Category: Reading
Monday, Mar 9, 2026 | Big Thoughts, Books, Library, Lists, Reading, School, Space, Teaching, Work, Writing |
What’s a library for?
I wrote this reflection last fall, as I was preparing to “retire” from my school library job to return to writing fiction full-time. I worked in the same library for two years, at a relatively small elementary school (about 275 students), with a relatively small collection (about 8,000 resources, mostly books). The school was small enough that I learned every student’s name, and their borrowing habits, reading levels, likes and dislikes. My thoughts on how the space was used, and what a school library is for, changed and expanded during those years, as I had the privilege of observing and experiencing how students and teachers related to the space.
A library is many things.
It is a room full of books, tangible resources whose information can indeed feel out of date almost instantly in a digitally connected world; but whose resources nevertheless belong to a technology that has persisted across centuries. Of all the technology in this room, almost nothing is older and more lasting than the book.
On the fiction / picture book side of the library, there are classic texts that continue to speak across the years to readers young and old. And new and contemporary writers and illustrators have contributed to diversifying the cast of characters and variety of stories and perspectives that reflect the makeup of our school communities here in Kitchener-Waterloo. The expansion of graphic novel publishing makes rich, complex narratives accessible to older readers whose literacy levels have been impacted by the pandemic. So — the library is its books and stories.
The library is also a compact between the borrower and the institution, which represents the goodwill and goals of the wider, civic community. In my experience, this is its primary value, which underpins all the other benefits of regular library-use in schools. The library is a collective civic resource. Every student in the building may borrow books to bring home, share with family members, and then return so that someone else can read them next. This creates a circle of responsibility and care. Borrowing and caring for a book is a tangible means of expressing belonging to a larger community. Lending a book expresses the community’s trust in an individual’s capacity to learn how to take responsibility for communal goods. It’s an offering on both sides of participation — and it’s a rare example of reciprocity in practice, in our education system. The stakes are relatively low. A book is valuable, but can be replaced, though not easily (budget restraints are real). So, time is spent teaching book care, reminding students of their responsibility to look after the books in their care, and underscoring the importance of sharing resources with others — in a library, we actually get to see how that works, and practice our skills at caring for a communal good.
To be honest, reciprocity was not the element that immediately jumped out at me when I started working in the library. But I’ve come to think of it as being revolutionary and foundational. If the medium is the message, a library book says: this belongs to all of us. And what does that message mean to you as an individual? How do you relate to it?
But also — what does that message mean to the wider community? I think this is where politics have come in, and the wider community may have minority objections to the content being offered inside the books themselves; content isn’t neutral, even if the technology in some way is agnostic.
What I especially appreciated about my role as caretaker of the books was that there were many opportunities for repair, literally and figuratively. I promised the students that they could tell me anything — baby sibling ate a corner, Mom spilled coffee, I ripped a page, I think the book’s at grandma’s, etc. — and I thanked them for their honesty and explained that I would do my best to fix what was broken. I celebrated every “lost” book that was found. Learning how to care for something means making mistakes sometimes. Owning up to a mistake and learning how it can be addressed, even if not fully repaired, changes one’s mindset, at least a little bit. (Maybe this also sums up my parenting philosophy: to become/be trustworthy, you have to know/believe that you are trusted … even if you haven’t quite earned that trust yet.)
Other elements of library life that have stuck with me include
— the opportunity to share stories with students, including mirroring back experiences for students who may not see themselves and their experiences reflected in cultural material often
— the opportunity to invite deeper discussion of real-life issues, concerns and experiences (death, holidays that others celebrate, peace, war, indigenous stories and values)
— the opportunity to create a peaceful environment in which students can rest their minds and bodies
— an opportunity to connect the resources in the library to the larger world on a regular basis with displays and story-time book choices and selections for teachers
— an opportunity to provide a weekly mini-field trip within the school, a special time for students and teachers alike to get a break from the regular routine
— the opportunity to provide space for creative expression, crafts, book clubs, library helpers, etc (though that proved a challenge given the time constraints)
All for now.
xo, Carrie
PS Writing fiction full-time these past number of months has been AMAZING. And I miss the students and the library a great deal. Both/and … I am learning to accept that to do something I love requires surrendering to it fully, and that means not getting to do other things that I also love. Choice is important, necessary, sometimes painful, and I’m grateful to have the luxury to choose.
