So a little background information: about a month ago, I tripped over my brand new laptop’s power cord and broke the DC port, making it impossible to recharge my battery. After sending it in to a local shop to get it worked on, I discovered that the motherboard itself was broken and that the computer was now useless except for parts. Fortunately, I was able to find the exact same model for less than $300. It should arrive on Tuesday.
This whole debacle made me realize how much better I write when I’m somewhere other than where I live. Whenever I sit in front of my desktop machine, it’s like I have this uncanny aversion to doing anything writing related. It’s stupid, and I probably need to get over it, but I am definitely looking forward to having a laptop again so that I can get out and write.
Which made me think: why don’t I do a blog series on interesting places to write? There’s quite a few around here in Provo that I frequent: the city library, the HBLL, Pioneer Book (their new location), the Wash Hut, Slide Canyon. Branching out a bit, there’s Amtrak and the Frontrunner, two places where I’ve done a lot of good writing. Beyond that, I’m sure there are a ton of other places that I’ve never been to, but would be fun to explore and try out.
Besides giving each place a standard 1-5 star rating, I could review it based on how many distractions it has, how comfortable it is, whether it has wi-fi (not always a good thing!), ambient noise, people-watching opportunities, etc. It would be fun to break things down and see what makes a place good for writing, and what makes it not so good.
What do you guys think? If I did this, what sort of criteria would you like me to look at? Are there any places around Provo or Salt Lake that you think I should try out? This new computer cannot come soon enough!
Sounds like fun! Just make sure you provide pictures. 🙂
Definitely!
Since you so kindly asked about places in the HBLL where there are no students, I have provided this cryptic poem, which will, hopefully, guide to a proper place.
Keep in mind that I am not a poet.
To Joe Vasicek,
by T. Alan Horne
In benighted regions subsumed within Provo,
In lands beneath the HBLL,
A space private, and secret, where none ever go
Can be found, more remote than H-E-L-L.
In the lower stacks there are no tracks
Of man or beast or librarian.
Behind the lines where no light shines
Is a haven for the novelarian.
But take your care before that first step
Into a land of myths and ghosts.
For myriad once-good people of Provo
(or, as I call them, “Provosts”)
Have vanished there into no air,
For not air or space are found thence,
Or perhaps sublimed into distant times
In the past, or the future, or worlds too intense
To describe to mortals who foolishly try,
Through cunning or strength or swiftness of feet,
To land, at long last, where no prying eye
Or hearing ear will drive them from the Author’s Seat.
But if you would start,
Despite my dissuasion,
And soften my heart
By your gentle persuasion…
All right, then, I’ll give you the signs and the stars
That, if followed, will serve you to solitude’s lair.
But if all goes wrong, if you burn into char,
Not all your tears will convince me to share
Your sorrow, nor will I come to your rescue.
I served my time in the worlds underground.
And it’s not all bad. In fact, it might suit you
To find yourself lost, not again to be found.
Ahem…
You start at the world–the world where you’re living.
You look down at the orb swirling idly in space.
Speak: “I hate you, I hate you. You know what you did!”
Turn right, and get yourself out of that place.
Through stretches of hallways,
Past desks and computers,
You’ll find yourself stuck in a maze of old books.
You don’t have a car, you don’t have a scooter,
So run with your feet, to the darkest of nooks.
In that nook is a wall, in that wall is a ghost–
Chained there for justice, he’s the crookest of crooks–
Yet of secret places, he does know the most.
An offering give him, of gold or of ziff,
Or give him a song, if a song you can sing.
And call him a liar until he stops lying.
Let him know you won’t cower (Ah, that is the thing!).
He will show you the way to the start of the path:
The right-numbered shelf with the right-titled book.
But steer clear of books written by Sylvia Plath
Or you will ever regret the path that you took.
And there, in the space splitting stack from old stack,
A crack! A door to those places unseen.
But be wise: after this, you cannot turn back.
If you hope to survive, you must be a machine
Like a raging rhinoceros, or a crackhead on Speed,
You must run, you must jump through sunlight and death.
And one other thing I would mention you’ll need:
Some mints, all the better to freshen your breath.
And strange books you’ll find, in this world bright and odd,
Where shelves grow and shrink and twist as you walk,
With titles like “Applications of Hydrocolonic Disestablishmentarian Corkscrews on Omnipresent Cod”
And others so racy your mother would balk.
They are bigger than you, or that’s how it looks.
They prop up the walls, they carpet the floors.
The books are the building. And the building? Just books.
But don’t think of that now–you’ve just reached the doors.
More doors than you’ve seen, more doors than exist,
Wrapping ’round corners or bent into rings.
And in clusters they hang from the old chandeliers.
