How not to Write a Book


moss on a tree
The victory was the beginning of the defeat. I look back at the way I wrote my first book and shake my head with disbelief. Ridicules, stupiduficuleos, Moroniclitionliouse. Superclumsyfitxlilioucious. Should I burn with the fire shame ? Or drench myself with the more comforting waters of laughter. Water and fire knocking on the door. Will my feet touch the ground? Will my hands reach out to the sky? I want to be a tree. Roots nurtured in manure. Leafs shaking with desire for higher. In between an eternal dance that seems static to the bamboozled ones. To the rest, a most compelling sight.

I used to write everyday waking up at the crack of the dawn with fingers aching to touch the keyboard. Now I let my limbs touch grass, smell dirt and taste vinegar. Let the writing arrive in its own merry time or not arrive at all.

A white page full of empty words yearns for its initial state that vibrated with potential.

Me and my story. Or should I say my story and I? Poor little me and all the injustices inflicted upon me. Do cry for me Argentina. While we are at it, Chile and Mexico too.

My story was a box. I willingly placed myself inside. With a bright grin of satisfaction I nailed the top over my head and prayed to reach the stars.

If you knew how lucky I had been in my life, you would have expected my package to be launched into outer space as well.
Success – modest at best. Luck, my trusty companion, stood me up.
I heard Julie & Julia with drool. That is going to be me. Blogger to author. Why not a movie deal?
Grateful sparks fills me like fire works for not getting my heart’s desire. Thank you, thank you and thank you. Lady Luck, you have done me favor by sitting this one out. Triumph would have stunted me. Accolades would have stopped me from searching further. I see this clearly now. Success would have been my trap.

O desire that seditious temptress. O yearnings that are beyond a planet. These come and go. I wish I could say that I am empty from them. There was what I wanted and then there was what was in store for me.

This time I wrote a novel. This one I wrote at a leisurely pace. I sat down at the keyboard only when the inspiration flowed. There was no heroic effort, only ease. There was no purpose, no pride only the quiet joy in the act of it.

When I typed “The End” the silent realization over took me. “This is how one becomes a writer”.

Not a form of self-therapy.

Not a job.

Not one ounce of discipline was involved.

I will not infect the world with my anguish

Only play.

I am not my story.

The universe is my new playground.

My heart is content.

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