Great Expectations

      The night before our class trip to the British Museum, I sat on my bed and read the section in Rick Steve’s guide to London in which he writes extensively about its many attractions from the Rosetta Stone to the Elgin Marbles to countless other ancient artifacts. The ancient exhibits looked impressive, but I felt removed from Egyptian statues and African tools. As I glanced over the guide’s summary of the museum’s Reading Room I saw that an impressive list of writers including Mark Twain, Virginia Woolf, W.B. Yeats, Oscar Wilde, and Arthur Conan Doyle had used the room. I couldn’t think of any other place I’ve ever visited that had such a rich literary history. It would be amazing to write in the same room as these writers, I thought. I wondered if anything in the room had inspired them and if the same inspiration would come to me when I visited.
     My mind conjured a specific image of the space. I envisioned floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with leather-bound books and a massive sitting area in the middle. Perhaps there would be a roaring fireplace and a large chandelier. I knew the room must be elegant enough to have been worthy of the legendary writers. It would have to be a lot nicer than my local library at home in NJ, which I’m convinced is an undercover halfway house for convicted felons.

        The foyer of the British Museum is a bright clean white filled with natural sunlight from the glass ceiling. The Reading Room is the geographical heart of the museum and is located in the very center. From the outside, the Reading Room is massive white cylinder, shooting up to the enormous glass ceiling. Two sets of curved staircases hug the Reading Room, leading to the upper floor of the museum. As our group dispersed, I made my way to the Reading Room. After walking around the cylinder on the ground floor, I found no main door to get inside. Next, I went upstairs, certain that the entrance would be at the top, but the only thing up there was an expensive restaurant. I briefly wondered if Virginia Woolf and Oscar Wilde had ever shared an £8 burger there. Acknowledging the impossibility of this, I became disheartened and confused. I had admired these writers for so long, and now I wouldn’t be able to be inspired by the room they had once used.

       Somewhere between considering buying a burger that Yeats may or may not have sampled and reaching the bottom of the long spiral staircase, I realized that my experience was similar to the craft of writing. Writing is a search, an exploration. For me, the goal of writing is to achieve the greatness of the authors that once used the unreachable Reading Room. This goal, for the time being, is out of reach, but I’m okay with that. I have more searching to do before I can join the ranks of Woolf, Twain, Yeats, and the rest.

      I made my way over to one of the benches, took out my notepad, and began writing. I had all the inspiration I needed, and I hadn’t even set a foot in the room. After jotting down a few pages, I found out that the Reading Room was holding an exhibition. I could get in, but at the price of £4. I decided to pass; the money would be better spent on a plate of fish and chips. I have some maturing to do as a writer before I go in. Visiting the Reading Room is something to strive for, and it would feel cheap and undeserved if I was just another tourist ogling the architecture.  The Reading Room reopens for general use in 2012. Maybe by then I’ll be ready, but if not, there’s always the year after that. I’m in no rush. Exploring takes time, and it’s what makes writing worthwhile. When the time is right, I want to be able to take a seat in the Reading Room, knowing that I earned my spot there.