Progress Report

So things are not so far going well with my book. I shouldn't be surprised. My agent done told me. But I guess one anticipates the best, despite the odds. Or anyway, I've always been that way.

But the word is, received just this morning, that no publishers have so far expressed interest. Neil tells me that we still have a lot more to send to, but still I can't help feeling bummed.

Why?

Well, as the day passed, and as I had nothing better to do, I started to kind of parse this out. Why does the possibility of not being able to publish this book make me feel depressed? What has been the nature of my hopes, what has been anticipated, what changes would take place in my life?

As for the latter question, having published a book some years back, I already know that nothing of essence really changes in life. I mean, you have a period of high spirits I suppose, and pride, but there is nothing really to sustain it over time. You find eventually, in fact, that you rather dislike the book, and so you begin to work on something else. Or you find something better yet to do with your spare time.

Writing this present book was to begin with something of an accident in itself. The thing sort of rose to existence at the suggestions of people who had read my entries in online MS communities, so that eventually I took the cue and thought, Well maybe I should. And so I did.

Did a lot of sweat and effort go into the project--hours of struggle, painful doubts and soul searching?

No.

The fact it, little more effort was required day to day than putting my pen to the paper (or rather, my fingers to the keyboard). It was not only fairly easy, it was fun. And this, as I concluded while sitting on the toilet, is the key.

Of course, I would like to do something for my wife which would result in the form of honor, not to mention money (of wait, I just did). I believe it would be of great importance to her for me to make money through these efforts. And I wouldn't mind the money either, if only to be able to give it to her.

And of course I would like to be able to leave her something--in the same sort of way that I left my ex-wife (though sort of accidentally) $200,000 dollars and a house. It would be something that she could put away, a security I had been able to leave.

Nonetheless, when it comes right down to it, what bummed me out most of all was the thought of losing my reason for all the pleasant mornings I have spent at Starbucks, or in the yard at home in the summer, writing, remembering, philosophizing, searching, and sharing. It has become a part of who I am, of what I do. How else am I to spend my time and garner like reward?

And so it happens that while still on the toilet I realized with some relief that failure to publish need not be translated as a lack of reason for writing. If, after all, I have failed to please an editor, or editors, I have to remember that I did not intend to please him, or them, in the first place. I wrote what was in me. I explained myself.

And I do not think they fault me for that. They're looking to make money, and that is the basis that they buy upon. Money is nice. I like it too. But money and writing are two different things. Just like apples and oranges.