JofU - chapter 2
Up until about a month ago, I worked part time at the public library in addition to working at the bookstore. That was a lot of time to spend on helping people find books, especially people who didn't read normally and were only looking for a book that Oprah had told them about. I liked Oprah as much as the next person, but I'd have much rather been home watching Dawson's Creek reruns than helping Mrs. Ginsblatt find that new Da Vinci book everyone was talking about.
My main problem was that I'd have much rather been writing my own novel. I didn't want to help anyone find the new, hot book to read, I wanted to write it and THEN have someone else find it for them. I wanted Oprah to tell them they had to read my book or they wouldn't be allowed to watch her show anymore. I wanted this all to happen, but I didn't actually want to sit down and write the book. I had all these ideas bouncing around in my head, see, but I had never actually sat down and started typing.
I read all the books. Bird by Bird. On Writing. The Elements of Style. I had the grammar, the rules, the map down. I knew I probably shouldn't become an alcoholic or start doing cocaine, and the only thing I should become addicted to was caffeine, but I just couldn't get started.
When I did start writing, it was usually because I'd had either too much alcohol or too much caffeine. But when I got to that point, I usually couldn't spell or type very well so it never amounted to much. Also, whenever I imbibed too much alcohol or caffeine, it was usually late at night while watching TV, and it was really hard to write while watching reruns of The X-Files (even the bad ones) or old movies with Cary Grant and Katherine Hepburn.
Meanwhile, I was working two jobs where I had to help clueless morons find books that they probably wouldn't read once they got home and realized they could rent the movie instead. Every week, it was some new letdown. Last week a man had come in asking for To Kill a Mockingbird.
"Of course, sir," I said. "Right this way."
I led him to the K-O aisle of fiction. I had a photographic memory and since I'd been working at the library for two months, I had the entire thing mapped in my brain.
"Harper Lee, right here," I pointed proudly.
The man, portly and mutton-chopped, nodded and smiled. He scratched his stomach and I worried that his shirt would ride up and display a patch of pasty skin littered with coarse hair.
"I love that Gregory Peck," he said.
"Gregory Peck?" My brow was furrowed. My brow furrowed every hour at this place. I was going to have wrinkles by the time I was 23.
"Oh yeah," he nodded. "Good old Alfred Fitch."
"Atticus Finch?" I asked.
"Oh. That's what I said."
"Sir," I began, wondering how to handle this without letting him know how absolutely idiotic I thought he was. "These are the books. The videos are over there," I pointed.
"Oh," he said. He glanced in the direction I was pointing. "I know, I, uh, just wanted to, you know, compare." He grabbed a copy of To Kill a Mockingbird from the shelf, knocking several of its siblings on the floor, and beelined to the movie section. I sighed and bent down to pick up Harper's fallen comrades.
It wasn't that I was a total book snob. I loved the movie To Kill a Mockingbird almost as much as the book. But that man . . . he thought the main characters name was Arthur Fitch. Arthur Fitch. It made my brain hurt.
I quit that job a few weeks later, when someone asked me where "that little woman book by Winona Ryder" was.
My main problem was that I'd have much rather been writing my own novel. I didn't want to help anyone find the new, hot book to read, I wanted to write it and THEN have someone else find it for them. I wanted Oprah to tell them they had to read my book or they wouldn't be allowed to watch her show anymore. I wanted this all to happen, but I didn't actually want to sit down and write the book. I had all these ideas bouncing around in my head, see, but I had never actually sat down and started typing.
I read all the books. Bird by Bird. On Writing. The Elements of Style. I had the grammar, the rules, the map down. I knew I probably shouldn't become an alcoholic or start doing cocaine, and the only thing I should become addicted to was caffeine, but I just couldn't get started.
When I did start writing, it was usually because I'd had either too much alcohol or too much caffeine. But when I got to that point, I usually couldn't spell or type very well so it never amounted to much. Also, whenever I imbibed too much alcohol or caffeine, it was usually late at night while watching TV, and it was really hard to write while watching reruns of The X-Files (even the bad ones) or old movies with Cary Grant and Katherine Hepburn.
Meanwhile, I was working two jobs where I had to help clueless morons find books that they probably wouldn't read once they got home and realized they could rent the movie instead. Every week, it was some new letdown. Last week a man had come in asking for To Kill a Mockingbird.
"Of course, sir," I said. "Right this way."
I led him to the K-O aisle of fiction. I had a photographic memory and since I'd been working at the library for two months, I had the entire thing mapped in my brain.
"Harper Lee, right here," I pointed proudly.
The man, portly and mutton-chopped, nodded and smiled. He scratched his stomach and I worried that his shirt would ride up and display a patch of pasty skin littered with coarse hair.
"I love that Gregory Peck," he said.
"Gregory Peck?" My brow was furrowed. My brow furrowed every hour at this place. I was going to have wrinkles by the time I was 23.
"Oh yeah," he nodded. "Good old Alfred Fitch."
"Atticus Finch?" I asked.
"Oh. That's what I said."
"Sir," I began, wondering how to handle this without letting him know how absolutely idiotic I thought he was. "These are the books. The videos are over there," I pointed.
"Oh," he said. He glanced in the direction I was pointing. "I know, I, uh, just wanted to, you know, compare." He grabbed a copy of To Kill a Mockingbird from the shelf, knocking several of its siblings on the floor, and beelined to the movie section. I sighed and bent down to pick up Harper's fallen comrades.
It wasn't that I was a total book snob. I loved the movie To Kill a Mockingbird almost as much as the book. But that man . . . he thought the main characters name was Arthur Fitch. Arthur Fitch. It made my brain hurt.
I quit that job a few weeks later, when someone asked me where "that little woman book by Winona Ryder" was.
posted by Jennie at 1:44 AM
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