Saturday, Aug 23, 2025 | Adventure, Art, Backyard, Birthdays, Books, Chores, Dream, Driving, Exercise, Family, Friends, Fun, Holidays, House, Job, Mothering, Peace, Photos, Reading, Source, Space, Spirit, Summer, Writing, Yoga |
Back yard, new “room,” eldest used this a lot to hang out with friends. Eldest is moving to Montreal in less than a week to start an MA at Concordia (in English Lit!).
We made the annual trip to the farm, a bit later than usual, because a) I got sick as soon as school ended and b) the youngest had a soccer tournament. So this marks mid-July. No homework was burned, but we had a lot of fun playing Dutch Blitz around the kitchen table. We filled the bedrooms and a tent. It was ridiculously hot.
Our first week at the cottage. I’d gotten a reasonable amount of writing / editing done during the week between farm and cottage, so I didn’t put pressure on myself to do a lot of “work.”
We hosted guests — family — and we squeezed a lot of people into what amounts to 3 bedrooms and a bunkie. Still very hot. Ideal for kayaking and swimming. I got some good thinking done while out on the lake. Returned home inspired and with a map for finishing the final third of Begin.
Immediately upon returning home from the cottage, I did a mountain of laundry and didn’t unpack my bag. Took off solo to stay at a friend’s cottage for a few nights. She made me dinner, and I spent an entire day (and evening) writing. Made enormous progress. Ate really good vegan meals. Soaked in Lake Huron. Forgot to take photos. I woke early on the final morning and sat in bed reading Jane Smiley’s A Thousand Acres till it was time to sort myself and head home. Lots of reading this summer. Reading upon waking is such a summer luxury … could be a Saturday luxury too, now that I think of it. What translates from summer to fall?
This will seem like a minor accomplishment, but I am very proud of the fact that I cleaned the front porch. It was a boiling hot day and I scrubbed green mold till it was (mostly) gone. In the proud-of-it category, I also helped my mom with her move home after months at a rehab hospital, and took my dad to a bunch of medical appointments, and got my youngest up to camp for a counsellor-in-training program, and went to the dentist. I did not get a new job (despite some efforts in that direction; as I approach a return to the library this Monday, I’m feeling like all has turned out as it should).
Got my youngest back to camp for a week of practicum. Saw a lot of rural Ontario from inside an air-conditioned vehicle this summer.
My second youngest celebrated a big birthday, several times over. There was the ice cream sandwich celebration. There was also the family dinner out celebration and the made-her-own-birthday cake celebration, and probably a few more I’ve forgotten. She will be living at home this fall, going into her third year of university. We’ll have a small cohort of the two youngest kids and the middle-aged dog, and hopefully a lot of their friends will drop in and hang out and stay for supper (my favourite favourite thing about being a parent is feeding a bunch of young people a spontaneous meal; literally nothing can make me happier).
Eldest moved a bunch of stuff to Montreal with his girlfriend. Luckily she has a vehicle. He will be taking his bike to Montreal, but won’t have a car of his own.
Second eldest will have a vehicle – our little “chub-chub.” They’ve just moved (in the opposite direction and across a national border) to start a PhD in Medieval Studies at Notre Dame. South Bend, Indiana does not have the same public transit infrastructure as Montreal.
Somehow, despite birthday dinners and moving and appointments, I got myself back to the farm with my friend Tasneem for a few days to finish the novel revision. Mission accomplished, and in good company. We even went to Lake Huron for an evening swim. It was very hot.
Last week before work, back at the cottage with a slightly different configuration. A bit of hosting, multiple hot dog meals, my dad tagged along for the whole week. In my favourite chair in the back bedroom, I finished-finished Begin, going through every word with a fine-toothed comb, and when that was done, I sent it to my editor. Good job, sailor Carrie.
Oh summer. I’ve soaked in the lake every day that I possibly can. I’ve journaled, and done art therapy, and eaten some fantastic peaches and tomato sandwiches. I’ve done yoga on the dock, spin classes, weight classes, pilates, and walked with friends. I haven’t water coloured as much as I’d hoped, but perhaps that will start again this fall, when I have a small and captive but appreciative audience of kindergarteners, and a bulletin board to decorate.
My library hours this fall will give me an extra two hours each afternoon to write, and I aim to do so. It’s been delightful this summer to find strategies for writing and surviving the writing (it’s physical, my body gets incredibly restless sitting for hours, and my mind writhes with discomfort to be in-between and in-the-unknown; what I relearned this summer is that it’s all okay, so long as I release that energy in positive ways, and trust the process.)
