How I Became a Librarian, Part II

I worked at the The­atre Col­lec­tion for nine years. After (I believe) four years, the Col­lec­tion moved to Lin­coln Cen­ter, to become part of the Per­form­ing Arts Library Cen­ter. There were three col­lec­tions:, The Dance Col­lec­tion, the Music Col­lec­tion and the The­atre Col­lec­tion. By then I was on the staff as a full-time librar­i­an for the The­atre Collection.

I was put in charge of the The­atre Col­lec­tion’s actu­al move to Lin­coln Cen­ter. Aside from the basic book col­lec­tion, and its archives, we were to bring in the pre­vi­ous­ly stored col­lec­tion (in un-cat­a­logued and unsort­ed card­board box­es) which had been—over the years—stashed in the library’s ware­house. I was told that it would take the movers a half day to move this col­lec­tion to our new quarters.

It took two weeks.

What’s more, no one knew what was in these box­es, these hun­dreds of boxes.

As these box­es arrived, end­less­ly arrived, I began to open them. I found play man­u­scripts by Oscar Wilde, James Bar­rie, Conan Doyle, George Bernard  Shaw … and more. Where did they come from? No one knew.  How I found where they came from is an entire­ly dif­fer­ent tale.

I con­tin­ued to work in the Col­lec­tion. I also became a the­atre book review­er for School Library Jour­nal.

But things changed. I now had two sons, and was not hap­py about the prospects of avail­able pub­lic schools. Also, my wife, who had been a dancer, stopped danc­ing, and changed her pro­fes­sion. I had also switched my writ­ing focus from the­atre to chil­dren’s lit­er­a­ture. Indeed, I had sold my first chil­dren’s book, Things That Some­times Hap­pen.

I tried to change my posi­tion in the New York Pub­lic Library to that of a chil­dren’s librar­i­an. I was told that could not be done. “We don’t hire men as chil­dren’s librarians.”

I learned of an open posi­tion for Read­ers Advi­sor and Ref­er­ence Librar­i­an in New Jer­sey at Tren­ton State Col­lege [it became The Col­lege of New Jer­sey in 1996]. I applied and was offered the posi­tion. Though a rel­a­tive­ly small col­lege, it had a very large library, with a good, engaged staff, and a direc­tor who want­ed a fine aca­d­e­m­ic col­lec­tion. One of the job’s attrac­tions was that it was a fac­ul­ty posi­tion, with a fac­ul­ty sched­ule, which is to say: sum­mers off. I’d be able to write.

A few months after I start­ed, that ear­li­est book of mine was pub­lished. I first saw it among a load of new books that had just come into the library. Also, halfway through my first year my posi­tion was fun­da­men­tal­ly altered. Librar­i­ans would no longer be fac­ul­ty. No sum­mers off. (See the “Sto­ry Behind the Sto­ry: Cap­tain Grey,” for more about this event.) I stayed at Tren­ton State. I real­ly loved being a librar­i­an. But my ulti­mate goal was still writ­ing, by now writ­ing exclu­sive­ly books for young people.

Over time, a great deal of my library time was devot­ed to teach­ing new stu­dents how to do research. But I was also teach­ing myself how to do research, and that altered not only what I wrote, but how I researched what I need­ed to learn to write my his­tor­i­cal fiction.

I remained at Tren­ton State for six­teen years. If you hap­pen to read my thriller, Wolf Rid­er, you might be inter­est­ed to know it is set on the Tren­ton State Campus.

By 1968 I had pub­lished eigh­teen books and felt a need to change things: I want­ed to write full time. My goal—financially—was that I had to make at least as much as I made as a librar­i­an. Not, as any librar­i­an knows, the high­est bar. I gave myself one year.

To be continued.