With friends like these

Elements of Style. Yep. Bird by Bird. Definitely. I came here to get that book. How to Write a Sentence. Hmm. I add it to the stack in my left arm. I flip the book over to read the back of the dust jacket. Holding the book open with my right arm I lean my left elbow on the library shelf to take some weight off. I scan the author bio. Sure, what the hell. Continuing down the shelves I add book after book. With each book I feel excited: insight, instruction, clarity… if I read this book I will finally be ready, be past the obstacles in my way, be able to write what and how I want to, and feel better about it. Their number and weight grows in my arm. How long will it take me to read all of these books? Do I have time for that? I swat at that fly of a thought with the next book I pick up. The doubt buzzes away, circles back around my ear, and it brought a friend. There are so many more of these books on the shelves. I can’t read them all. I have to choose. Have I chosen the right ones? A swarm now: how will I know what the right ones are? If I need to read these books then I lack the knowhow these books will give me. Lacking that knowhow, how can I make informed choices? I feel these questions’ disgusting fly feet on my neck and forehead. My bicep groans, sweat drops trickle down my lower back. I grab books faster now, I’ll take more, that will improve the odds… but increase the time… and time is short. I begin listing things I need to do, the things that make my time short and make that shortness a problem. Oh god. Images of yellow sticky notes with scribbles on them loom, each scribble a pressing task, tiny scribble crowd each note. My mind grinds its teeth and stares at these imaginary post-its. Leaderless my hands and eyes gather more books, ignoring my protesting arm. I remember the backache I developed this summer from carrying too many library books. The memory of those sharp pains and dull aches clears a hole in the post-it notes. The stack of books is too large. I triage quickly and put my head down, refusing eye contact with the expert volumes peering down at me from the library shelves. Walking quickly, looking straight ahead, I rush to the checkout computer. These books will have to do. I swipe their bar codes and feel the tightness in my face. “Get in their you fuckers,” I dump the bundle of books in my backpack. Stupid fucking books.