Soon after that, he announced the US release of Free Agent. I am not a reader of spy novels, but he’d been so supportive, I was enthusiastic about supporting him. Rather than purchase the book to enjoy myself, I requested my public library add it to the collection. I sent updates of the progress to Jeremy as I waited for the book to arrive.

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In the mean time, I watched him interact with his fans online, always gracious and kind, and I was even more motivated to read the book.

It arrived last week and I sent him a snapshot when it came in.

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I wasn’t at all sure what to expect from the book, and anticipated confusion reading something so completely foreign. Instead, I was immediately immersed in a world where it was fun to learn, and not at all intimidating. If I had books like this in school, I would have done so much better in history class. The story is so fast-paced, I didn’t feel my reading gave it the respect it deserves. Every word is carefully placed, truly an observable crafting.

For a work with such a massive backstory, it amazed me that I enjoyed the infusion of history and culture within the intense drama. I didn’t skip a word. The book is filled with delicious prose treasures, that I think will appeal to other literary fans. I hunted for gems like this:

He shrugged: he could wear as much tweed as he wanted, but his shrugs were more Russian than vodka.

The story twists on every page, yet is written so a busy mom like me can put it down to fold laundry and return without feeling lost.

This is the first time I’ve read a book and had the opportunity to contact the author, on the other side of the world, and receive an answer within hours. The experience gave life to the book. Watching the author interact with readers made me feel more connected to his love of his work, and I’m grateful I stumbled upon the #litchat that brought me to the discovery.

I’m now passing the book to my husband and will most likely make some gift purchases. It does make a difference to me to be able to connect with the author, and I don’t know what that says about the future of publishing and participatory media. But why are you still reading me? Go read chapter one of Free Agent, then pick up your own copy.

Update: Within a few minutes of posting this, I received a response from the author.

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There were names, a story within a story. I sounded out printed letter pairs searching for friends, curious about strangers. I had favorites, books where my name was printed several times, letters shrinking line by line. There was a time when they would stamp each book. Ka-chunk. Ka-chunk. Ka-chunk. Ten times. There was a limit for children. I would take them in my tote, keeping weight from cold linoleum.

Later, they quickly dunked a pre-stamped card, only slightly cracking open the cover at check-out. I wondered how they knew how many cards to stamp each morning, and who had the job of rolling the rubber to the next number. What happened to the unused cards? Their lists grew longer, closer to destruction, yet they remained in the box. Were there some that never left the library? Stamped and stamped again, but never slipped in pockets. At home, I breathed books. Unfamiliar smells. Coffee. Cigarettes. Curry.

I graduated to text books, old volumes, tracked by date, inventoried in ink. Names in responsible cursive. Sometimes I knew them, older brothers and sisters of my friends. I added my name to the bottom of the list, and imagined those who read before and those who would follow. Would they know me? I wrapped them tightly in grocery bags decorated with band names and logos, lyrics and icons of youth culture.

At university, I paged through used books, listening for voices in paper. I don’t write in books. I sought those closest to mint, but wondered why they were never touched. If the previous student didn’t use it, would I? Sometimes I would buy the book and later discover notes, penciled in margins in the first few chapters. What happened to the student before me? Did they drop the class? Did they know enough to pass without opening the text?

My daughter pulled a slip from one of my books and asked why it showed another name. She thought I had taken someone’s reserved book, and kept it for myself. I showed her the date on the receipt with the unfamiliar name. Kate something. December. I explained Kate must have had the book in December and left her receipt in the book to mark her place. Did Kate finish the book? Who is she?

I still smell books, and sometimes return them, repulsed. I miss the mystery. Now we have book clubs. We gather and read and reveal passions and weaknesses in therapeutic circles. Deliberate. Calculated. Organized. Scheduled. Machines keep our secrets, our trails of inquiry and entertainment. But where are the people? I want to know who last touched my book. I want to ask whether they finished, if they cried. I want to know if they read it alone, or in a crowd. Did someone sacrifice for their reading pleasure? And then I want to part, maybe to never cross paths again. A single social object to bind us for a moment.

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There are shelves in the front of the library near the self-checkout where the books are held for easy pickup. Next to the hold shelves, is the bookshelf of mystery.  I noticed this shelf years ago, but assumed it was not for me, or there would be some kind of obvious signage directing me to pay closer attention.  At the top of each side of the shelf are signs stating, “Explore.”  What does that mean?  For years I thought it was the travel section.  Then I noticed the shelves held multiple copies of each book, and I thought maybe they were for students in college or high school courses.

I gradually eased closer to this shelf and started picking up books.  I noticed they were all brand new, and were not of a particular theme.  If you stand close enough, you can see a small sign giving permission to check out these books.  I imagine at some point I could have asked for help, but I think I enjoy prolonging the mystery.  I have borrowed some excellent books from these shelves, though I feared rejection at the self-checkout the first time I attempted to bring one home.  No alarms sounded as I passed through the security gates with my new little treasures.

As I wrote this post, I visited the library site to get a screen shot of my items on hold.  I noticed the library now has an account on Twitter.  I sent a message requesting a book they do not have, and I received a response with a link to their system for requesting new books.  I also noticed within their Twitter feed, a brief explanation of the Explore section.

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I have more books on hand right now than I could possibly read before they are due, so I juggle and often renew. I’m currently reading Buying In, by Rob Walker. I’m enjoying it, but have discovered I still look for educational applications in everything I read. I also have some of the same troubles with his writing as I do with Lessig’s. It is difficult to filter the sarcasm in text. Sometimes I don’t quite get his point. He does provide a lot of valuable information, with each page citing multiple studies and resources. I wish I had more time to follow them.
My goal, in addition to increasing my knowledge of writing, is to eventually be comfortable spending time immersed in fiction. Since I left my job four months ago, I think I have only read one fiction novel. The rest of my reading has been concentrated on non-fiction, technology, innovation, and education books.  I have the desire to move my writing away from provocative and succinct and more toward evocative and elaborate.  I have much to learn.