The Library

Jasmine slammed her laptop shut, the blank screen mocking her. She drained the last of her latte, its bitterness mirroring her frustration. Writing had always been her refuge, especially in retirement, but today, words eluded her like a cruel joke. Deciding a change of scenery might help, she left Lemon Drop Café and stepped into the unusually quiet main street.

Turning a corner, she noticed a narrow, cobblestone lane she'd never seen before. Curiosity piqued, she ventured down the lane, her footsteps echoing softly on the smooth cobblestones.

At the end of the lane stood an imposing building with a substantial red wooden door adorned with a large brass knocker. Georgian lamps cast cheerful beams around the entrance, and above the door, the word "Library" was inscribed in clear gold lettering. Jasmine frowned. How had she never noticed this before?’

 Pushing the door open, she entered a dimly lit foyer filled with the comforting scent of old books and polish. Behind a polished desk sat a woman in her sixties, dressed in a neat grey suit, her hair pulled back into a bun.

"Welcome," the woman said with a knowing smile. "We've been expecting you.”

"I didn't even know I was looking," Jasmine replied, puzzled.

"We knew you needed us”, the woman explained. "This is a special library. It only appears to those struggling with their writing"

Jasmine blinked. "Seriously?"

The woman nodded. "Follow me to the Reading Room. You’ll find it quite inspiring."

Jasmine followed the Librarian to a door labelled Reading Room. As it opened, Jasmine peered in uncertainly. The lighting was subtly different, creating a welcoming and cosy atmosphere. Inside, she noticed numerous plump sofas, chairs, and stools decked with scatter cushions of opulent velvets and silks, draped with various coloured luxurious cashmere throws. The beauty of the room made her gasp with pleasure. The contrast between the dim foyer and the vibrant Reading Room was striking.

The walls, from floor to ceiling, were crammed with books. Everywhere she looked—tables, cupboards—there were books. Everything was beautifully displayed, making her itch to open any book and start flicking through them. How strange that no signs indicated the genre of the books displayed.

“You’re a fiction writer, yes?” said the Librarian.

“Yes”.

“Shall we continue to the Fiction section? Wander amongst the books, see what you fancy, and return to the Reading Room. I think Sir Henry Rawlinson is working in the next room. He might be able to advise you.”

“At last, someone else in the Library,” she thought. “For such a beautiful building, it’s strangely quiet.”

2

She followed the Librarian next door and stared at the hundreds, maybe thousands, of books that stretched up as high as the ceiling, almost disappearing into nothingness. Ladders interspersed with narrow walking floors, and more ladders climbed higher and higher. She got dizzy just looking up. None of the fixtures were labelled in the usual manner —crime, romance, thrillers, sci-fi, or even autobiographies. This library had no signage at all.

Approaching the nearest shelves, she peered at the first spine and squinted. It was blank. She heard a noise behind her and turned to see a man of indiscriminate age writing at a table. He looked up and said, "Hello, can I help?"

She smiled. "Hi, I’m Jasmine. I assume you’re Sir Henry Rawlinson. This is a great library, but how do I find a book? There don’t seem to be any titles or authors printed on them.”

“No, there are no words inside the books either.”

“What do you mean? Why are there no words in the books?” a chill running down her spine. “How could a library have books with no words in them?”

“This is how life used to be. It must have been very boring. I personally love sitting and reading a book.”

“I don’t understand. Why were there no words in books? 

“It’s simple; writing hadn’t been invented. This is what my research entails - the first ever writing. Only the rich and powerful were eventually offered this wonderful reading and writing skill. It was considered a status symbol.” said Sir Henry. “I know you are struggling with your story this week, or you wouldn’t be in the Library. Let me help. So tell me, what’s been the problem?” asked Sir Henry solicitously.

Her face flushed, and she felt she would cry. The writer’s block had really got a grip on her.

“This week required more effort, and I convinced myself I couldn’t do it”, Jasmine said, looking at him. “I’ve been getting upset over nothing, haven’t I?”

“I can see why the Library revealed itself to you! Thank goodness everyone doesn’t give up, or we’d have nothing to read!” Sir Henry snorted. 

 “I am determined to get you writing again”, he told Jasmine. “I’ve read some of your work, and it’s OK. It’s not Shakespeare, but it’s good enough. The Library thinks you’re good enough. Sort out that lack of self-belief, and goodness knows what you might produce. But we'll never know if you sit staring at a blank screen all day.”

Jasmine felt entirely out of her depth in a room crammed with books that, unbeknown to her, had been sweated and struggled over. Poor Jasmine had assumed only she was experiencing problems, and no other author had ever struggled to produce a story.

“You do realise that all these books are just waiting for the authors to demonstrate how they wrote these - and for many, it was a real struggle. Pick up one of those books from a shelf. Look at the blank sheets, begin visualising any book, and watch it being written. Watch it being drafted and edited until the book you will come to know and love begins to appear.”

Jasmine shook her head. “How can this be a library? I’ve never heard of blank books in a library.”

He laughed, “Imagine if none of us wrote, this is how life would be. Boring, eh? I think I know the perfect book for you. How about ‘The Alchemist’ by Paulo Coelho?” 

“Have you read it?” asked the Librarian.

