The Ghost in the Central Branch

I always walk around really conscious of my past self—is this weird? Do you know what I mean though? Like, Barclay and I went for a walk yesterday, in the east end by the golf course, and we were talking about something and at the same time we both went, hey, we were walking down this EXACT same path the last time we talked about this thing; we were right in this exact spot. And it was like our past selves were ghosts walking along beside us and we were laughing at them, at how little they knew about the future (to be fair, Barclay and I have never claimed to be fortune tellers). 

But I love moments like that, where you can see your past self, totally oblivious to your present self, maybe worrying about something, or planning something, or working on something, and they have no idea how it's going to turn out but you do. 

(Or at least, you know a little bit more than they do. Because someday, your future self is going to laugh at your present self for not knowing now what you will then.)

Anyway.

I had a moment like this today. 

My ghosts are all over this place—that's one of the cool things about living in the same city for such a long time—and one of them lives in the Central Branch of the Regina Public Library. She went to see the Writer in Residence there about a decade ago, clutching a half-baked manuscript that needed two more years of edits before an agent would take it seriously, basically to ask if she was any good at this writing thing or if she should quit. 

I don't know if you remember this, but you might: I wrote this blog post about the moment I pulled the trigger and send off that terrifying email to the WIR, and this blog post about the day I went in and met with her.

Today, I went to that same library for the Saskatchewan Book Awards shortlist announcement, and found out my book was shortlisted in four categories(!). As the SBA members stood at the podium and read the names of the nominees, I watched my shaky little ghost walk behind them, up the stairs and into the WIR office, manuscript in hand, heart pounding so hard I can hear it ten years later. My ghost went into the office worried that she was being silly, that this whole book thing was a bad idea, that the Writer in Residence was going to give her a few pity compliments and then drop kick her heart right out the window onto Smith Street. 

She didn't, by the way. That woman, Dr. Nilofar, was one of the first professional people who told my ghost that she wasn't being silly, and that she should try to publish a book. It's one of those Really Important Moments in my life, which is why my ghost haunts that library still, walking from the sliding doors at the library entrance, through the stacks and up the stairs, trying to be brave because this thing was really, really important to her even though she felt kind of ridiculous saying that out loud to anyone. 

The sad thing about these ghosts is that you can't talk to them. I always wish I could. I wish I could just yell back in time, like, even something vague and encouraging, just give them a glimpse into the future so they could know that what they're doing is working or that such-and-such a thing is going to be okay or, at the very least, just isn't going to matter in a few years. 

But you don't get to. You have to live your life in order and find out how it's going by going there. And you have to be oblivious to the future versions of yourself doing the things you dream about doing someday. And I think maybe this is the key to being a person with big dreams: being aware of all of your ghosts. Knowing that no matter where you are in your journey, there are more versions of you ahead, so excited for you to catch up and see what's going to happen next.