My conversations are either had with my friends over text, my parents over dinner, or myself over lined paper. In my spare time, I go to the library—mostly to create some semblance of productivity, convincing myself that sitting in a room highly saturated with words will give me a purpose. It is often the most exciting part of my day.
She’s so creative and intellectual. I bet she wears glasses—
Shut up! Okay, I do sometimes wear reading glasses, but I don’t want to come across as the love interest in a male-written indie film.
I scribble in my journal, which I can do at home, but, at the library, I feel like a disturbed poet (the romanticized kind), only instead of a rustic coffee shop, I tuck myself in the corner of an air-conditioned hub for overpaid tutors prepping teens for the SAT; instead of sprinkling cigarette ashes over my journal, I wince as my Starbucks latte sweats onto the ink. But I’m unlike these basic children studying algebra and revising sentences; I am an artist.
Like the best artists do, I scroll through Instagram, to keep my thumbs occupied when I can’t think of what to write. Social media also provides a sort of white noise, one that muffles the thoughts I wish not to confront—thoughts like People are going to judge me for still living in Wilton or One Direction is never getting back together.
If I’ve scribbled out enough of my surface angst, I get up and walk to the nonfiction section, making sure to avoid eye contact with other library goers I might know (thought many of them are just elderly couples making their contributions to the communal jigsaw puzzle). I ask my legs, Why are we searching for a book? Aren’t we trying to write an essay?
My legs don’t answer (they are legs, after all, and legs do not speak). I keep walking.
My second mind intervenes; We are searching for a book, because, to create words, one must intake them.
I roll my eyes, knowing that this is all an excuse for my lack of creative focus. A woman with white, wrinkled skin furrows her drawn-on brows at me, probably wondering why I just rolled my eyes at her.
Do I browse for books that tell me how to write, or do I browse for books that “show don’t tell”—demonstrations? If I go for demonstrations, do I grab writers I know and love, like David Sedaris or Nora Ephron, or do I venture out? A middle aged man is perusing the section I had my eye on, so any writers A–C are off limits, as there is no way I’ll beg his pardon and squeeze myself in there. Oh well.
I spy a book titled How to Become a Famous Writer Before You’re Dead: Your Words in Print and Your Name in Lights. It seems humorous and helpful. I bring it back to my seat.
Upon my return I see a girl with a ponytail has taken the seat across from me, a round table between us. I like my space, physically and mentally. How can I focus when there’s potential for accidental eye contact? I open the book, forcing myself to be engrossed despite this major setback.
The book tells me to write— when I’m at work, when I’m at home, when I’m in traffic. I tense up. Sure, I write a lot, probably most days of the week, but now I feel pressure. Am I wasting precious time reading instead of writing? Like the book points out, I could die any minute; eighty more years are not guaranteed. It’s raining today, which means the streets might be slippery. My petite sedan could flip over and crash through the window of the coffee shop across the street. One of my softball players could drill the ball into my temple, leaving a crack in my skull for my brains to ooze out. All the people I’ve cut off in traffic could have banded together and are standing right behind me as I’m reading; in my mind they’re carrying pitchforks.
And so I accept that the book telling me to write is stressing me out, and I write about that.
