I hadn’t set foot inside a public library in over thirty years.
Last Saturday, when I walked through the sliding doors of the modern County of San Diego branch on Eucalyptus Avenue in Vista, my eyes instinctively scanned the floor for the familiar, comforting sight of varnished oak cabinets and brass pull-handles.
I walked up to the front desk, looked the librarian dead in the eye, and asked with complete earnestness: "Where’s the card catalog?"
She didn’t laugh, though she had every right to. Instead, she offered a warm, dry smile: "We magically had the computer digest it."
And just like that, I was enrolled.
Not the Rodney Dangerfield kind of back-to-school. No diving board, no loud blazer, no campus party, and thankfully, no need to convince anyone I belonged there. Just an overdue reminder that while I was busy with other things, the library computer ate the card catalog and the world kept spinning.
The catalyst had been a flyer on the bulletin board a few days earlier: Writers Workshop: Lisa M. Lane – Being There: Creating Immersive Settings Through Research . . .
Two hours in a room full of writers discussing texture, sensory detail, and the authentic ground beneath a reader’s feet will do strange things to your memory. For starters, it makes you realize how much you’ve forgotten. As Lisa broke down the alchemy of turning obscure facts into living, breathing scenes, a spark caught. During the group discussion, we talked about why readers gravitate toward stories anchored in specialized worlds—the intricate mechanics of a profession most people only glimpse from the outside.
It hit me: I’ve been sitting on one of those worlds.
Years ago, I started writing The Adventures of Peridot, blending mystery with the exact science, lore, and high-stakes trade of gemology. Gemstones aren't just pretty rocks under museum lights. They carry cutthroat histories, optical anomalies, subterranean pressures, and trade secrets whispered across dealer tables from Antwerp to Mumbai. There is considerably more going on inside a stone than "Ooh, pretty," and the people trading them aren't sitting around singing Kumbaya while comparing inclusions.
Somewhere between my last library visit three decades ago and Saturday’s workshop, The Adventures of Peridot had been tucked away in a mental drawer—filed under Maybe Someday, the most dangerous filing system known to writers. Nothing ever really disappears there. It just sits quietly, waiting to ambush you when you’re least prepared.
Lisa’s workshop reminded me that readers don’t just want a plot; they want to be there. They want the weight of a 10x loupe in hand, the cool touch of a polished rough, the nervous pause before deciding whether a stone is genuine, and the knowledge that a specific fracture pattern reveals whether someone is lying about treatment.
That's the magic of research: the obscure detail becomes the doorway.
So, school is officially back in session. I’m pulling The Adventures of Peridot off the shelf, dusting off the field notes, and bringing the loupe back into focus. Over the coming weeks here on On the Fly, I’ll be reintroducing Peridot’s world—the gems, the science, the travel, the characters, and the stories hidden deep inside the facets.
Don't panic: there will be no Scantron forms, no No. 2 pencils, and absolutely no essay questions asking anyone to compare and contrast. I've suffered enough.
Just take a trip to your local library. Ask them where the cards went, wander the stacks, and let your mind remember that learning doesn't require tuition. You might even discover that the story you’ve been looking for has been on your mental shelf all along.
Of course, unlike the old card catalog, you still have to remember where you put it.
I’m Patrick Ball. Stay curious and ask better questions. See you at the library.
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