Librarians are known for their ability to acquire items in an organized, intentional, and targeted fashion. Once acquired, the older, outdated, and out-of-use items should be removed from usage.
Right? RIGHT?
You might have a hoarding disorder, but we have the perfect job for you. Just ask for an application at the circulation desk.
However, the new librarian might also have persistent difficulty getting rid of or parting with said items due to a perceived need to store, display, or save for posterity. Attempts to part with acquired collections create considerable distress and might lead to decisions to file, chronicle or archive.
But what happens when the acquisition becomes impulsive (we should probably have knitting tools and accessories during National Knitting Month) with little active planning (that author died so let's purchase all their books) triggered by the sight of objects that can be arranged (we should make a display with clever yet somewhat loose theme).
Sound familiar? If so, you might have a hoarding disorder, but we have the perfect job for you. Just ask for an application at the circulation desk.
Sure, librarians might enrich, collect, curate, and store information; the theory being that they will be able to "improve their community by disseminating good information and making it easier for people to gain knowledge" (The Atlas of New Librarianship).
But you ask: At what point does information overload? When, if ever, do we weed and discard? How will we know when we've reached capacity? When are many books, too many? What if we are saving for a future generation that might never come?
Wait--what if the makerspace is actually 'making' us???
"Relax, relax" says Celia Adler, a veteran staff member at the Portsmouth Free Public Library and longtime Archivist. "We have a duty to preserve the record of mankind and it is our moral obligation to make them available to the public at large," she says as she pets the library cat and pours you a strange, soothing liquid from a plastic thermos.
"Come, sit. You are new here, yes?" An intoxicating aroma of old, water-damaged books fills the room, comforting you. Celia moves several stuffed carts with items "to be shelved" and pats a spot on her favorite bean bag chair for you.
"Don't you see, we must preserve the material so people can obtain it. It is our--" she takes a long, sinister pause--"responsibility."
She escorts you through the basement hallways as you narrowly weave through the disheveled stacks of documents, photographs, maps, films, and old computers.
"These are the records, the records of life," she says with a crazed look in her eye. "Is this basement a health and safety concern? A fire hazard with numerous health code violations? Who is to say for sure...."
"All of this knowledge can be yours, but you must keep it, protect it..." she trailed off as the room darkened. "Will this power lead to family strain and conflicts within your relationships? Isolation and loneliness? Of course."
She presents you with a key to the Archive.
"But what could be more noble?