It’s four in the morning and I should be asleep. Commencement starts in 5 hours, but chemo is keeping me awake. I was planning on writing a general message to new LIS graduates, but it just kept feeling overblown and preachy. Instead I’d like to direct my comments to this year’s graduating class of library science students – now librarians – at Syracuse University’s iSchool.

First, know that you are special to me. You were the first class I was responsible for accepting while LIS director. I learned so much from you. I saw how you filled the holes in curriculum and hands on skills by organizing yourselves and building a network of support. That move changed the program, and the school. I saw how you quickly saw beyond buildings and books to communities and proactive service.

Let me, if I may, give you one final lesson – a thought as you head into what for many will be your first job in libraries: Don’t wait. It will be too easy to wait to share your voice and your vision. You will want to wait for some experience. You will want to wait for promotion, or a management position, or the next job…don’t. Your voice, and your fresh perspective are too valuable to wait. The field needs you, just as I needed to learn from you.

I am not asking you to alienate, and I am certainly not excusing you from the obligation of listening. What I am saying is that time is no automatic test of fitness. Good ideas come from new places, and old ideas may need to be retired. The field needs your passion and it needs it now.

I realize that many of you are in your 20s and 30s and see the expanse of your life before you. You have plans, and career tracks, and goals for tomorrow…don’t wait. Don’t wait because now is the time for big and bold ideas. Don’t wait, because you have been prepared as radical positive change agents. Don’t wait, because you never know when all that time you saw before you is taken by lay-offs, an unreasonable boss, or the knife of a biopsy.

You have a voice in this profession not because your newly minted degree entitles you to one, but because you have earned it. I have seen you earn it in the classroom, and beyond. I am proud of you. Change the world!

Editorial note. After having a great conversation with folks on twitter it became apparent that I devalued youth librarianship out of hand. I apologize for that and it was not my intention. I have noted the edit below.

I got the call while I was in the Apple store (surgical mask firmly in place to protect a very low white blood count). It was hard to hear. Margy Avery, my editor at MIT Press, and Rachel Frick, head of the Digital Library Federation, were asking me if it was OK to “something … Expect More… something… OK?!” After a few more “what?” I got that they wanted to load my latest book on to their LibraryBox and distributed it around Austin Texas and the SXSWi Conference – which is cool. Rachel just wrote up a great post on librarians SXSW and I have to say that I am proud to be a tiny part and jealous as hell I wasn’t there.

You see, in all of the recent back and forth on rock star librarians I read the posts from the rather enviable position as someone who got to give keynotes, and got invited to conferences. I’m not sure I would use rock star, but I was very happy to be in demand as a speaker (hopefully about more substantive things than simply the latest gadget or trend). I am very fortunate to work at a place and in a job and with a boss who appreciates getting out and scholarship making a difference in practice (Syracuse University’s iSchool, professor, Liz Liddy who is awesome).

I realized a long time ago that these conference trips for me are more than just an opportunity to speak, pick up a few bucks, and get my ego stroked (which I am not a big enough person to not need). They are a chance to meet new people, hear amazing stories, and argue out ideas in the most amazing conversation – a conversation of professionals who every day serve real members.

Then a few things happened. Last summer I developed some mysterious illness that to this day no one is quite sure what it was. It put me to sleep most of the day, gave me splitting headaches, and eventually seizure like symptoms treated with draconian drugs that more or less put me in a permanent bad mood with 10% less brain function (or at least that is how it felt). My travel was canceled. And while I still spoke via teleconference, the stories and chance encounters, and frankly the group dialog was closed.

In January that was cleared up, and with glee I looked at the possibility of getting back on the road, always careful to balance requests with my obligations at work and at home. And three weeks later I was in the hospital for 20 days facing 8 months of chemo for lymphoma, and pretty much told that airplanes and a compromised immune system don’t mix. I vividly remember as a brilliant and compassionate nurse hung a bag of chemo medicine on an IV saying “you just have to get used to putting your life on ahold for a while.”

So as I read the conference posts, and saw the Movers and Shakers, and as I reviewed the conference slides posted by friends, I couldn’t help but feel a bit passed by. “Will they remember me?” “When I kick cancer’s ass will anyone still want me to talk?” It was a pity party. It was jealousy, it was the worst part of me. Then I got a calls from friends that started out with “how are you doing” and always ended with “how can we solve professional problem X” or advance on a dissertation, or do something cool. This week I got a message via FaceBook with a plea to speak out on Open Access (which I will) and add my voice to that conversation. A type of message I invite from all.

