Sitting at the Library
I have an excellent writing room. I also have an anti-library in my big, old house in the middle of Hillbilly Land. I decided to return to the library tonight instead of sitting at home. Why? I guess my writing spaces aren’t that compelling to make me stay. Besides, the weather is amiable, and I want to get out before the feet of snow arrive. Such is life for those trying to survive in the snow belt. On top of that, I live in one of the few areas that have to deal with lake-effect snow. The older I get, the more I dislike it.
So, I sit at the library, holding court in the fiction section. I see no other patrons. There are three or four employees and me. Even the homeless are not seeking shelter today; the weather is too nice.
I thought today might be the day something compelling makes its way from my fingertips to the computer screen. No such luck. I am tired, way too tired to flint with inspiration. I am not writing today; I am typing. I think it was Capote who said that Kerouac was not a writer; he was simply a typist. Excuse me if I am mistaken; my fact-checker team is on hiatus. No idea when or if to expect them back. All for the better; it was time for them to fly, spread their wings, and get their own fact-checkers.
Inspiration has been in short supply in these parts; it has been replaced by involuntary, undramatic grinding. The kind where every sentence is a struggle, and in the end, it appears not to matter if the effort was worth it or not. I fear this is becoming a trend. If my assistants were still here, I would have them look into it.
Is it even possible? Can an inspired work, maybe a novel, spring from a grind? I don’t see how that is possible if the struggle is not to achieve greatness but to remain upright. Is walking the earth out of morbid curiosity a concoction for excelling?
I have long argued that to understand humans, you must learn all you can about hope. Hope is what politicians and the clergy peddle. It gets people out of bed when it is clear they are better off staying. Things can (and will) get better, right? You and I hope so.
I am 60. I do not know how that happened. I remember being disappointed that my great novel, my life’s work, was not completed when I turned 30. Sure, I had multiple graduate degrees from Harvard University at that point, but those parchments were only an indication of promise. A hint of possibilities.
I am reminded of a professor I once knew. He was granted tenure at a top university at a very young age. The expectations for this man were very high. It was just a matter of time until he made a significant contribution to his chosen field and the world. It never happened. He grew old and then older. Ultimately, people stopped expecting anything from him, and he met their expectations. His death did not resonate throughout his professional community.
The implied question is a good one. Is it imperative that each of us strive to make a significant contribution to our chosen fields? If we don’t, have our lives been failures? I have often written that each individual is the arbiter of their success. No one else’s opinion matters, not even a little. Such a question can only be asked and answered on an individual basis. I know what I think, and no one could convince me otherwise. I have never been one to settle or make concessions.
I see three library employees; that makes four of us in the building. The doors close in an hour, and I notice stealthy glances. Who will approach with the compulsory “Sir, we are closing in five minutes.” They have nothing to worry about. I am too tired to stay much longer. I would push it if the link between my brain and my fingers was more fiber optic than analog.
A good night’s sleep, right? That is all I need. Perhaps a dream foreshadowing an onslaught of inspiration. A Mozart level of insight into the unimagined. I hope so; I really do.