“No,” she said.

“It’s about chasing your dreams and listening to your heart—will that help you write?” asked Sir Henry.

“Oooh, I think so. Yes.”

Returning to the Reading Room, the Librarian smiled encouragingly and said, “Find a comfy seat. Open the book, and watch the blank pages slowly fill with the story.”

“Similar to when I switch on my laptop and start typing!” Jasmine said excitedly. The Librarian nodded.

Jasmine looked at the blank book and noticed how it perfectly fitted her hands. She eagerly opened the pages and let the faint smell of vanilla from the freshly prepared clean paper wash over her. Words seemed to appear as she swept her eyes over the page. One minute, it was a blank page; the next, it was full of printed text. How strange. She shook her head. 

The Librarian led her to one of the luxurious sofas. Picking up a coverlet, Jasmine covered herself with one of the soft, cuddly cashmere throws, kicked her shoes off, and, lying on the couch, began to read.

“This is ‘The Alchemist,’” she thought. “Why have I never read this before?”

“The author wrote it in only two weeks. He says it was already written in his soul. But even so, he had to put the effort into finishing writing it,” Got everything you need? Comfortable?” asked the Librarian.

Jasmine nodded and nestled further into the sofa, clutching the book. “Mmm, this sofa is so comfortable,” she thought as she re-read the opening page. 

The boy’s name was Santiago. Dusk fell as the boy arrived with his herd at an abandoned church. … an enormous sycamore had grown where the sacristy had once stood.

“Do I want to write a story about a shepherd called Santiago? Why will this book help me get over my word block?” she mused.

As her eyes slowly closed, the Librarian carefully removed the book, still busily writing itself, from Jasmine’s slackened hands.

3

Dusk began to fall, and the gentle perfume of freshly chewed grass, the warm bark of a tree, and the sweet smell of clean livestock hit her nose. She had been reading The Alchemist, and as her eyes slowly opened, she realised she must have fallen asleep. 

She was no longer lying on the sofa but stood in a large open field. In the distance, a boy with his herd stood near an abandoned church. She instantly knew the shepherd boy was Santiago. She knew he had dreamt of treasure inside the church, which had sent him off on a series of adventures across North Africa. She knew all this because she had just watched the story being written.

Jasmine walked towards him and the herd he was looking after. 

“Hi, I’m just reading about you.”, said Jasmine.

“Yes, I know. How far have you got”?, he asked.

“I’ve only just started reading it?” Jasmine said. “I seem to be standing exactly where the story opens.”

“This is where I dream of treasure in a ruined church. It’s clever writing, isn’t it?”

“I haven’t read it all yet, so I'm not sure what happens”, said Jasmine.

“Ah, You don’t know if the poor shepherd boy can achieve the riches? An author can let anyone achieve anything. One minute, I will be alone in a field with my sheep; the next, I find myself talking to you. So how might you have written my story?”

“No idea. I don’t seem able to write this week”, she said. 

“So look around the grazing area and the ruined church where we are - in your story, would you want to stay here? 

“No…. I’d have to move on, I think”, she said.

“Okay. What about we go travelling together?” 

She nodded excitedly. 

“My author set my adventures in North Africa and Egypt. So, where do you want to set your story? I think travel will set your imagination on fire, and before you know it, your story will begin to write itself.”, said Santiago.

“I think you will need to be an older version of yourself so that we can better enjoy our travelling adventures”, Jasmine said. 

“No problem. You’re the author, so sort it out. I can be anything you want - the story is set in your imagination. It just needs writing.” said Santiago. “Shall you start the story in the Library?”

“No, if I put it in a book, millions of authors might find out about it and decide to use it, and then there might not be room for me next time I need it. No, the Library will decide who it wants to show itself to.” 

“OK, well, I suggest you start with how we meet and then let your imagination take over. I’ll see you again when you’ve written my character,” the boy said.

Laughing, she said, “By the way, your name’s Steven from now on.” 

4

She started walking back over the field. As she turned to wave “bye-bye”, she saw that the boy and the herd were no longer there. In their place was a lemon-painted wall. As she stretched her eyes open, she realised she wasn’t standing but was lying on cushions on the floor. She sat up, confused for a few minutes, and then stretched and yawned, a pleasant smile playing on her face as the memory of her dream replayed. She pulled herself up from the floor, where the oversized comfy cushions were scattered. She looked around and realised she had fallen asleep in the Lemon Drop café.

“That was a hell of a dream. Damn it, I loved that Library. What a shame that none of it existed.”

She wandered back to her desk, opened her laptop, and a spark of creativity seized her. Her fingers flew over the keys as a story began to flow effortlessly from her mind.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a tall, handsome man walk into the Lemon Drop. He had a swarthy complexion and looked as if he lived a healthy outdoor life.

“Hi, can I sit here?” he asked.

“Go ahead,” she said, welcoming him and pointing to the empty chair. “I’m Jasmine.”

“I’m Steven,” he said, smiling.

She looked intently at his face. Was it him? “Am I still asleep?” she wondered aloud.

Steven laughed. “Does it matter? You agreed to come travelling with me. We are about to start our adventure, aren’t we? So tell me, how’s the writing going?”