The Slow Medical Drama that is Requesting a Physical Library Book

I do not watch The Pitt. I do not follow other medical dramas. I live them, vicariously and very, very slowly, through the borrowing of physical books from my local public library.

I will read something. A book. A column about books. Or perhaps someone will mention a book. My interest perks up, and I will reach for the public library app and search for that book. Perhaps fifty percent of the time the library has a physical copy, and I will place it on hold.

There's a slow excitement as the weeks tick by. I was number 129 for The Devils for much of 2025. Oh but how my excitement rose when that shifted into double digits in the first third of 2026. 

Next comes the faster excitement when the book moves from "Not ready" to "In transit." Once the physical book is in that part of the hold, I amuse myself by clicking "Check location availability" to see where the book is.

Most of that time it says, "CHECKED OUT". I can relate to that. I have been checked out of one thing or another for many years. 

Some times it says "TRANSIT HOLD" and I am enamoured of the mystery behind that phrase. Is the book in motion, moving from one location to another? Is the book pinned in one place, held? Quantum states and both at the same time? The more I stare at that phrase the more I assume I resemble Heisenberg's Uncertain Library Patron. I'm both waiting patiently for the book to move to me yet I am affecting its motion by observing it.

Today I learned of two additional status states that physical book might be in. I did not take screen captures of all of them. I wish I had. That would have added depth and verisimilitude to this post. I swear, though, that one book briefly provided its location as my local branch of the public library in my city. 

The next day, though, today, that switched to WORKROOM.

I don't like doing work. I am much better at doing play. The notion that this book, or any book, had a room devoted to work interested me, though. So while I was in my local branch I pestered one of the many very, very patient staff who put up with me.

I understand WORKROOM is where a book is placed when it needs some attention. A cut or a tear, perhaps. A bruised cover. A damaged spine.

I understood immediately. Physical books, like physical people, need physical attention. They need doctoring once in a while. WORKROOM is library speak for "this book is in the ER. We're going to try to save its life, as best as we can."

I nodded as this was explained to me, and returned to the waiting area where civilians must pace while the librarians work to repair the damage this cruel, harsh world inflicts on books. Oh, and people. But mostly books.

Hours later I cried. I have learned of a new status:

The book did not make it. DISCARD is a polite way of saying the book has been sent to the book morgue. Gone, leaving me to my lonely unfulfilled broken heart. It is my hope that the librarians may do a full autopsy and discover why this book died. 

I'm a realist, though, and I know that budget cuts and time constraints mean that sometimes we civilians will never learn what specifically sent this book to the afterlife. All we are left with afterwards is that final status of TRACE, vague and undefined, unknowable, un-located. The physical book has given up the ghost, and the only thing left are the moans and that haunting look from patrons who never got those final three weeks to read the book, then say goodbye. 

Identity, Authenticated by Friends

A friend and I were talking a few Saturdays ago. He mentioned that while he is looking forward to retirement one day, he is not sure what he would do. "My identity is tied to my job."

I do not feel that same way. 

I get what he meant.  Many people put a lot of time and effort into an education and then a career, and some are lucky enough to work at that career for a long time. I know of one man who worked for the federal government for thirty-seven years in more or less the same role, definitely the same department. 

Not all employers are that consistent nor enthusiastic. Not sure I ever want an employer determining when my identity changes.

Identity, tied into one's job, is a common trope. We identify characters in stories by their role as policeman or doctor or carpenter. "What do you do?" is a common enough question at parties when meeting someone. That phrase "what I do for a living" ties together life and action and identity.

I told my friend, "Your identity is not your job. Your identity is every single thing you've ever posted to the Internet, ever." (Hello 👋 government agencies building a file on me!). He smirked.

I do not believe that, either. I also do not believe that my identity is every book I have ever owned, not really. For example: some times a book is a gift, and you read it, and you think I really did not like that. The book doesn't reflect your values nor your interests. Is that still part of your identity? Is "negative identity" a thing, where one is identified by what one does not participate in? Is part of my identity the ideas I reject?

Substitute for book other story vehicles and art forms. My identity is not every song I have listened to, every movie or T.V. show or video clip I have every watched, every poster I have ever collected. All that stuff contributes to identity, of course. I know the lyrics and tune to O Canada much better than Ще не вмерла України і слава, і воля. That's tied to my identity as someone who went through the public school system in Canada and not Ukraine.

I like to think there's a part of me in everything I have ever written. Yet my identity (who I am) is not tied to my writing (the final product, the art I make). My art can get savaged by critics and rejected by agents and I am still me, uninjured. If no one reads what I write, I still exist. (I can tell because I still get hungry, still need to pay for rent, still want to write!) The art can go anywhere, and I have no control over where it goes. It might even burn into nothingness after a hard disk crash during a house fire. I am still writing. I'm still me.

As part of AAA, the Authentication piece I've implemented for some employers is built around three things when determining that Michelle really is who she says she is:

1. Knowledge Something one knows, like a password or PIN
2. Possession Something you have that can be thrown away after a limited time, like a card with a RFID chip as a hardware token
3. Inherent feature Something you have that is a lot harder to throw away, like your fingerprints or your retina pattern or your DNA sequence.

I believe a writer could be somewhat identified using these three items. Only one writer would possess that stack of notebooks with those scribbles and scratch outs. Only one writer would have the knowledge behind why "a lich wizard is restored to health by her fashionable clothing" seemed like a good idea for a story. Even if some other person could forge that knowledge and possess those notebooks, only the first writer would have the inherent tenacity to sit at a desk for two hours every evening for the month of November to produce those notebooks, gaining inherent back pain and RSI for her efforts.

I've been thinking about identity because I have an idea of a story where a wizard decides the path to immortality is to write her identity into a set of books, really smart books. Books smart enough that they start writing their own books, then start rewriting themselves. The wizard passes on but part of her identity remains in her books. These Arcane Intelligences (or AI agents) take on a "life" of their own. Not finished yet, that story.

I told my friend that my identity is constructed out of every good visit / beer / coffee / walk / dinner I have shared with a friend or a group of friends over the years. Later, I realized that all those friends could contribute to a web of trust identifying who I am. A guarantor on a passport helps to prove identity when requesting that hardware token made out of paper and government red tape. In the same way, my drinking pals confirm I am authentically who I say I am. As well as an authentic friend.  

At the time on that Saturday, I was thinking only of how I enjoy all those memories of all those good visits. We toasted each other with our pints and the afternoon was identifiably fine. 

Pick Up

I am a human being. I am not an AI agent. This means I have moods. 

I was walking home from the bus stop today in a mood of disillusionment. Yet again I was ruminating on all sorts of things outside of my control. Will the stuff I write ever be picked up? An agent, an editor, a publisher, beta readers, the mythical critique partner (or partners) who could constructively point out areas to improve and at the same time we encourage each other onward and forward: all of that seems hidden. A paying audience that reads my work with enthusiasm lays further away, dispersed and concealed. 

I mulled that over then imagined a lich, but not an evil one whose powers of resurrection and restoration arise after building a phylactery. I pictured an incredibly devoted and detailed-oriented wizard, well-dressed always, whose clothes put him back together after he died. He was restored to health by his wardrobe. Wardrobe here does not mean the piece of furniture. I mean his extended ensemble of all his fashions ever purchased or gifted or possessed. The Clothes Make The Man.

My disillusionment vanished in a snap.

Back to writing! This next story will be a hit, I am sure of it.