Making me ILL

I had a bit of a shock last week. I went online to request an interlibrary loan from the Nowhere College library and the website said such things were unavailable for the summer. It seemed like such a perfect example of everything that's wrong with this place. The summer, the only time the overworked and underpaid faculty could possibly do research, is the one time when they are unable to acquire even the briefest glimpses of research materials from other libraries. That's just perfect, I thought.

Turns out, however, that the note was just for students, and I've just successfully placed an ILL request. For yet another recent book that's been published on EXACTLY my book's topic. By the time I'm in print, everything I could possibly say will be tired and no longer clever. The next book I write is going to be on some wretched and obscure author like Aurelian Townsend that no one cares about, and using some outdated throwback methodology that isn't a hot theory topic that everyone loves and knows better than I do. Like, I dunno, phrenology. That's it. I'll measure Aurelian Townsend's skull to get clues about why his interminable allegorical poetry is so shit.

In other news, though, the N.C. Players opened the Agatha Christie show we're doing to raucus admiration and applause. And since I play the murder victim, I don't even have to be in the second act. It's a brilliant way to do theater. Not-too-demending role, not-too-demanding audience.