Six Ways the Library Shaped Me as a Writer

1. My first library memory is in summer before grade six; I was sitting in a big wooden chair, in the small office–located on the staff-only side of the giant oak counter, with the tall curtain-less windows, explaining my favourite parts of the Choose Your Own Adventure Book (that I often read backwards) to the librarian, who doubled as my best friend’s mom, so that she would stamp my summer reading chart.

2. When the librarian moved 23 towns over–and took my best friend with her–my mom became the new town librarian. This meant that my overdue books would automatically be renewed, new books would magically appear on my bed, and everything I did at school would be whispered across the giant oak counter before I had made the 1.2 kilometre over-the-bridge walk home. My antics often would land me in the dark small-window basement of the historic library with a plastic Knechtel’s bag filled with pencils and a wall-mounted sharpener, each crank of the handle bringing me closer to understanding the consequences of my behaviour.

3. In my early 40s, I was living in my 8th city since leaving that small town, not quite knowing what I wanted to be when I grew up but knowing it wasn’t my current occupation, when I very un-intentionally created my very first writing group. On an unstructured schedule, I would leave my office at 12pm and walk three blocks East to the newly renovated downtown library and join friends in Study Room 2 where we would take turns offering a prompt, write about it for six minutes, share our words, then stretch our warmed writing muscle into our personal projects for 20 minutes before dumping my spiral notebook, bic pen, and red thermoflask water bottle into my backpack, and walking three blocks West back to my office.

4. Four years later, after publishing my first book, I was hired to teach an in-person writing workshop in the full-story window multi-purpose room, where I stood and looked out at Study Room 2 while my group wrote about a prompt for six minutes.

5. Thirty years after sharpening pencils in the dark small-windowed basement, I returned to my childhood library and spoke to a group of friends and strangers about my 3rd published book and writing journey. After I spoke, a young girl peered out at me from behind her mom, while holding a jar with a nail-holed lid and a singular snail inside, who was telling me (the mom, not the snail) that she (the girl, not the snail) loved to write stories and hoped to publish them one day. I knelt down and asked what her snail’s name was and her mom said she’d named him Richmond, after me.

6. Six days post-ice-storm that took out our power, flooded my basement, tore down our trees, and left with the internet, I sat in Study Room 2 in front my laptop, trying to brush away the week’s events and a stray grey hair, and logged onto zoom for my first meeting with my writing coach, who will guide me to complete the draft manuscript of my book, Yelling at Dead People–which I’d been writing mostly backwards, my red thermoflask water bottle beside me.

About This Piece

This is an example of a list essay. If you’re curious about writing list essays of your own, and want guidance, prompts, and community, you’re always welcome inside the Full Sky Writing Space.

Hi, I’m Erica.

I’m an author, writing coach, and founder of Open Sky Stories. I write children’s books that help kids explore feelings and relationships, including Pixie and the Bees and Pixie and the Fox, and I’m currently working on a creative nonfiction manuscript called Yelling at Dead People. I also lead workshops and mentorships to help writers find safety, clarity, and confidence on the page. I live with my muse—an 18-year-old cat, Lucy who insists on supervising every word I write.