On Reading, Writing, and Creative Renewal
I think I became a librarian because of Hermann Hesse.
Not directly. There were many other factors that guided me toward the profession. But Hesse planted a seed. His books sparked an enduring interest and a kind of lifelong intellectual pursuit. He also made me want to write.
In high school, I began to form a writing identity. I served on the newspaper staff, I was co-editor of the literary magazine, and I spent time around the yearbook crew. I was drawn to the world of words, not just the content, but the process. There was something powerful about print as a mode of production, and I was fascinated by the different formats: literary expression, journalistic reporting, editorial, and archival documentation (in the form of a yearbook.) Each had its own distinct practices, yet came together in both a shared physical office and in the form of print publications. I’m grateful for that early exposure, and for having grown up just before the web changed everything.
I was a freshman in college when I discovered Hesse. During office hours, a professor casually recommended Narcissus and Goldmund. It wasn’t part of the curriculum—in fact, it wasn’t even from the literary period we were studying—but that offhand suggestion changed everything. I became obsessed with Hesse’s work. And this was before Amazon or eBooks, so tracking down his full range of work wasn’t instant or easy. You had to search for it, which made the experience feel even more meaningful.
Big-box bookstores carried the popular titles—Siddhartha, Steppenwolf—but I was drawn to the more obscure works, the ones harder to locate. The earlier novels! It felt like tracking down the indie label recordings of a favorite band or seeking out the hidden tracks on intentional album release, or obtaining bootleg live sets burned onto CDs. (Remember, this was before everything is online.) There was an undergroundness to his books, a sense of discovery that felt personal. So I wandered through used bookstores, slowly building my collection one worn paperback at a time.
A few reflections:
Print as a cultural experience. While I use and appreciate eBooks for various needs—and I fully support their role in academic work—there’s something transformative about certain print books. For me, during those impressionable years in the mid-’90s, these books felt like secret cultural artifacts. Just as there was an alternative music scene, there also seemed to be an alt-literary scene. Owning these books, especially the less mainstream ones, felt significant. They weren’t just things to read—they were symbols of identity.
The magic of the hunt. I loved the old Bantam editions. The translations had a tone and style that seemed to fit with the 1960s and ’70s. For whatever reason, these editions resonate with me more than the modern versions do today. Maybe that’s just the effect of reading them at a formative age or just how the sense of tone and interpretation have evolved. Oh, and the cover art especially stood out: aesthetic, sensual, slightly dangerous. I had never seen anything like it. That design added to the experience—it made the book feel like a philosophical object. And for me, owning the physical copy mattered. Sure, I could have borrowed them from a library, but there was something powerful about having my edition.
A closer look at the covers of my favorites.
Reading outside the curriculum. Hesse was never part of my formal education. He came into my life because of a professor’s random recommendation, not a syllabus. That made reading him feel different—more personal. His writing was dark, psychological, and philosophical. But because I engaged with these books “for fun” and outside of any assignments, it felt… rebellious? And at the same time, sacred. There was an immeasurable intrinsic value within the experience.
Hesse as a gateway drug. Reading Hesse opened the door to a whole world of philosophical and literary voices that I had to discover on my own: Kafka, Camus, Sartre, Kierkegaard, Nietzsche, Pinter, Orton—as well as Dostoevsky, Bulgakov and Turgenev. You can find these authors in any library or bookstore, of course. But discovering used and older editions of their work felt different. The worn and brittle pages, the aging paper, the vintage fonts, the weird out-of-print covers—they added a kind of mystique. And I know it’s mostly in my head. These earlier books were mass-produced like everything else. But somehow, they didn’t feel like products. I don’t know why, but today’s editions just feel more commercialized than the ones from that era. Maybe that’s part of the lore and love that comes with books: they take on meaning beyond themselves.
Hesse led to other philosophical paths.
Returning to Fiction
With all that in mind, I’ve decided to take a slight detour in my writing to explore a fiction project. There's a novel I started sketching back when I was deep into reading Hesse—a story I’ve consistently referred to as a metaphysical romance. Every few years, I’d pull out my notes and pages, move the story forward a little, then set it aside again. It’s a project that’s been with me for decades, maturing alongside me.
I’ve written a lot for librarianship—nearly 40 academic papers, two books, hundreds of blog posts, and a handful of columns. But now feels like the right time to pause that mode of writing and return to something more narrative, more philosophical—something that channels that Hesse-era energy and attitude.
Over the long fourth of July holiday weekend, I spent time reconnecting with my characters and the plot lines of my idea and even built a spreadsheet. I’ve decided: I’m going to commit to this novel for the year ahead. I still have three library-related papers currently in the publishing pipeline, which will appear in the coming months. But I don’t want to look back one day with the regret of never finishing this story—especially since it’s been echoing in the background for so long.
While packing this weekend, I revisited with my old Hesse books, and that experience reaffirmed my desire to complete the novel. Beyond personal closure and the feeling that I have something interesting to contribute — I believe writing fiction is invaluable: it sharpens thinking, nurtures empathy, enhances problem-solving, and expands our capacity to imagine alternatives. It’s inherently interdisciplinary and increases perspective-building. It’s a space for creative play and philosophical inquiry. And hey, crafting a compelling 80,000-word story is no small feat. I’ll always admire anyone who sees a draft through to the end. Novel writing is difficult journey and it requires focus, persistence, and disincline.
This move to fiction has also reconnected me with several poet and fiction writer friends, bringing back conversations that I realize now how much I missed. Last week, I even spoke with a colleague about a novel that she drafted. There’s something deeply nourishing in those informal yet pragmatic discussions about story craft and writing practices. I forgot about that sense of community within fiction writing.
As I step into a new role professionally as a library dean, I know my schedule will become intense, exciting, and jam-packed. I really want to bring my human-centered approach to this position and be an effective, inclusive, and imaginative leader.
Yet… there’s something in my creative DNA that still wants to be expressed. Incomplete is the only word I can find—something in me feels unfinished, as a writer, thinker, and professional, until I finish that novel. I could publish twenty more library papers and a few more academic books, but I know I’d feel unfulfilled if I didn’t at least attempt one fictional narrative.
So, for the year ahead, that’s my primary writing project. My transition design work will resume again in Fall 2026, and I have a few other essay ideas that are on my radar, but for now, it’s time to return to that long-lingering novel—a Hesse-inspired metaphysical romance that’s waited patiently for me to be ready. And I think I finally am.
Because if there’s one thing the literary market is clearly clamoring for, it’s a brooding, philosophical love story with existential overtones. 🤣
Postscript: A Note on Hesse
I did read Rosshalde when I was an undergrad, which I obtained through interlibrary loan. But it’s one I’d like to revisit. I suspect I’d relate it more deeply now, at this stage in life. Honestly, I can barely remember it, and I think that speaks to something I mentioned earlier: there’s a real difference between borrowing a book and owning one. Possession creates a kind of intimacy. At least with these types of books. So I’m on the lookout for that one.
I also own The Glass Bead Game, but my copy is in disrepair and MIA. That one’s easier to replace, though. Hesse also wrote a number of novellas, poetry collections, and nonfiction works I’ve yet to explore. In truth, I’ve only scratched the surface. But I have a personal ethos: I have to encounter Hesse books in the wild. No online retailers. No digital versions. No library copies. Only used bookstores – and the luck of the find. I’m looking forward to seeing what I can uncover in Greensboro and the Raleigh / Durham area in the years ahead.
