“In a library, no empty shelf remains empty for long.”

Alberto Manguel, The Library at Night

Rick Riordan's Sea of Monsters is the book that made me fall down the middle school stairwell. No bruises, thankfully. I was uncontained in sixth grade. Giddy and tactless, too. I remember screaming in delight when the library called my English teacher to say the book was ready for pick-up. I'd waited nearly three weeks for the sequel to Percy Jackson and the Lightning Thief to come home with me, and due to popular demand, the series was rarely on the shelf in order, together. Someone was always waiting for one part or another. Though I admit, my favourite part of borrowing a book was writing my name down on the circulation card.

A refresher for those who need it: “Library circulation cards remain in the library when a book is borrowed, and may contain the name of the person who borrowed the book. For cards or slips that remain in the book when it is borrowed and only list the date the book is due to be returned.”¹ 

I learnt at a young, nosy age that these cards revealed quite a bit of information about the book and those who once held it. One, you could tell how popular a book was by the number of names and dates on the card. Two, you could see who read fast, who took their sweet time, or who held on to it for an irresponsible and unethical amount of time. And you could judge them a little for it. At the same time, these cards are mysterious by nature. Aside from everyone’s government names and the time stamps, of course. We will never know why a book was returned faster, or renewed, or never picked up. Once the book reaches its person, it dissolves into their world, their routines and their habits. The book and the circulation card are the living evidence of an invisible, shared experience.

The library hold, as we may call this, is a tiny, somewhat mundane lesson in public life. It is one of the few remaining places where private ownership falls apart in the face of temporary possession. We cannot place an instant order on our desire and receive it within three to five business days. We must wait. And waiting is everywhere. Cafe lines. Concert lines. Club lines. Boarding lines. Even when there are no physical lines, we are still waiting. Packages. Books. Takeout orders. Digital waitlists. Meetings. 

But the library hold feels different to me, because the thing we are waiting for is busy keeping someone else busy. Someone else has it. Someone else is reading it. Someone else is deciding when they are finished with it.

The average, most sensible person knows that it takes time to get things, see things, feel things, and experience things. This life is slow. As fast as we may want it to go, and in whatever ways our bodies have already evolved to optimise itself in the age of accelerated tech, life continues to remind us how slow it can really go if we let it.

Ironically, for this piece, I spent a day in my local public library. I figured, what better way to write about the library than inside of one? But this place has always been special to my heart, the YA (Young Adult) room specifically, because it is where I first dreamt of becoming a writer.

After sorting through some rough ideas, I made my way to the front desk with my pocket notebook and a pen (like a true journalist) for a fun, social experiment. There, I introduced myself to the librarians, Marion and Megan. After one look at Marion, upon my return, I thought, Oh, she’s still here.

She doesn’t know me, but I know her.

She sat with her perfectly dolled-up hair, her raspy voice resembling Wanda Sykes’s if it were two octaves lower, and her fresh set of long, blue nails, like she had done for years.

Megan, a red-headed young woman, seemed less enthusiastic about my proposal of interviewing them for a piece I was working on. Marion was decades older and grinned when I finished asking them what their experience with holds in the library was like and what trends they were seeing. After being dutifully prompted by Marion, Megan spoke first, despite the coy nerves clearly visible on her face. She spoke about how the requests for books were mostly deadline-oriented: book reports, book clubs, or academic projects. I then asked her: “In this specific branch, what are the top three books on hold?”

Megan searched across her screen for a minute.

1. 1. 1. Calamity Club by Kathryn Stockett

      2. Yesteryear by Caro Claire Burke

      3. Whistler by Ann Patchett

Perhaps it was the rush of information flooding her database, but Megan became more comfortable and physically oriented herself towards me as she told me some people, before they place a hold, call to ask how long the list is before they decide if it is worth the wait. Calamity Club, for example, has 219 people in line.

I repeated the number out loud, in shock, and truly wondered if I would have placed an order online to purchase the book if I knew I was going to be number 220. I would have, to be completely honest. Marion interjected to say the hold is dependent on many scenarios.

After listening to her reasoning, I deduced three possible dependents on how this invisible queue moves.

1. 1. 1. How fast someone reads, or how slow.
         219 people have to confront the fact that they are unaware of each other’s reading habits.

      2. The number of copies each branch receives.
         This is dependent on budgets and the size of each branch. Each branch could get maybe ten copies; some get more, some get less. There are thirteen branches in my county.

      3. How quickly someone decides to bring the book back.

The additional point I suggested was integrity. When a book is in high demand, there is no option to renew. If the person chooses to keep it past the due date, they would be fined. Some fear fines. Some look at it as a minor inconvenience. In any case, the book does not control who holds it, how long it is kept for, and how it is read. It arrives at the return bin at the local library, waiting for someone new to write their name on the circulation card.

It’s a precious thing, waiting. Something we rarely look at with compassion.

I think about how authors have no idea how many people are waiting for copies of their book. They may never know that someone has called the front desk to calculate their chances of getting it. They have no idea that 219 people have already decided that waiting is worth it.

When I was in sixth grade, I was waiting for Sea of Monsters, though the older I get, the less patient I become. But now, as someone who still dreams of becoming a traditionally published author, I think about the other side of the wait.

To be an author in this consuming age of genie-like instant gratification, and to have 219 people waiting for your book at the public library, is a new metric of success I want to add to my future author aspirations—regardless of whether the book was mandatory for a school report or not.