My favourite interchange this summer came when I was helping my mom up our front steps. She said, “You are so strong!” and my second eldest exclaimed, “Yes, isn’t she?” I felt seen and honoured, as I am this very moment in time; and that will change, but for now, I am filled with gratitude for the strength, physical, mental, spiritual, that helps me steady myself, and even sometimes, because I’m so very very fortunate, those around me. What privilege. What a luxury.
The sun does its work, even in the hallway of a school. This was the bulletin board outside the library when I’d taken everything off from the past school year. What will replace it this coming school year? It’s just one of the little things I’m excited to discover, and looking forward to this fall. Let the brainstorming begin.
xo, Carrie
Sunday, Jun 15, 2025 | Adventure, Art, Books, Confessions, Current events, Dream, Family, Friends, Fun, Good News, Job, Library, Lynda Barry, Peace, Play, Publishing, Reading, Sleep, Source, Space, Spirit, Summer, The X Page, Word of the Year, Writing |
When and how to begin with BEGIN?
BEGIN is the title of my next novel. I can’t even write that sentence without attempting to delete or amend it. BEGIN is the title of the novel I’m writing. But even that sentence requires amendment. It is the title of the novel I was writing (last touched in March), and will be writing again—though I haven’t dared open the manuscript for months. I can’t let myself visit the pleasure of it in the tiny jags of time available, just right now.
I will begin writing BEGIN again this summer. Soon.
My library job ends in two weeks.
As does my time-limited stint as “producer” (hapless producer, one feels at times) of the X Page Storytelling Workshop, season 6. Season 6???! Tickets for the performance are available here—it’s called “The truth is …” and it’s playing one night only at the Registry theatre in downtown Kitchener, Wed, June 25th, 7PM. Please come for stories, for the stories are life-giving.
Look for me when school’s out in two weeks. I’ll be running out the doors with the kids, slipping off my sandals, standing in the grass, and maybe then, maybe then, my writing of BEGIN will begin again.
How will I parcel out my time? What do I need to write this book?
I have a publisher—Simon & Schuster Canada. (Yes, it’s official.)
More importantly, I have an editor—the brilliant poet and novelist, Katherena Vermette.
I have a pub date—fall 2027 (though those are always tentative).
I need a few intangibles, if I’m honest.
Health, sleep, sweat, rest. Dedicated time. Ear plugs?
Relaxation, intensity, hunger, delight.
Belief. Trust. Confidence—that too, especially that. You know this, don’t you, fellow writing friends? Maybe to that, I need, too, companionship that’s quiet and reassuring, and that would like to join in collective writing and drawing exercises after breakfast, before the work of the day begins …
I imagine for myself a near-hermit’s devotion to the hours, immersion in the subject, the playful giddiness that takes over when I’m making something that feels new or powerful or unexpected, that surprises me with some unearthed truth.
I can’t wait to begin.
Because I hope, I hope to finish what I’ve started. I hope to make good on what I find in the digging.
xo, Carrie
PS If you know of places to rent/borrow/sneak into that would make for good writing intensive spaces, please let me know!
PPS The image at the top was spotted in Chicago, which I visited a few weeks ago with one of my kids, who was presenting at their first academic conference.
Sunday, Mar 16, 2025 | Adventure, Art, Big Thoughts, Good News, Holidays, Peace, Reading, Source, Space, Spirit, Spring, Writing, Yoga |
Note: This post was written several days ago. I kept my laptop off wifi in order to avoid distraction, so I’m posting it only now that I’m home again.
I’ve spent almost seven full days at the farm (my brother and sister-in-law’s, with all thanks to them for their generosity). These seven days have been a true retreat, for mind and body and spirit and emotions. I was close to breaking that last week of work before March break, ground down by responsibilities and duties and commitments, all of which I love and have chosen freely (nearly all!); but which require a volume of attention that even great discipline and desire cannot meet.
I came to the farm to write.
I came with a bit of a plan: a novel manuscript to revise, with, most blessedly, the support of a new editor and publisher (the deal has not been inked, so I will touch wood and wait to share more news till it’s official).
I also came to the farm depleted. Knowing I was depleted and exhausted and strained.
I came to the farm wanting to play. I didn’t come to “work” on my book, I came to play with the material. And this book—my 16th century book, as I often call it—has so much material to play with. The language, the weather, the rhyming, the smells, the herbs, the meat, the smoke, the streets running with raw sewage, the animals, the screw press, the tenements, the lanes and alleyways, the river, the relationships, the sacred and the profane, art and authorship and anonymity.
