My message to Apple... e-mailed to them today.

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I am writing as a longtime Apple customer, in both my personal and professional life. I greatly admire the iPhone, and the elegance, ease of use, and stability ensured by the careful screening process in the App Store.

However, I am disturbed by Apple's move from screening apps for quality, stability and technical compliance, into screening for content. Removing the shaken baby application was bound to be noncontroversial, but censorship of content is a slippery slope. The recent decision not to approve Eucalyptus, which displays public domain electronic books from the Gutenberg Project, is appalling to me and to many of my friends and colleagues.

Apparently, the decision to reject this app was made because such works as the Kama Sutra are available via the Gutenberg Project, and as such can be displayed using Eucalyptus. But rejecting this app because it can display such content is equivalent to removing Safari from the iPhone because it can be used to display sexually explicit material from the web. Both Safari and Eucalyptus are simply tools that display content that is freely available online: they do not *contain* said content. Even if Apple intends to reject apps that themselves contain, for example, pornography, here Apple steps into the realm of rejecting the medium rather than the message.

This foray into censorship, and this confusion between content and medium, is dangerous territory for Apple. To this longtime customer, it evidences Apple's move from being a technological innovator into being a corporate parental figure, attempting to impose a moral vision onto consumers -- an effort that, when tied to Internet content, is bound to be capricious, inconsistent, and unsuccessful.

I urge you to revisit the App Store approval policy.

Our library building has served us well. It's got a wonderful skylight that looks down upon a calming fountain; it has comfortable, solidly built furniture. But it's showing its age. Students can't find plugins for their laptops. That wonderful skylight leaks whenever it rains. We have almost no space in which to host guest speakers, library instruction sessions, and exhibits from our special collections. So, in a few months, we're moving into a new building. Really, though, this is less a move than a reinvention. We're taking advantage of this opportunity to examine everything we do and to consider how to do it better.

I've been particularly involved in planning for our new information commons. There are lots of definitions of that term floating around, but I guess you could say that an information commons is a combination of a library reference area, information desk, tech support center, and computer lab. It's a one-stop shop for services, resources and technology. So many details to think about! What services will we offer? What technology will be featured? Who will staff it, and what kind of training will they need?

My colleagues and I have been reminded that, if we don't get this new library right from the start, we'll have a hard time recovering our reputation. There's some truth to that, but at the same time we're also all aware that there will be glitches -- I mean, learning experiences -- and changes that we'll have to make over the first year or two. It's easy when in the midst of a huge project like this to get hung up on every single detail, but it's not very productive to let them overwhelm us.

I tend to forget that at times. I scribble down idea after idea, culminating in a massive to-do list, with the feeling that all these great things have to happen when we open our doors, or they won't happen at all. Then I'm overwhelmed, because of course, there's no time to see all these things through.

Note to self: step back and remember the big picture. We're a group of inspired librarians and library professionals, all working together to give our campus community something they'll use and even enjoy. We've got tons of great ideas, and even if they don't all happen -- even if some don't work out as planned -- many of them will be appreciated as improvements upon what we're doing now.

With that big picture in mind, it will be possible to take a deep breath and dive back into the planning process with a better attitude. I'll come back and read this when I get to work tomorrow, and maybe I'll be able to take my own advice!

Well, OK, there's one nagging worry that just won't go away. We're going to have a cafe just steps away from my office. This presents an immense problem, one which is never addressed in the library literature.

How, as a sophisticated information professional, does one just say no to baked goods?

Blog-again, off-again. That's how it seems to go for We Two. (I don't think I'll capitalize that again -- it suggests delusions of grandeur, doesn't it?)

To make and then abuse an analogy: writer's block isn't a brick wall, but a series of small hurdles. I (the runner) know that I can leap over each of them... but for each and every hurdle, the first step is a doozy. Lately I've been hung up on those first steps. I recently squandered an opportunity to write some short fiction, and obviously I've not been keeping up the blog. Writer's block is painful enough when you want to be creative or share your thoughts freestyle. But what about that other kind of writer's block -- the kind that stops you from publishing research?

Perhaps it's better called researcher's block, because there's so much more involved than just sitting down and putting fingers to keyboard. There's that small matter of coming up with a topic and getting over the self-defeating mantra of "but it's been done before." Then, there's the formation of a reasonable research question. Am I asking an answerable question, or shooting for the moon? Will the answer be valuable to anyone, or is it just an exercise in naval-gazing? Next, there's methodology to consider and literature to consult. Oh, yes, and then doing the research and writing it up. This all adds up to "Ack!" (Insert Cathy-like beads of sweat here.)

Library literature tends to get a bad rap: librarians complain that there is a lot of low-quality research and pointless pontification, but a dearth of well-designed studies. Even putting aside the fact that many people mistake qualitative research a lack of rigor, the critics do have a point. So how do I get from an idea to something that actually turns into a valuable contribution to the profession?