If you’re stumped, you’re still wiser than scholars and kings
And wetter than fish, and swifter than deers.
You’re the best of all besters who’ve bested their betters.
Though if you fail here, that will cease to persist.
You’ll be the worst loser, the fool locked in fetters.
One door leads to quiet, the rest lead to hell,
And no second chances, you’ll find, will be given.
I’ll never reveal it. … Okay, fine, I will tell.
But don’t let it be said I’m a miserly scriven.
Pull on the doors, on their handles and frames,
And slide them like magnets on the giant white wall.
A key made of doors, and a door from the same.
Once you know this, I say, you know all.
But not all is yet known, and not all is done.
You’ve yet to see why I warned you before.
You will think this is easy, you will think this is fun.
You think wrong. What’s to come is worse than a chore.
The books get yet stranger the deeper you go.
With copyright dates from outside the real numbers.
They teach how to hold a grudge against snow
And chronicle daydreams of famous cucumbers.
And now you arrive at the tunnel of souls,
Swirling and wailing in fire most blue.
These are those sad writers who lost sight of their goals
And also some girls, still unwed, at BYU.
They seek manflesh, the poor ladies,
And their will is die or do.
If (poor man) you can’t outrun them,
Seven (of them) will take hold of you.
“We will bake our own bread.” Will be what they said.
“Just let us now be called yours.”
Their faces are desperate, ashen with dread,
And send you screaming back to the doors.
But let’s suppose you find your way
And escape all those ethereal terrors.
You’ll be almost at the quiet place,
But be careful: there’s no room for errors.
For the final test awaits you
On the far side of this shore.
And don’t think you can say “I hate you”
And turn right, and run, like you did before.
I never said this world was yours.
You never had a chance to win.
But if you still want the quiet place,
I suppose, then, that we must begin.
For there you see the unreservable room.
In the basest basement of the H-E-L-L (or, if you prefer, HBLL).
And the quiet desk in the sea of shelves.
But before you take it, know this well:
The last foe is your own creation–
The things that you write, or don’t, stand guard here.
Here you will fail. It’s predestination.
You aren’t afraid yet? You had better learn fear.
Oh, the price we all pay for some quiet and peace!
Why can’t we all learn to write amidst noise?
But I know I can’t tell you to desist or to cease,
For writing in private brings life’s greatest joys.
Well, if you can break through every last trial.
If your quest is successful, if your ending is happy,
Then you have what I promised: your own desert isle.
Having had it, I can say it ain’t crappy.
But if it suits not your tastes and disrupts your cool,
I suppose there are places more fair.
You could write (as I did with this poem) in Sunday School,
As it’s strangely easy to ignore everyone there.
Goodbye, sayonara, farewell now, adieu,
To Joe Vasicek, Author and Brother.
This poem is yours. It’s all about you.
If you don’t like it, I’ll give you another.
That was AWESOME. 😀 And now I totally want to find this place. I think I recognized a couple of clues–the world orb is probably the giant model of Earth on the second floor, near the maps section. I can see how that would be one of the nethermost parts of the HBLL. As for the ghost, the key doors, and all the other stuff, that should make for a very interesting treasure hunt. I’ll have to post a picture or something once I find it!
Actually, the big globe is the only real part of the poem. The rest is just made up (but hey, we could actually put all that stuff there). I’d apologize for my dishonesty, but as a fantasy author, it’s my job to send people on quests.
In reality, the best way to find a quiet place in the HBLL is through trial and error, varying by season and time of day. There really are places in the lower stacks where people hardly ever go. And, as long as finals aren’t coming up, a lot of the windowless, computerless conference rooms in the nether floors will be vacant all day. There’s also this row of single-seat desks on the fifth floor, lined parallel to the windows. And these desks are enclosed in wooden panels, so even if there is someone else using a desk close-by, you don’t see or interact with them. I think other floors have similar desks.
Just don’t linger in the public areas on any floor, or in open spaces not enclosed by row upon row of bookshelves. Using the time of day to your advantage is especially important, if you can manage it. Late at night or in the early morning hours are awesome.
And, though this may sound unethical, it is not impossible to elude security in such a way that you remain in the library after closing time. Seriously.
If I was still living in provo, I would look into finding my way into one o them private offices in the library after hours. You know, all the best ways to get writing done in solitude kind of stray into legal grey areas. I wonder why that is?
I’ve wondered how hard it would be to elude the security guards at closing time. I even had an idea for a short story based on it. Maybe I’ll have to do some “research” for it soon, heh.
As for the unused conference rooms, I remember we used to have meetings for the Quark writing group on the second floor of the HBLL, in room 2525. I still remember those boxish wooden chairs and how they’d creak when you leaned back on them. Those were good times, man–good times.