A person can’t play if she’s depleted, exhausted, strained.
Such weariness bleeds through the body, and numbs the senses. There’s a flatness, tears leak through, but feel obscure or obscuring, a disconnected release. In the week or so before coming to the farm, I’d noticed myself withdrawing, even from friends, as I put my head down and completed the basics (which include routines I consider to be healthy and caring, like starting the day with exercise and meditation, preparing good lunches to eat at work, and spending time with my family).
I gave myself permission, when I arrived at the farm on Saturday, early afternoon, to slow down.
And that has been at the crux of my reflections, here at the farm.
I noticed that it was difficult to slow down. I noticed that I wanted to fill the quiet with noise: podcasts, radio, YouTube. More than that, I wanted to be entertained. In stillness, in quiet, alone, I felt starved for some interruption that would distract me.
I noticed these needs and desires. I questioned them. There were times when I let myself be distracted. But I also encouraged myself to try going without the noise, even just for a few minutes. The minutes inevitably stretched. Gently, forgiving myself when I reached for my cellphone, I eased myself over the threshold into the quiet, again and again.
This morning, my last morning here at the farm for awhile, I did yoga (my cellphone open, Yoga with Adriene guiding me through day 4 of her recent Prana series). As I do every morning, I followed my breath. I paired breath to movement. I noticed how much attention I could give to different parts of myself—my feet, my shoulders, my pelvis. Deep in this attention, my mind accepted the quiet. It always does.
For my meditation, I read a long chapter in Braiding Sweetgrass (the young adult version). It was like this chapter had heard me praying to slow down. The chapter is called “Allegiance to Gratitude,” and Robin Wall Kimmerer (and Monique Gray Smith, who adapted this version), and the illustrations of Nicole Neidhardt come together to illuminate the Haudenosaunee Thanksgiving Address. The author(s) ask us to consider what it means to start each morning with gratitude—with a ritual of thanksgiving for the land, each other, and all of creation. The ritual is slow. It takes the time that it takes. It is also punctuated with the refrain, Now our minds are one. “Imagine,” the author(s) write, “being raised in a culture in which gratitude is the first priority.”
Imagine.
Let me begin and end with gratitude.
I am thankful for my brother and sister-in-law who open this farmhouse to me, and who restored it with such care, and who continue to care for this peaceful, cozy, calming, healing place. I am thankful for a family-sized lasagna that fed me almost the entire week. I am thankful for this table at which I’ve sat to eat and to read and to write. My eating and reading chair is to my right. I’m sitting now in the writing chair. Both face the same window, with plants on the sill, and flies buzzing in the sunshine. I am thankful for fresh air and a gravel road on which to walk, to clear my mind. I am thankful for winding down time in the warm living-room, with a puzzle and a deliciously silly Canadian TV show (Pretty Hard Cases; CBC, season 3 available on YouTube). I am grateful for sleep and rest.
I played a lot this week. I accomplished what I’d set out to do. The novel will take more time, more play, more squishing and shaping of its materials.
I’m preparing to pack up and return home, where I’ll again have too much to do—so much of which I love and cherish and don’t want to set down. Can I stretch time? Or slow it? Can I slow time for others, with whom I share space? What allows me to slow my mind, to listen deeply, to attend with love, and to resist distraction?
Begin with gratitude. Return to gratitude. Cherish and take responsibility for my gifts. Ask: I am grateful for____? Is ___ grateful for me in return? And if not, how can I balance that relationship, so that it becomes mutual?
When I love my writing, and bring to it my attention, with appreciation for its delights, I sense it loving me in return, and filling me with joy. And that is what I want to share—deep abiding thanks for imagination, story, the healing properties of narrative and image, and the visceral sensual pleasure of language itself.
xo, Carrie
Sunday, Dec 8, 2024 | Art, Confessions, Drawing, Friends, Manifest, Reading, Source, Space, Writing |
Day 8 Prompt
Draw an object from nature. Describe what it’s telling you?
