Cindy's blog

The Art of the Re-Read by Nick Abrahamson

Here in libraryland I have several coworkers who won’t re-read favorite novels.  Some won’t re-watch favorite movies.  I am utterly perplexed by this non-practice.  Aside from a familiar smell or visiting the home of my childhood, nothing fills me with the warmest of warm nostalgia like some of the old movies I watched as a child.  My most vivid memories involve being propped on the couch, home sick from school, while I listen to the whirl of the VCR rewinding videotapes.  Like a jet engine about to take off, tha

Beautiful Forevers by Rebecca Howard

As you undoubtedly know by now I am a fiction reader.  Ninety percent of what I read is fiction.  The few exceptions to that rule are usually memoirs, which we must admit are a type of fiction, too.  The facts and the truth are not always the same, but that’s an opinion that could only be held by a lover of fiction.  I love nonfiction readers and their thirst for the facts.  They read to learn, and they want to learn the real story.  Most of the time, I don’t have a lot of use for the real

True Fiction by Rebecca Howard

I’m a firm believer that the gateway to fact is often through fiction.  At least it is for me.  No disrespect to the nonfiction readers out there, but I tend to learn about social and political events, people, and places through novels.  I compare this to the moment in college when I discovered that I loved history when it was accompanied by pictures (i.e.

When Language Fails by Rebecca Howard

It happens once a week at choir practice on Wednesday evening.  Reading through a new piece of music will undoubtedly raise the question of whether or not to modify gendered language.  There’s only so much you can do with the words “king,” “father” and “lord” before you’ve made a piece of music entirely absent of lyricism.  Typically, the director will ask how strongly we feel about changing the language and a few eyes will dart to me, wondering what the most vocal resident feminist will suggest.  Ty

Attachments, Re@l Love, and Me by Laura Raphael

I fell in love with my future husband through email in the year 2000. If I were a Jane Austen heroine, it would have been missives written with a quill by candlelight by Mr. Raphael and Miss Clapp, but in our case, it was the then-fairly-new phenomenon of an online dating site, the odd screen-names of “poewhit” and “bookchick”, and the far-less romantic electronic bits and bytes, zeroes and ones.

 

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