4/17/11
Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck…..it’s 4am. A hot flash just woke me up and I’m thinking about my publishing circle task for the week: Go to the book store, find my section. I already know it’s self help and spirituality. Look at all the titles and pick the ones similar to mine. Do research for the marketing and promotion part of my book proposal. How will I know if one is similar to mine? Do I even know what my book is about? Shit, shit, shit…..I’m so in trouble. The last four years spent on not-finishing-my-book. I have nothing to show for. It’s been all a waste. I’ve just sponged off Steven and he, in his infinite patience, continues to be encouraging. He’s a saint.
I think about my book, try to get some hold on it, some handle. What is it about? It’s about so many things. No, it’s just all over the place. It has no center.
Later at breakfast, Steven says “Right now, your book is everything and nothing.”
He is right.
And in the light of day it doesn’t all seem lost. I have a working title “You’re an adventure on the cutting-edge of yourself – a guide to cultivating an attitude of all is well.” Is that not what my book is about? Isn’t it about us being adventurers? Yes.
Isn’t it about “All is well?” Yes.
Isn’t it about that each of us is always on our own cutting-edge, perfect as we are and as we are not? Yes
Isn’t it about letting ourselves off the hook, practicing kindness towards ourselves? Yes
Isn’t it about disengaging from what doesn’t work and on concentrating on what we can envision? Yes
Aren’t these last two point the path toward cultivating an attitude of all is well? Yes.
So, I know what my book is about. Why do I still feel so incapacitated?
As I lay in bed I think about Heather’s suggestion that I journal about this process of freak-out around trying to write a proposal (not that I’ve written even a sentence). I’m all talk, well not anymore. I hate talking about it, or, really, I hate analyzing what’s happening, my favorite mode of the past. That’s such a waste of time. I can’t even bring myself to do it. It’s all blah blah blah.
Just yesterday we all were gathered, Heather, Peggy and me to help each other with getting our proposals done. I said “I feel useful. I went to the workshops, I have the information.” A piece of that information is “be self-disclosing.” I think Fugard said that. I think about this at around 4:30am. Be self-disclosing. Write about your process. I think, I can’t write. I’m not a writer. I have no skills. There’s a clever way to write a blog, an essay. I don’t know what that clever way is, but I read other people’s blogs. They know. I have nothing to say. I have nothing to say. I can’t think about anything to say. What is there to say? It’s just all blah blah blah.
Over breakfast, Steven asks me “What’s going on?” My leg is bouncing, I’m rubbing across the top of the chair back, back and forth, back and forth. It’s obvious I’m in a state. I tell him about my night time tribulations. He is sympathetic. “I’m in a crisis, I say.” I tell him why. I can’t write about anything self-disclosing. He looks at me compassionately. I say, “Okay, I’ll write now.
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