Notes: This plant in my office, a succulent, reminds me of a plant at my brother and sister-in-law’s farmhouse, where I’ve gotten to go and write sometimes with my writing group. This plant reminds me of friendship and mutual support, and laughter, and how meaningful it feels to pause and breathe and listen to each other’s stories. Meaningful, too, to feel cared for and cherished and seen. I judge myself harshly and crave recognition (not all the time, but these temptations slip into my mind, these habits and patterns of thinking are hard to break). I long to be loved for my imperfect self and I long to be my best self as often as possible. Some days, this feels harder than others. But here is this plant. I’ve over-watered it and let it dry out way too much, and nevertheless it rewards my imperfect attention by continuing to exist. I am reassured by its presence on my desk.
xo, Carrie
Friday, May 17, 2024 | Art, Big Thoughts, Family, Feminism, Fire, Library, Organizing, Peace, Reading, School, Space, Spring, Word of the Year, Work |
As much as I long to find just a little more rhythm to my writing life, damn but it’s taken the pressure off to work in a school library. Childhood is bursting with magic. To be with kids is to be in the presence of pure creativity. When I was a child, we would visit the Nashville public library for their puppet shows. I remember being utterly entranced by the puppets. How were they speaking? Who was making them move? They seemed real — in some fundamental way, they were real to my imagination.
Now, on a very small scale, I get to participate in magic-making with the children who come into my library — it’s homemade, it’s improvised, it’s nothing fancy, but even the smallest surprise is sufficient to spark delight, curiosity, questions. Children are not fussy; the youngest of them pay the closest attention to the tiniest details. If you’ve ever read a picture book to a group of kindergarteners, you’ve been blessed by the deepest attention you’ll ever hope to receive. “Oh, those aren’t raindrops, those are tadpoles!” “How did Curious George jump higher?” “Why did he let go of the balloons?”
On my story time bulletin board, I add characters or objects from books we’ve read. The seasons change. Nothing is static — things move around. Somehow, it’s more magical because it’s tactile. It isn’t digital. It isn’t online, or on a screen. It’s present with us, to be experienced and observed by all, as we gather in the same moment and place in time and space. We experience it collectively, from our different positions around the room, our different heights and ages. Like the magic of the puppet theatre, I don’t think this is repeatable, really, online. We don’t live solely in our minds; we live in our bodies, as sensory creatures.
In truth, however, my main job in the library is to maintain the collection — a tactile mode of interacting with this most beloved of mediums (beloved to me!): text and illustration bound up in pages. The sensation of handling books affects me similarly to doing a puzzle; it’s soothing and peaceful to create order.
As for the other hours in my days and weeks, I’m currently on a “spring burst.” I’m going to gym regularly to spin, sweat, lift weights, stretch, and take good care of this deep-into-midlife body (and mind). The X Page is entering its final month of preparation (!!): mark your calendars if you’re local. We’ll be performing this season’s stories on Sunday, June 16th at the Registry theatre in downtown Kitchener (more info coming soon). And my writing life is bursting with beautiful blooms too: seeing a dear friend’s book project come to fruition, editing stories, and dreaming up a new novel.
Come summer, I’ll have a two-month break from the library — writing sabbatical??? And time to repair, restore, relax, too. It’s been very non-stop. I keep thinking I’ll catch up, but there’s no up to be caught. The routine swings round and round.
My instinct is to maximize efficiency on tasks. But more and more, I’m focused on making space to maximize enjoyment, no matter the tasks. What do I love doing? Mostly, really simple things that are easy to call forth, that don’t require a lot of extra planning or resources. I love sweating and the rush of endorphins. I love meeting new people and diving in deep. I love collaborating, learning new skills, appreciating the strengths and techniques and wisdom that others bring. I love grappling with text, creating narrative sequences on both the macro and micro scale that maximize pleasure for an audience. I love eating supper with my family and hearing about their days. I love stopping to smell blossoms on trees. I love blasting songs on the radio when I’m driving alone. I love making magic — out-of-time experiences, opportunities for surprise — through the simplest means possible: a drawing, a story, a group exercise. I love taking care of people. I love cooking (but only when I’m not rushing). I love being outdoors, walking, biking, running. I love creating order out of chaos. I love living in my imagination, in my many imaginary worlds. I love to dream.
Nothing is ideal. I love that too, the reassurance of it. I mutter this phrase to myself a lot — “This is not ideal!” —- and not negatively, but encouragingly. I mean it as a form of freedom. Nothing about this is ideal. (And it does not need to be.) This thing you’re doing, this thing you’re creating, this solution, this story, this hard conversation — whatever it may be — you’re doing it to the best of your abilities; be reassured. There are many possibilities, many directions, many discoveries, of which you will try one and then another and another, testing things out forever and ever, amen.
xo, Carrie
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