Sanctuary of A Writer

The word “Books” has a few meanings in my view. Books could mean the following: a rectangular cover folded in the middle with sewn pages inside it, an item with a story, collection of text in an orderly composition that has a beginning, middle, and end. Reading books, in my opinion, is an escape from reality.

Books have served me well over the past couple of years. They are a manifesto of hope and humble entertainment, all for the sake of educating ourselves to transcend our wrongs. When I wake up from the comfiness of my pillows and blankets, the first thing that I tend to reach on my night table is a favorite of ours—the phone. As much as it pains me to say, the phone doesn’t benefit anyone other than keep you glued about the news, new notifications on social media, or the set of emails waiting to be read. On the other hand, a book offers much more—breathtaking text and language that could spark the flame of human ingenuity, stories that can inspire and call upon our better angels, a conversation with the author, and getting to know the human experience amidst the characters and situations that happen in the narrative

I still remember a time fresh in my head when I went to a quiet sanctuary. One warm afternoon, I sat in front of my iPad, displaying a Microsoft Word document. I’d written a few paragraphs down, but the muse wasn’t there. Some say that a writer must try to continue the story even if the muse isn’t present. A temporary episode of writer’s block was the culprit. During this moment I got up from my seat, grabbed my keys, got in the car, and drove away from home.

I entered a Spanish, colonial iron gate that led me into the front courtyard of a place I deem a sanctuary. There were several tables with people sitting, some typing on a computer, finishing homework, doing a work assignment, or planning out a story. I could only guess what they were working on. On each side, up against the wall, there was a shelf stocked with magazines—Writer’s Digest, Poets & Writers, The Atlantic, Paris Review, The New Yorker, among others. I studied them quietly and picked up a copy of The Atlantic, looked at the front page, and set it back down. I stepped through the sliding door on the east side of the temple.

Inside, the first thing I sensed was the air—fresh and cool. I inhaled a unique scent that only this holy sanctuary had with its large number of shelves and thousands of fresh, untouched pages filled with imagination and human creativity. In that moment, my inhibitions, fears, anxieties, and self-doubt that we all experience lifted away. I turned to a section of the sanctuary where a few tables were stacked with books, while at other tables, people were exchanging ideas as they drank a cup of freshly made coffee.

Somehow, this sanctuary does something unique to my senses: they get heightened. During this visit, my hearing was attuned to the conversations among the people gathered, but I had no intention of intervening (that would’ve been rude). The anxiety—this feeling I’ve been dealing my whole life with and not running away from—melted away from my body language. The slouched shoulders, the deep abyss in my stomach, goosebumps crawling on my forearms, the ruminating thoughts, and the tension in my jaw were no longer present. I held my head up high, stood up straight, and focused on the shelves like a reader who knows what books will stimulate interest.

I stared at the biography section, coupled with many books of the lives of game changers. As I did so, I saw a colored red spine of a biography that stood out among the rest. In white capital letters, the book, BOLIVAR: AMERICAN LIBERATOR, brought back memories of a young nineteen-year-old who decided to read the book with no expectations. As I read BOLIVAR, something inside of me felt the vivid and colorful imagery, like a movie playing in my mind. I could see The Liberator himself galloping into battle, inspiring the soldiers, riding across the lush hills of Carabobo, and declaring independence for his fatherland. It was then that my love of books grew and flourished inside my imaginative mind, capable of daydreaming along with  ideas that are great for storytelling. That same curiosity guided my eyes to another corner of the sanctuary filled with stories based on life experiences and the suspense that these experiences bring.

I walked down the area of the sanctuary and saw the books that have captivated the hearts of millions: The Great Gatsby, 1922, IT, Salem’s Lot, The Outsider, Dune, Fahrenheit 451, and many more staring back at me. With the titles displayed on the spine, I saw in both genres two different messages: “Dare on opening this scary piece? Dare to survive?” And another kind of fiction said to me: “Would you like a rich piece about a moment in a real setting where you have a set of characters, with their circumstances, showing me how to read—or write a story?”

 As I pull books from their shelves, I do not do so for the sole purpose of buying them. Instead, I pull books off the shelves because I love the feeling of holding them on the palm of my hands, as they give me a clearer, visual image of the author writing the rough draft or typing away at the keyboard and creating a world for people to discover.

After spending an hour walking around the shelves and taking the time to inhale the fresh air that the untouched books seemed to breathe out, it was time to go. I looked one last time at the magazine shelf before walking out the door and heading back to the black colonial iron gate. I started up the car and headed home not only with the memories of books, but more so, with a refreshed mind filled with inspiration and creativity.

Leaving this sanctuary, I realized that my visit with books hadn’t just given me an opportunity to be with books, but it also gave me a humbling thought on why I fell in love with stories in the first place.

Books. Those objects on my rotating bookshelf in my bedroom aren’t just that. They are a writer’s most valued companions that will walk and travel with us until the end of time.