I realized that being a rock star librarian has nothing to do with stage time and wanting to hear me talk. To be a true star (and yes I realize the arrogance of implying I deserve that title), one must be able to get other people talking. And to get people talking one must have something interesting to start the conversation.

Chuck McClure (clearly one of my stars) once talked about how a bad conference (and journal) was filled with “How we do it good” pieces. Stories of implementation of some technique or technology in a library with little thought to larger issues, or larger implementation across the profession. George Needham (star) once said you could tell a bad conference by how many speakers started their presentation by telling you when they got their library degree (sometimes phrased as when the dinosaurs roamed the earth). Both points are about people speaking, not inviting the world to a conversation. Both are admissions of myopia. Good ideas, truly great ideas transcend place and transcend time. And any good conversation starts with a good question…and the question “will you look at me” is never a good question.

Also realize that when you ask a good question, when you propose a conversation intended to lead to positive change, there will be those who seek to kill the conversation. Some out of an honest belief that your position or ideas are not yet ready…seek these out. There will also be those who seek to stop the conversation out of envy, or an unwillingness to engage the new. The only way you know the difference is through conversation. Those who disagree for the right reason will converse, and argue, and fight, and reply. Those who seek to be shielded from change will simply ignore or dismiss you or worse belittle you. I was at a doctoral defense that lasted 30 minutes. Most of that time was the candidate presenting his material. Afterward I asked a member of the review committee why it was so short, when, in my opinion, the topic was so weak. The committee member’s response; “you have to say something interesting to prompt questions.”

So when I looked at the interior of my house and the institutional walls of the regional oncology center I felt like the world got smaller… the world I really wanted to be a part of was in Texas, or Mississippi, or London, or Austin. But then I realized, that my professional world is only as small as the questions I ask. There are good questions for those physical locations (am I doing all I can to care for and appreciate my family; am I doing all I can to kick cancer’s ass) but if my professional question is only “will you look at me?” Then, frankly, they are big enough because who the hell cares.

I have bigger questions. Questions about the future of our profession. Questions about the direction of the information science field. And these questions don’t stop at my front door and they damn sure don’t stop with me. I have had the most wonderful conversations with mentors, and mentees, and friends and colleagues since my diagnosis. Those Movers and Shakers? I have worked with a ton of them and feel fortunate to call them friends. They share my questions and are keeping that dialog alive around the world.

So can I sit in Wichita, or Columbus, or Fort Worth and get new stories? Not yet. But I am I trapped by the physical walls around me? No. And so, several months too late, I finally have my answer for the rock star conversation. Being a rock star is not about hipster attitudes and new tools. Nor is it about the number of conference invites, or even the area in which you practice. Being a rock star is about having a damn good question and being damn good about inviting others to join in a conversation.

Eric Miller made this point so clear to me. We were working on a project called Reference Extract that sought to use reference transactions as the basis for a credibility search engine. He asked “so what is our goal in this project?” I said something to the effect of “making a credibility search engine.” To which he replied “I think we’re trying to demonstrate how librarians can be fundamental to making good decision on the Internet.” Suddenly my response seemed small, and frankly uninteresting. I learned you NEVER lose by taking the high ground and the grand aspiration.

Youth librarianship and the books we choose and why? In youth Librarianship why should we care what books are chosen when we really care about how they propel our youth on a course to change the world they inherit? Don’t give me titles; give me titles and reasons. School libraries and adoption of the Common Core? Nope. Overcoming an increasingly misguided education assessment system to liberate the aspirations of our students? I’m there. What is a digital object identifier? I only care once you convince me that if librarians don’t step up and get our digital heritage in order, we are stymied as a society in inventing our future.

Good questions, passion, the quest to engage and forward the conversation of our profession does not have to happen on the road. It happens in the networks we build and the change we inspire. I hope to be back on the road and speaking when my body heals, but until that time I refuse to put the conversation on hold. If you feel your questions are important don’t wait for the conference invite, or the paper submission, ask the damn question. If what I say is stupid, or arrogant, or guarded, call me on it, and hope and pray others do the same with your work.

