Sunday, October 24, 2010

Order Confirmed

I just clicked the most interesting, intimidating, invoking fear button ever. Of my whole life. Honestly.

“Confirm Proof Order” is all it said. That sounds pretty innocuous.

But the proofing order confirmed is my first self-published work.

That’s scary.

All those times I’ve called myself a writer, all those books I’ve critically read and wondered who wrote them, all those bookshelves in all those libraries and stores full of books without my name have new meaning now.

I am a writer - a published author. People will criticize my words and syntax. A library or used bookstore somewhere eventually will hold a copy of what I have created by hitting that button.

No fanfare. No celebration. No notice except for those friends near and far pushing me along so I don’t chicken out at the last second.

By this time next week, or before, I’m guessing, I’ll be posting instructions for you to order your own copy. The cost will be $14.99 plus shipping. It will be about 100 pages. You can have one, if you like.

Daddy’s Hands, in its original form is in it; so is Patchwork Quilt of Me, complete with photo. Those are pieces I know people like. Those are insurance pieces.

There is a poem about being alone and another about broken glass. I think people will like them, too, but I’m not sure. They are kind of . . . personal. Maybe they won’t relate well.

There are other scattered bits in the book. Some you may have read and forgotten. Some you may not like.  Random views through my eyes as I grew into this new version of me.  Becoming better when I had every right to become bitter. 

Good or bad, syntax complications or not, overused phrases and all; the proof is on the way.

I’m an author.

Thanks for your encouragement. Thanks for listening.


Saturday, October 16, 2010

Middle Ground

I should be working on my Philosophy test, but the words and meanings are all pushed behind the idea of The Book. It sits there on my shoulder waiting to be finished.

It’s almost there now. I have one more editor to meet with. One more set of ideas to sift through. One more session of page creating, picture editing, getting it all together.

Almost there.

And now I’m more terrified than before.

Sitting here, on the middle of the bridge, too far down to turn back, not quite in the safety zone, is the worst part of bridge crossing. I remember the first time I walked across the Poetry Bridge in Minneapolis. The traffic raced beneath me. Lives scurrying from point A to point B with no thought of me and my drama. Didn’t anyone care that I was so alone? Didn’t anyone know how little value I placed on myself?

I had the option at that moment to make them remember me. To become a life they would never forget. To stop their rushing and force their attention to me. I didn’t, but the thought occurred to me. By not finishing the crossing of that bridge I would have made an impression on them. A horrible one, to be sure, but I would have become a part of their lives. They would see me then.

Today I stand at this metaphorical bridge and find a different scene. If I don’t cross this bridge, if I go backward, if I never finish The Book I will cease to make an impression, no one will remember me, I will be the focus of no one. I could be literarily invisible.

There is a great deal of comfort in that anonymity. For one thing, there is no risk of painful backlash if I simply slide off the grid here. I could take down the website. Stop answering e-mails and phone calls and before long everyone would forget my ramblings and go about their business without me just like they did a year ago before I started publicly writing. There will be no criticism of my expressions, no doubt about my sentence structure, no dislike of my endless strings of thoughts. No exposure of my doubts, fears, failures, inadequacies.

Like the voices which pulled me across the Poetry Bridge all those months ago, something compels me forward. I am not sure why my writing is so important, but I feel it is. Not in an egotistical “I have something to say!” way, but in a “I have lived this, am better for it, and you can make it, too” way.

Had my routine not been interrupted a couple of weeks ago, The Book would already be out there. You would know what I’m afraid of. Although many pieces have been strewn about, only a couple of people have read the whole thing. Their reception pushes me to the other side.

I think, by next week-end, while you are scurrying about your lives hither and yon without thought of me, a momentous event will occur. I will hit the button that says “send” and off will go the first edition, ready for publication, real library-ready book containing my words.

I’m not sure if angels will sing or heaven will notice, but I know a little lady with brown eyes, a tall Swedish man, and a biker in a leather who will be looking from beyond smiling. Whatever value they saw in my little life at the beginning, I give this book back to them in appreciation.

God has been very good to me.

If you haven’t yet, and care to, please visit the website: The snatches of prose mentioned above are posted there. Although I’ll have links here for purchase, the website has a little more information.

Thanks for walking this bridge with me. It’s nice to not be alone.

Sunday, October 3, 2010

So, yeah, where you from?

Looking at my stats, it appears there are readers reading this blog from all over the world.  India.  Thailand.  China.  Ireland.  England.  Chile.  Mexico.  Alaska.  And everywhere in between.

But only a few of you have made yourselves known.

I wonder who you are.  I wonder what you like about what you read here, if you like anything.  I wonder how you found this blog.  I wonder if you'll come back again or if you came here by mistake like someone who opened a door unintentionally.   I wonder what we have in common.

You're welcome to come back.

You're welcome to tell me about you.

You're welcome to share the common ground we're walking.

Writers write because we can't not let the words have their way.  Readers, on the other hand, stop hither and yon by their own will power. 

Writers are always trying to figure out what makes a reader read.

Are you from France?  Thailand?  Mexico?  Are you raising a family in Singapore?  Are you a missionary kid in India?  A student in Ireland?  A truckdriver in Alaska?

My writer's mind places you in all sorts of adventerous roles. 

Add a comment. Jot a note.  Join the website at and tell me more about yourself there.

Or, just follow along in the same invisible way and see if I don't some day write your life through my writer's eyes.