Sometimes I like to write blog posts about how to do things that I myself am not necessarily very good at. Today is one of those days.
I recently visited my local library for the first time in many years. I wrote some short prose about it here (also includes poached eggs and being approached by a creepy guy). The library felt the same in some ways, but very different in others. It struck me how sparse it seemed – it wasn’t the wonderland of high shelves and tall tales that I remembered. It seemed to house fewer books than I remembered. Huge shelves stacked high with books just look so enticing to me. I don’t want to be climbing up ladders, but who among us wouldn’t want a library to rival that of Belle’s in Beauty and the Beast? (Or like Stuttgart City Library, pictured below.) Maybe the shelves seemed lower because I’m bigger now, or maybe because fewer people use the library these days, it has become a little unloved.
Last night I had a dream that I went to a writing group for the first time. The leader of the group asked us to spend 25 minutes writing about a real person, so I began writing a poem about a friend who I haven’t seen for a while. But I was having trouble writing it, because the letters I wrote kept changing once they were on the page. I also lost ten minutes because I had to go home and find a notebook, as I had arrived unprepared.