Librarianship is not a set of skills to be learned, or a set of degrees to be mastered. Librarianship is a conversation that has taken place over millennia. It is a conversation that we must all be a part of or it will die. It will not die from defunding, Google, and whether we make the transition to RDA. It will die if librarians forget they have an obligation to constantly reinvent ourselves, imagine a better future, or stay silent until asked our opinions.

I am often asked by academic librarians how to partner with tenure track faculty. I always tell them to help them with their tenure cases. Not just teach an untenured professor or his or her GA how to search: help them. Do the searches. Help them brainstorm beyond Google Scholar for citations. Look at holdings in WorldCat for books, find example packages. Many wonder if this isn’t way too much work for the relationship built. I would like them to know where this advice comes from. I apologize for the rather self-reflective nature of this post, but you need to know the honesty with which I give this advice.

I have tenure. I have rank (I’m a “Full” these days), and it seems an unspoken tradition that I can now complain about the state of the field, my colleagues, my students, loss of some focus, and the myriad deviations academia has made since I started out in this profession. Yet I’d like to tell you what I remember most from when I started: I was scared out of my mind. I felt alone even though I had the rare chance of being hired into the same school in which I received my Ph.D. In fact that made it worst. I was now sitting next to Jeff Katzer, Mike Eisenberg, and Chuck McClure! I was nothing.

In the opening week of my first year we had a series of progressive dinners to meet other new faculty members. They were all smarter than me. We were received by the provost at the Chancellor’s resident – the same provost who had welcomed me as a freshman to campus 11 years earlier (I am truly a survivor of academic incest). He knew my name. It didn’t feel like an honor, I felt like a target.

Would I ever publish? Would I ever get a grant now that my advisor was leaving for a new job? When would they realize that I was fake; an unprepared kid who bluffed his way through the final defense, and felt about as scholarly as a rock. In my first year of my new position my father died. I was even more alone. My wife had her job and was of great support, but come on – this was tenure and I was special (don’t worry she has since beaten this out of me).

In my first year evaluation, with nothing to really evaluate, my peers asked what my theoretical framework was. My what?!? I used Complexity Theory in my dissertation, does that count. My insecurity grew as my tenured peers reached out with advice and honest attempts to help. Every word of advice only served to make me feel inadequate. I tried to cover my insecurity with arrogance. “Who needs to publish a peer reviewed article? So old fashioned.” “I may not have a lot of publications, but I bring in a lot of research dollars, they’re all just jealous.”

It was with arrogance that I went into my third year review, where the tenured faculty had to make a determination if I could make tenure at the end of three more years. The first vote was negative…I couldn’t. I was angry. I was indignant. I was an idiot. In conversations with my former advisors, and my previous, and as it turns out, my present dean (then chair of the committee), I broke. I was mad, but I listened. They gave me very good advice. They talked about what it took to get my attention, and how that is not what they want in a colleague, and who would.  The second vote passed, I would get my chance at tenure.

After three more years, with a much better record, with listening, with a lot of work, and working with my fellow faculty, I received tenure. Five years later, promotion to full.

Why this long prolog? If you are an academic librarian, I needed you. All your new faculty need you. They won’t say that and they will certainly not say that to someone else on their faculty. They will be arrogant, they will be dismissive, but it is very likely because they are scared. Be a friend. Be a helper outside of the peers they are most likely either avoiding, or desperately trying to please. Give them an escape. Give them and ear. Give them hope. Once you help one, use it as an endorsement for the next, and then the next new face. Team them up with other folks facing the same challenges. Host writing clubs and tenure clubs. Host briefings of specific journal titles with accept rates, rankings, trends in articles published, and contact information for editors. Hell, if the faculty’s dean is anything like mine, they would help you do it. These new folks feel like they are fighting a war…they probably feel unequipped to do so. Help them with strategy.

The foundation of conversations, or facilitating knowledge is trust. As I said in the Atlas your most valuable tool as a librarian is your credibility. Before any conversation happens, before any partnership is formed, before any relationship can be struck beyond stereotypes and misunderstandings, there must be trust. That scared assistant professor needs to trust you. They need to know that you know they are scared, but trust you won’t give them up. You can be their hope. Their hope that maybe, just maybe, they can catch up by the time it comes to prove themself. Give them cover.

Today I admit to still being scared sometimes, and inadequate. However, I have learned that that fear is my trigger to listen and learn. It is hard. I will still lash out. I apologize.

For those assistant professors reading this and not relating. Congratulations on either being better prepared, or better at denial. But for those who relate. Courage.