Yesterday I went to the library to do some research. I thought it might help break through with my writer’s block if I could find something juicy about the New York Mob. But like usual, the library didn’t have the perfect stuff I needed. The books I wanted were already checked out by someone else. (I had a fleeting moment of pondering whether they were planning to write a similar book.) I had to put the books I wanted on hold, which was not what I had in mind when I went into the building.
So, seeing I couldn’t get the materials I wanted, I wandered through the stacks of fiction. I thought, “Hey, I wonder if they have my book on the shelf?” So after I figured out that the books were arranged in alphabetical order according the the author’s name, I zoomed over the the “Mc’s” and voila! There was MY book on the shelf! A ripple of pride went through me; I picked the familiar book off the shelf and read the back cover. I pretended I didn’t know the author, in case some snoopy Big Brother camera was watching me admire my own book. But there was my picture — on the back cover, so I if someone caught me in a private moment of the wicked sin of pride, I would have been guilty.
I slipped the book back into its place on the shelf and I walked out of the library with a smile on my face even though I didn’t come close to finding the materials I wanted.
I felt a little like the brick layer who goes buy a building he worked on and proudly says to his children, “I built that one! See the one with the fine brick work?” Yeah. That’s how it felt for me to see my book beside the zillions of other books on the shelf. I wanted to shout, “I wrote this one!” But I didn’t dare–after all, I was int he library.
And yes, St. Peter, chalk me up for one big sin of pride — it was worth it.