Two years ago, I felt like I was well on my way. To complete my MLIS degree, I wrote a thesis applying conversation analysis (a research method used by sociologists and others) to library reference desk interaction. It was something new and different, and I saw some promise in turning the work into something publishable. But then I got swept up in the day-to-day of being a librarian, in the "must-dos" of my job, and the idea got pushed off to the side. I also realized that collecting data would probably meet a lot of resistance: recording reference interviews on videotape raises some obvious concerns. Since publishing is not a requirement of my particular position, I just let it slide.

And now, even though I feel ready to take a fresh look at research and writing, I'm stopping at every hurdle: Everything I do has been done. My ideas will be scoffed at. Oh, yeah -- and I just don't have time.

Some librarians publish copiously and regularly, and a good number of them have fascinating things to say. There are a lot of gems out there in the literature. Intellectually, I know that I am capable of creating one of those gems. I just need to go from knowing it to believing it. I won't claim to have a diamond in the rough, but I'd like at least to produce an interesting semi-precious stone.

And when I finally do get to writing up my work, I promise to lay off the analogies.

Work/life balance. I love my job, I really do. But love it or not, I can't live and breathe it. Though we each have our thresholds, it's the rare well-adjusted person who doesn't need something else -- whatever that may be.

For me, it has to be something creative. My first major in college was theater, and I also took a stab at applying for MFA programs in creative writing (which led to a fiasco that I'll save for another time). If I don't have some form of acting or writing going on in my life, I end up moody and generally discombobulated.

I get in some writing when I can, and I've enrolled in a fiction writing workshop that starts in March. Maybe I'll make some progress on my library novel, tentatively titled Reference. (Don't laugh. Oh, who am I kidding? Laugh!)

The acting bug is biting, though, and I have yet to figure this one out. In a city teeming with (mostly out-of-work) actors, how do I casually pursue a role in a community production, the way I used to in Bloomington or Ann Arbor? And most of all, with a job that has me rotating through evening and weekend shifts, how do I make myself available for a demanding rehearsal schedule?

I don't have the answer, but then again, I haven't tried yet. I want to soon.

What's your secret to maintaining that work/life balance? What do you need in your life to stay on an even keel?

All work and no play makes Ken a dull boy. (Typing that into a blog instead of on a typewriter somehow causes it to lose its Shining-style creepiness!)

My first library job interview...

Bloomington, Indiana has begun to settle into winter. A light rain overnight has, this frozen morning, turned the streets and sidewalks slick. Everything is crisp, and the air has the specific sharpness of an early winter frost. Bare branches are coated with glinting ice.

I've settled into my own cold spell, of sorts. My career as a graduate student seems to be collapsing around me. I've lost traction in the Sociology program somewhere along the way to my Master's degree, and I'm vacillating between blaming external circumstances and berating myself for lost opportunity. Either way, I'm done, and I need a job.

The other day, a listing had caught my eye as I'd scanned the Bloomington Herald-Times: a clerk position at a nearby public library. I'd decided to apply -- and today is interview day.

I get out of my car and perform a mental inventory. Resume? Check. Notepad? Check. Pen, and a backup pen just in case? Check. Falling on my rear end on the icy sidewalk?

Check.

I sit, momentarily stunned, as a few passersby struggle with whether or not they should look at me. So much for the charm of an early winter's day in Indiana. I gather my notepad and my wits, stuff my slightly sodden resume back in its folder. My hands are shaking a bit, but I manage to negotiate my body back into a standing position. Now comes the fun part: the obligatory check for leaves and twigs on my dress pants.

I pat myself down, out there on the sidewalk, hoping that no one is looking out the library window.

The interview goes all right, if you don't count the fact that one of the interviewers expresses surprise that I, a male, have applied for the job. See, it's all OK: their typing test has clocked me at 95 WPM. That earns me a wide-eyed response, and I know -- I've got this job in the bag.

Yeahhhh... that's right. Just call me Ken, library clerk extraordinaire and fastest typist in the midwest. I wonder if they'll promote me to librarian in a year or two? Or do you need some kind of degree for that?

I strut toward the library exit. My strut turns into a lurch as I open the door, the chill air hits my face, and I remember to mind the icy sidewalk. I daintily pick my way back to the car.

Oh, crap. Has that leaf been on my elbow this whole time?

Four days later: the library has sent me a polite "we're sorry" letter in the mail. I'm stunned. What was wrong with me? What could I have done wrong? Aside from being male, apparently, and bringing a touch of nature indoors.

Ah, well. Life goes on. I tuck the experience neatly away and end up working as a Senior Secretary at Indiana University. I like the job. What had I been thinking, wanting to work at a library, anyway? Silly notion.

Thirteen years later, I would begin my career as a librarian.

