, looking as if everything is possible.

Too Many Books?

Some amount of serious distraction has occurred over the past few days, for life-altering reasons (watch for an announcement in the coming weeks) but I’m back at it now. It appears I have been at this mammoth editing task for over a month, since many of the books on order that I Suspended thirty days ago at the library have taken up residence on the Hold Shelf. Apparently there are nine there now, and several others In Transit. Luckily, as a library volunteer, I am Immune to Fines.

Crowded

I have reason to believe I’m getting close. Call it intuition. Call it corroboration (my reader sends back a favourable review.) Call it being crowded. These last few days I have had both Frederick and Arbour in my head, jostling each other, elbow into rib cage. Like me, Arbour is impatient, and wants Frederick to be gone; Frederick, being Frederick, moves over politely and tries to get his knee out of the small of her back. They are such different people. One wonders what they find to talk about.