“Your role as the keepers and custodians of knowledge and story is sacred, and your role in our cultural vital—don’t let anyone ever make you doubt that. “

“Libraries are the soul of a civilization. They are paginated universes. And now, as an author, going to a library and seeing something I’ve written being held on those hallowed shelves, well, it’s the culmination of a lifelong dream.”

“Raised on saltwater and sand and the particular force of New England summer storms, it was probably inevitable that my writing would eventually return there, but after a decade of writing about 19th Century London, 21st Century Rhode Island came as a surprise (though writing modern-day billionaires doesn’t take you too far afield from robber barons of old). Either way, sometimes an idea takes hold and refuses to let you go—that’s These Summer Storms.”

“I can easily say that libraries are the reason why I’m here doing what I do today. They fed my voracious need for happily ever afters and filled my rainy days with heated tales of faraway lands and hunky lairds.”

“The library was my haven when I didn’t realize I was at such high risk for falling apart.”

“There wouldn’t be a Murderland without libraries, and that goes for virtually every other book I’ve written.”

“I realized at an embarrassingly advanced age what most people already knew: libraries aren’t just about the books on their shelves––they’re about the readers they nurture, the communities they bring together and help, and the conversations they foster. . . There’s a special gratitude that comes from discovering this magic as an adult, which is why sharing my debut novel with you feels like a true privilege.”

“Whilst I no longer work at the library, I have fond memories of shelving books and spying accounts of Egyptian mythology, piling them on my book trolley, and then heading to the self-service machine to check them out. Libraries have always been a large part of my life, stretching back to when I was a child and, too short to reach the counter. . .”

“I was older than most when I first experienced the reassuring calm of the library—a refuge where I could stare out the window and dream just as often as I would open a book and engage. Daydreaming and reading intertwined, blurring the space between the stories I invented in my mind and those created by others. It was like a house of cards—precisely placed, perfectly balanced—until one fell, and, in solidarity, the other followed.”

“I cannot remember a life before reading. I can recall to this day the thrill of being given books as a child and then, as a teenager, the even greater excitement of choosing them myself: the unfurling of a sense of self with each new discovery, each a little more daring. I made my way, magpie-like, through the local mobile library, my school library, my parents’ shelves, and my grandfather’s bookcases.”

“In truth, I can’t recall receiving any one specific book recommendation in particular, but I can recall countless times being humbled and inspired by the generosity, patience and kindness demonstrated by librarians serving patrons from every demographic of the population.”

“I was a library kid. Growing up, we moved around a lot, and I while I can’t remember some of my teachers’ names, I can still vividly recall the joy of the stacks, the feeling of a dozen fresh Baby-Sitters Club or Sweet Valley High paperbacks stuffed in a plastic grocery bag, ready to be devoured like actual treats. Books were the perfect companion for the perpetual ‘new kid’ who didn’t have anyone to talk to at lunch.”