Beginning

I’m sitting in my office, with the window open in December (!), the traffic swooshing by outside, kicking up rain water and road salt. There are birds in the fir tree, twittering with what I interpret as aggressive optimism, despite, or perhaps because of, the grey skies. Probably, though, they are really just shouting at each other about territory - hey you, get off my branch, that sort of thing. Have you ever cleaned your house very, very thoroughly in a twisted attempt to avoid the thing you actually have to do? This is me doing that now - if I describe my morning to you, maybe I won’t have to face the task of finding some elegant, brilliant, witty way to introduce myself and this audio series. The cursed cursor is blinking, inexorably, reminding me just how blank my page is. Ask not for whom the cursor blinks - it blinks for thee!

Here we are, dear reader, at the beginning. I’m launching the first episode of my audio series, The Reader’s Museum, this week. In it, I’ll be considering objects from novels of yesteryear and today. When I had the idea for this series, the obvious first question was which book to choose for the maiden voyage, this our first of many visits to The Reader’s Museum - there are so many possibilities! But, in the end, it was actually quite an easy choice. The pandemic was a terrible time for so many reasons, the least of which being that I have a profound and unending loathing for the word ‘unprecedented.’ Doesn’t it make your skin crawl? My teeth itch just writing it. During that unprecedented period, (yuck), I tried to read new books, watch new shows, new movies - but nothing doing. Instead, the books that found their way nightly to my bedside table were old favourites, books I’d read again and again (and again) since childhood. They were comfort blankets with covers, offering certainty in a time when nothing seemed certain. No matter how many times I picked it up, Anne of Green Gables stayed the same - Anne’s hair was still distinctly red, Diana was the best of bosom friends, Gilbert Blythe was an absolute dishy dish, and chapter thirty-seven still made me weep like a child. So where else could I start but with these ink and paper companions who had bourne and buoyed me for so long?

The joy of this series, I hope, will be that unlike brick and mortar museums, wonderful as they are, this museum lives in the imagination. It can look and feel and sound however we choose. Are the objects housed at The Reader’s Museum beneath glass, on plinths, hanging on walls? Are they organised by time period, by material, by novel, by chapter? Is the museum itself an impressive, imposing work of architecture, a cozy nook that smells of second-hand books, an ever-expanding rabbit hole - or something entirely new? Only one way to find out! All this to say, dear reader, that the museum is officially open: the doors are swung wide, admission is free, and you are always welcome to join me as we move through books and centuries, people and places, here at The Reader’s Museum.

Jennifer