Like many others in Minneapolis, I adore the public library. I have built a queue of books on my “Request” list that rivals that of my Netflix queue. Whenever I hear about a new book I want to read, I search for it on the library’s online catalog, accepting in advance that I will most likely have to add it to my list of requests.
I patiently wait. “Oh, look,” I might think. “I’m now number 128 on the list for that novel. I remember when I was 234. Progress!”
The result of all this requesting is that books tend to come in every week. Sometimes it is one per week, sometimes six will somehow show up, like a book landslide. “Watch for books falling from your queue list.”
As a result of all this reserving, queuing and holding, I’m somewhat of a regular at my neighborhood branch. Granted, I don’t hang out there reading People Magazine or the newspapers. I don’t secret myself away in one of the window nooks to do “research” while hacking into a handkerchief. I don’t sit on the computers on a beautiful summer afternoon searching Google for images of Jennifer Lopez or the cast of Jersey Shore.