My dad is a pretty quiet person. He's the wallflower to my mother's social butterfly. He leaves family gatherings early and doesn't socialize too much, but if you are a wallflower too you'll find he has a sarcastic sense of humor. He's rugged in that blue collar way. He has smoked since he was 14, he drinks too much beer, and he has worked out in the sun for most of his life. He spends a lot of time out in The Barn -- an old structure set opposite my parent's house on their one-acre property. He does his own variety of folk art out there, creating wind chimes from discarded silverware, dreamcatchers from copper wire and dried chili peppers, and walking sticks from old reclaimed wood. His two old dogs, one deaf, one who can't climb stairs, are his companions. The two eat the same grade beef as he barbecues for himself in the backyard. He's the kind of dad who I suspect told every one of his three children that they were his favorite.

When I was younger, I remember going to the library with my dad and seeing him collect a huge stack of Louis L'amour paperbacks. It seemed impossible that he could read that many books in the one or two weeks before we'd be back, but I believe he's read every book published by L'amour if not once, then twice or even three times. He once took me on a tour of the empty room in the attic of his grandfather's house where he spent a lot of time as a boy, reading books that were still there on the shelf, now covered with dust. Old Zane Grey books and Hardy Boys novels. My dad is also a speed-reader. He told me he regretted learning how to read so quickly. Maybe he'd run out of books when he decided to read through our old encyclopedia set A-Z. Yes! My father actually read an entire encyclopedia set, well out of date even before he started to read it.

Later I came to understand that my dad, like so many people, reads so voluminously because it is his escape. My father is a Vietnam veteran and he lives with memories too horrible for me to imagine. It's only sometimes, at twilight, around the dying embers in the backyard barbecue pit, that he might talk about the damages of a war from before I was born. These are the scars that necessitate a life away from urban settings and crowds. The busyness of his hands and mind forestalls thoughts about best friends who were lost and a survivor's guilt. I'm reminded of what Nancy Pearl has said about the importance of reading in her own life: "It's not too much of an exaggeration -- if it's one at all -- to say that reading saved my life."

As librarian who aims to please, finding good books for my dad has always been my greatest challenge. I'm always in search of that One Perfect Book. Recently I realized that though I can't always find something amazing, he reads whatever I give him. He usually doesn't comment on the content of the book, he just reads. Though I might be able to find better material for him if he gave me more feedback, I've come to understand that the greatest part of my gift isn't the content, but the possibility that in some tiny way a book can provide an escape and a better life in the imagination.

I did not grow up wanting to be a librarian. As a little kid, I told my family that I wanted to be a part-time chemist and a part-time telephone operator. (Why a telephone operator? Check out my piece in Alert Nerd's second issue of Grok and you'll find out.) I was a voracious reader, having taught myself to read out of old phonics workbooks before we got around to it in school. I loved organizing things (except my messy bedroom), finding information, classifying knowledge just for fun -- yeah, I was wicked fun, I tell ya -- and I loved going to the library, but being a librarian? Never occurred to me, not then, not in high school or college -- not until I was well into my thirties.

But I do remember going to my local libraries: the Sherman Oaks and Van Nuys branches of the Los Angeles Public Library. I had a natural affinity for the card catalog: as with learning how to read, I don't remember the struggle, just the pleasure of "getting it." I can hear the sound of the wooden drawer opening, smell the glue-y scent of the cards as I flip, flip, flip them to get to my desired subject.

I had a few favorite books in the children's section, but pretty early on I started browsing the adult stacks, defying the helpful librarian or two who gently suggested that there was age-appropriate material just across the room.

What did I want to know about back then? I wanted to know how the post office worked. All that behind-the-scenes sorting and processing fascinated me. And sure enough, under Dewey Decimal number 383, there was a book all about it. Pictures of mail sorting equipment, shots of letters shooting through cancellation machines and scooting past the eyes of USPS employees who routed them according to zip code. (Once automation took away the need to eyeball each zip code, I wonder if those employees went on to become fish counters?)

Checking out a book in the 1970s: there was a hole-punched card in a pocket inside the book. The clerk removed the card, and placed my library card next to it on a platform underneath a boxy machine. Thunk. A record was made, a picture of my card next to the book's card. The book was mine until the due date.

By the time I hit the sixth grade, I was a big-time library user. I wrote a paper on the Olympic Games, complete with extensive bibliography. Sounds great, except that I think my paper consisted of sections of all those books copied near-verbatim and linked together with some nice transitional phrases. My sixth grade self may not have known much about plagiarism, but I knew I could find tons of information there on those shelves... just open that card catalog to Olympics, and let the games begin!

I kept using the library as I grew up. (In junior high, getting dropped off at the library was primarily a good excuse to talk to my friend on the pay phone outside while my parents thought I was doing homework.) In my first year of college, I liked to cozy up in the library's upholstered chairs, reading philosophy books I'd never have the patience to tackle now.

But in all those hours spent in libraries, it never occurred to me that I would end up working in one.

Now that I'm a librarian, I use the old catalog cards -- as scratch paper. Computers excel as search tools, but they sure don't provide that satisfying tactile experience. I sit behind the reference desk and watch students come in and out, check out books and return them, search databases, and just sit in one of our comfy chairs and read. I wonder what library memories they carry, and what memories they're making today. I hope they're good ones. I'll do what I can to make sure that they are.