All the names I know from nurse:
Gardener’s garters, Shepherd’s purse,
Bachelor’s buttons, Lady’s smock,
And the Lady Hollyhock.
The Flowers by Robert Louis Stevenson
This week we cleaned house. Our script house that is. We keep a small number of scripts on hand for Canadian orders; the bookcases occupy the space in the office directly across from where I work. New scripts were added, our storage scripts were restocked, we removed books that were damaged, torn or worn.
I love looking at the wall of books. First of all, they’re darn pretty – a rainbow of colours spanning the shelf. We actually take a moment to think about the cover colours – what colour does such and such a play represent? Does it matter? I don’t know, but we do take the time. What colour could Anonymous be but white? Shout is a joyful orange. Drop Dead Juliet a bright fighting pink.
The scripts are my indoor flowers – they’re my perfect flowers. I’m not a fan of flowers or plants in the house – perhaps because I forget/neglect/kill them. But the rows and rows of pastels and brights never fail to bring a smile to my face, as I know real flowers do to others.
Secondly, every single script in our catalogue is represented on these shelves. Some take up more space than others. Some have had better sales than others. Some have old covers and old addresses. But they’re all there. And often when I look at the rows and rows I’m overwhelmed, I’m proud, I’m gleeful, I’m thrilled. That’s some of my work up there and it goes out into the world and sits like a never fading flower on someone else’s book shelf. I love them all and I’m happy for them all. There are some big bright noisy sunflowers and some tiny overlooked violets. I wish I could do more for the violets – it’s hard to stand shoulder to shoulder with a sunflower.
The best I can do is keep them on the shelf and admire them daily.