A few weeks ago I went to the library for some quiet writing time. I got comfortable in my crazy geometric chair and waited while my laptop whirred to life. I turned my head and just let my eyes drift unfocused over the shelves behind me.
You know that technique in film-making in which the camera zooms in and dollies out? And it looks like the world is suddenly rushing past the stunned character while he or she is still? Well, that’s what that moment felt like. I saw each book as I see my own when I hold it — all the revolutions of rough drafts, the tears of frustration and grumbling over formatting, the many iterations of the cover image, the years of research I poured into it.
Each book has been cried over, laughed over, loved and hated, reworked, edited within an inch of its life, tossed in the trash and pulled out again, clothed in cover after cover until the perfect look is found. How many years of work are represented in these millions, billions of books? The ranks of silent words suddenly yelled at me of all the effort that has gone into making them appear on a library shelf for anybody to casually pick up, thumb through, or reject.
It left me breathless.
And my book is among them.
I felt honored. And now when I go to the library to write, I feel I am in good company.