We Dream Alone
A bottomless desire (of some sort) fills us all. Why must it be a solitary journey?
I started writing in earnest in 2016. Exactly ten years ago. Plot twists and characters filled my head. Conflicts and imagined dialogue demanded to be heard. I work full-time, so I had to intentionally set aside time alone to write, otherwise that nonfiction story called life would most certainly get in the way. So, when Saturday morning came, I’d whip up breakfast for my family (my homemade waffles were a sought-after commodity back then… ah, those were the days), then, off to Beaverton City Library I would go.
Why the library? Because it’s the hall of dreams, a hallowed place of words and pictures. Volumes standing upright, graciously waiting. Surrounded by these sympathetic compatriots, I could feel brave.
The drive to the library was not far, but I was impatient. I may have beeped an innocent car or two on the way there. And, yes, I was one of a scant, silent crowd of what’s derisively called “morning people” (as in: OMG you are such a morning person) standing outside those giant library doors, waiting for them to just unlock it, will you?
In those excruciating moments before they finally let me inside, I held a singular thought in my coffee-fueled head: This is all on me. The next chapter. The next scene. Both made of nothing but fire and ash. The very definition of loneliness. A trumpet sound that only I could hear.
Does it have to be that way? Will companionship wreck a solitary dream? Or does sharing a vision make it stronger?
I wasn’t actually alone, of course. On those Saturday mornings (and Sundays too, if I could swing it), a rangy, industrious gang would fill up every available space of the library. Assorted dreamers with their contraband coffees and Cliff Bars, their backpacks and briefcases, we vied for the primo spots (the long table with the plugs? the tiny desk next to the tall window?) in which to toil. Weary adults breaking open the study guide for the police exam or the nursing test. Fresh-faced high-schoolers and college kids sweating out math equations and pondering sociology texts. No matter the weather (in rainy Portland, Oregon, sunny days are rarely an issue), I had entered a perfect writer’s paradise.
Dozens of earbuds slid into dozens of ears. An ocean of sound waves lapped at the bones of the skulls around me. And yet, I felt totally alone. I turned on my laptop, spread out my notes, and—although I was, in reality, surrounded by a group of living, breathing people—I may as well have been on a midnight train devoid of fellow passengers, barreling through the middle of nowhere (otherwise known as my imagination). Nothing but black outside the windows. A strong fear of veering off the tracks, of flipping upside down. Staring at a page that held nothing but a Place and Time, the cursor blinking in skeptical silence.
Chapter Twenty
Rochester, New York
November 1983
The clock on the far wall would catch my eye. How long had I stared at those words? Five minutes? Fifty? And then, for reasons I cannot explain, the first sentence would pop out of my fingers and onto the keyboard. The train windows would fill with images of passing trees, soaring cathedrals. Full conversations would fill my ears, voices clear and steady. Someone would rush at the train or flee from its path. Weather beat at its steely black surface. Steam would obscure, and then clear, revealing an argument on the platform, or a final kiss between lovers.
My debut novel Folio was emerging from my mind to the page.
The next thing I knew, a soft chiming would fill the air, and an all-knowing voice would calmly surround me, lifting me from my reveries.
The library is closing in fifteen minutes. Please begin to gather your things.
I’d look up, startled, and catch the startled eye of everyone around me.
We’d been together, hadn’t we? Alone but not alone. The bottomless desire was fed, staving off the hunger for one more day. The chime interrupting that perfect next word, that magical problem solved, that final sample question, that tidbit of plot.
Those whose faces I recognized from the starting gun at opening time nodded at each other in solidarity.
We did it, didn’t we? I was alone, but not alone. Dreaming. In a way, traveling. But my train car wasn’t empty. Together, we stood and stretched. Gathered and folded papers. Discarded empty, coffee-stained paper cups into trash bins.
“Coming again tomorrow?” The librarian was at my elbow, glancing at my mess over her reading glasses. “We open at ten. You seem to be on a mission.”
Her words were like a sip of pilfered wine offered at the end of battle. I hadn’t spoken a word in eight hours, so my response came out a little croaky.
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I said.
“Good for us,” she replied, striding back to her desk, a sentry overseeing her wards.
As I packed up my laptop, I glanced around. The soft rustling of papers and books being replaced to shelves filled the air. People made small talk. The chimes replayed, more insistent this time.
My trumpet had found a symphony.