My fourth book is basically written, although it will take a while to edit it. I have no idea who will publish it or if I will choose to self-publish. I don’t write for the mass market, so I only sell a book now and then. At least I keep my integrity intact, although sometimes I wish for more sales.
I have been walking the path for so long now. I have Frequent Crier Miles as a bereaved parent and widow as well. What can I say? I have carved out a niche for myself that is a microscopic one. I know some things that few people do. I know that you never get over the loss of a child, nor should you be expected to.
I know that many people who claim enlightenment are dull as kitchen knives working on a tough piece of meat. Others rely on the words of those long dead to steer their way into public careers. I don’t have that kind of moxy. Mine consists of saying how I feel. And I have left the whole arena of nonduality. The word has become dull from everyone’s overuse of it.
The older I get, the more I realize how channelled my writing is. I go deeply and directly into spirit. I don’t rely on thought to write for me. That keeps it fresh for me, the writer. I love how the last sentence of an essay comes into view as I write the last paragraph. I don’t get paid a dime for my daily essays, so that is the payoff for me.
This book, this fourth book, is just me being myself. Nothing new. And yet the path grows deeper the more I travel it. I have not had a vacation since going to Amsterdam to hear Leonard Cohen two years ago. Instead I just stay here and write. Pound out the essays.
I have few visitors to my blog. Only sixty people subscribe to it. That is amazingly few, yet I am not out there drumming up new subscribers. All I really want to do is get my work out there without becoming generic.
My life is uniquely mine. Without the sorrow I would not have the joy of seeing myself become a good writer. Without the perseverance, I would not have the lightness of laying down my burdens at the end of the day. I hope when I have written my last essay, that God will wave me on in and say, “There she is. The woman that used the crumbs under the table to feed a lot of people. Come in, Vicki. Come in.