The Bookshelf

I had no idea what to write for the most recent Reedsy prompt. I chose the one I liked the best out of five, and even this one did nothing to move me into action. I honestly don't know what's wrong with me. I do not know what to write.

I went to the kitchen and heated up some rice and some kale and added some soy sauce to it, hoping that would help. I went back to my office and sat down and still nothing. I finished eating and washed it all down with some water out of the white Yeti bottle that was a gift from a friend. Every time I drink out of it, I am astonished at how expensive they are.

After lunch, I took a nap. I laid down on the couch with my dog Andi curled up at my feet. She was snoring when I fell asleep. When I woke up, she was still there, doing the same thing. The nap did nothing to help me figure out what I wanted to write about, so I headed into the kitchen again, only this time I came out with chocolate. That should do the trick.

Back in my office, I immediately noticed that the bookshelves were dusty. I opened a cupboard to get out the duster and, saw some old papers and decided it was a good time to sort through them. When that was done and half the chocolate bar was done, I closed the drawer and forgot why I opened it. Oh, right, the duster.

I started to dust the shelves, removing my postcard collection one by one. One of my favorite postcards is from the Detroit Public Library, circa 1963, of the Cass Avenue entrance. The photo is of the front of the building. In a note on the back to a Jon Jackson, who lives in Iowa, it says, "Please send me the key to your mailbox so I can get my mail. Quickly." The word quickly is written in bold letters, underlined twice, and in quotation marks. It always makes me wonder how quickly the postal service moved in 1963, that a person could say quickly and mean it. Surely, a phone call would have been faster.

I put the postcard back and picked up one of the photos of my father. He is on top of the roof of our old house with a hammer in his hand, circa 1966. There is a ladder leaning on the roof next to him. In the background, the sky is blue, the house is red, and the maple tree in the front yard is newly planted. My father's hat is tipped forward on his head, and he is wearing a yellow striped shirt. He has a cigarette in his mouth. He always had a cigarette in his mouth. Our blue Plymouth sedan is in the carport.

Another photo, this time of me as a kid. I think I'd just turned five. It's the kind of photo with a white border around it and the date stamped neatly inside. I am standing next to my neighbor, Teri Leigh, in her driveway. She is ten. It looks like she's forcing a hat to stay on my head and won't let go. A strap under my chin looks tight and uncomfortable. On Teri's face is a look of raw determination. I look unwilling to hold still. In the background of the photo, Teri's wiener dog is eating something out of a pail. That dog never liked me and tried to bite me more than once. In front of Teri is a kid's stroller with a doll in it. I can only see the baby's head before the bottom of the photo cuts off. The baby only has one eye and has hair that looks like it went through a dish washer. It looks possessed. Neither of us is smiling.

Up and down the library ladder I went. I climbed to the top to visit with some books I hadn't seen in a while. Books by Maugham, Hemingway, Plath, Joyce, you know the list. A copy of Ulysses sits on the top shelf, in the far corner, as a punishment to its creator. I have tried to read it three times and I can't get through it. Each time, I am convinced that Joyce was having a psychotic break when he wrote it. My wife wonders how hard it can be to finish it. I told her that if I were on a desert island and it was the only book I had, I might finish it, or I might not, depending on how long my stay was. Or I might toss it in the ocean and pretend it was never there. I don't admit that to most people.

People think I'm nuts, but I put all the writers named Anne together on that same shelf: Anne Lamott, Ann Patchett, and Anne Rice. I think it may have happened by accident when I was getting books out of boxes and putting them out, but once I realized it, I left it the way it was. I have considered rearranging my entire library to be alphabetical by first name. That seems unique. I could put Bram Stoker and Brett Easton Ellis together, which really works when you think about it.

I finished dusting my bookshelves and sat down again on my rolling chair and faced the laptop on the old wooden desk. I take another 35-dollar sip of water.

Alright. Time to get to work on that Reedsy writing prompt. I still don't know what to write. I could write about my old girlfriend who just got back in touch with me or the job I have at the hospital where I sit with people who like to escape, or I could write about my dog Andi. No. All of that sounds boring. I really, genuinely could not be more serious than a heart attack about not knowing what to write. It's really starting to irritate me. HELP! I DO NOT KNOW WHAT TO WRITE!

Oh, wait. Maybe I do.