Booksong

I have a short story growing inside me demanding to be told. I have its outline: a kind of beginning and a kind of end, without knowing yet exactly what happens in the middle. There are too many possibilities right now. I'm struggling with the task of working out what to leave out from everything I've written, trying to find the story's natural shape. 

I can't rest until this story is done with me and it's proving to be a slow process. I sought out the library again today and listened to the silent song of the rows of obscure and rarely opened volumes that can be found decorating odd corners of the New Room. I doubt they get honoured too often. I often feel guilty when I spend so much time here, writing, surrounded by books, yet never pulling one down to read.