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Cole always uses one of the library’s computers before building his book fortress. He settles in front of one of the screens, arranges his notebook beside the keyboard, then begins to type at a slow, but steady pace.
I’ve wondered more times than the number of books in this library—and we have thousands—exactly what he’s writing. Some type of story, obviously.
Is he putting together a novel? A short story?
Are the words just for him, like a hobby, or is he seeking representation?
Has he published anything? Can I read his drafts?
But I know that writers can be very sensitive about their writing, and I’d never want to affect Cole’s confidence.
Not that I think it’s likely I would be able to. Still, just in case, I’ve kept myself from badgering him about it.
Maybe I could ask Jamie.
No. I quickly squash that idea. If I’m going to learn anything about Cole’s writing, it’s going to be from the man himself.
Instead of going up to greet him, I decide not to be a distraction and go do my job.
But when I get back to my office, I face a conundrum.
For once, my email inbox is shockingly empty. I don’t have reference or circulation desk duty until later. There aren’t any events today that I’m coordinating. Plenty of volunteers showed up to help shelve books.
I have a chunk of free time to work on projects. And I know exactly which one needs my attention most. Still, I fiddle around on a news site and check the library’s social media pages. Avoiding the task.
But putting this off is like not going to the doctor when I have a gaping, bleeding wound. Things aren’t just going to magically get better.
I need to practice.
A few months ago, I received word that my submission to present at the Louisiana Public Library Conference was accepted. When I opened that email, I’d had a few seconds of excitement, followed by weeks of panic.
This is a good thing. Fantastic for your career. One of the goals you set for yourself!
If only I could enjoy all those perks without the accompanying terror.
It’s not that I don’t believe in my presentation. The topic is our library’s approach to serving our homeless patrons. I’ve mapped out exactly what I want to talk about, the experiences I’m excited to share. I even got Amy to agree to co-present with me so we have both the librarian and social worker viewpoints.
So it’s not the content giving me panic sweats.
It’s the actual act of presenting.
This anxiety always grips me when I think of talking to more than just a handful of people. The fear comes on, tearing at my insides, mocking my once-confident thoughts. My eyes dart around, looking for the closest large object I can duck behind.
Why? I have no idea.
It’s not rational. It’s not like I’m being asked to speak in front of a crowd on the verge of rioting. This is a presentation at a library conference. The room will be filled with the most chill people in the world.
And still the panic comes.
Which is why I need to stop avoiding this and instead spend my free chunks of time practicing. With a resigned sigh, I push away from my desk, pull open my filing cabinet, and grab the script I typed up for myself. Maybe if I have every single word memorized, I can use the rest of my brain capacity to keep myself from freaking out.
I just need to visualize the crowd. Work through it that way.
An idea sparks in my brain, and I swipe through my phone to the app store, wondering if…yep. Those Silicon Valley programmers think of everything.
After downloading my new find, I’m ready to practice.
My eyes scan the first paragraph before I close them, trying to instill the words in my brain.
