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It is Not What You
Think
I awoke the
last two mornings after having slept through the night. A
good, deep sleep. I did not take medication, wine, or even
herbal tea. The only thing I can attribute this unusual
occurrence to is something I did for the two previous
evenings that I have not done in many years. I prayed. I
have to admit that those words unsettle me even as I write
them because I gave up on organized religion long ago. Words
like prayer, heaven, and God did not apply to the world I
saw around me. A world filled with narcissism, hate, and
greed. A world where leaders used the word god to promote
fear. Nasty stuff, that.
Why did I pray? I have no real problems. I have a roof over
my head, food, and family and friends around the world that
love me for who I am. No sudden crisis occurred in my life
to provoke prayer, only a growing awareness that something
is going on. The sense that we, as a country, a world, a
universe, or perhaps a space I cannot even imagine, are on
the edge of great change. That change troubled me enough to
disturb my sleep and I reached for one of our oldest
solutions--I prayed.
I did not pray for things like world peace, the end of
global warming, or food for the starving masses. I prayed to
spend a quiet night with God. I asked to sleep undisturbed
by all of the shouts and murmurs from my overloaded brain. I
prayed. I slept. How unbelievable is that? Please
understand, I do not suggest you venture out and find a
religion that can give God a name. God does not need a name,
or an identity like those offered by zealots who want you
not to believe in god, but in their calculated versions of
good and evil. God is a voice from your soul, not from that
vast and complex space between your ears. God is all the
knowledge and wisdom you have that you barely recognize,
that is God. You are God.
We pride ourselves on our ability to reason. It is, we
proclaim, what separates us from animals and societies we
consider primitive. We solve every problem by thinking of
solutions. We fix every broken thing with new ideas from our
unfailing intellect. I hate to be the bearer of bad news,
but that might not be enough anymore. The problems we face
are larger than our intellect. They demand solutions beyond
'fixes' and are greater than the combined 'to do lists' of
every church or government that exists. Larger weapons or
more money cannot fix them. There is not enough money
anywhere to do that. What can fix them? Us.
I see the rolling eyes and hear the clicking tongues from
where I sit. I am familiar with the response, because it has
been mine for many years. I am not one whose mind embraces
every new or old age dogma that arrives on the scene. I have
depended on my logical, critical brain to keep me going and
have long believed that we could reason our way out of any
situation, any problem. As I mentioned, I have begun to have
some doubts.
We are the unhealthiest beings that have ever populated this
planet, by our own doing. We are sick. Ask any drug
company--they love to tell us how sick we are. Of course,
they also tell us they can make us better. They cannot. They
can hide the symptoms. That is something we have been
effectively doing for the last couple of decades, hiding the
symptoms as control slips away. Why do we have so much
disease? My guess is fear.
I am not the only one who senses a major shift. Many of us
do, but we no longer count on our intuition to guide us.
Actually, we rarely count on ourselves for anything. We want
others to fix things. We expect governments to solve our
problems, corporations to find new ways to make us happy and
comfortable, and churches to save our souls. We want to feel
safe and content, but have little to do with creating that
safety and comfort. We are a generation raised to be 'part
of the solution', yet we cannot identify the problem. Our
soul knows, and it is time to listen.
If you are ready for someone to give your soul a good
talking to, I suggest you visit http://www.myss.com where I
found the prayer that brought me sleep. Do not expect
Caroline Myss to be gentle. That is not her style, nor does
she think there is time for kid gloves. She talks of truths
you will recognize on a level that you may have forgotten
exists. Listen with your heart, because it is not what you
think...it is what you feel, or perhaps, what you already
know.
The Next Voice You Hear
For some
time I've shared my brain with a loud, intolerable voice
that I've wanted to quiet. It inhabited a place that I
couldn't access, and said things like 'who are you
trying to kid, you can't do that'. 'What's the matter
with you? You're way out of your league'. The sad thing
is that I often believed it. The voice sounded so
confident, so self-assured, and it was persistent. When
I first opened my eyes in the morning, or when I tried
to fall asleep at night, it reminded me of failures and
defeats. I figured it had some inside information.
A few
years ago, I started writing. The voice was just as loud
and just as confident when it snickered at my newest
endeavor. It directed me to sites on the Internet that
pointed out the number of people who wrote books, and
the disparagingly few number of people who published. It
asked if I seriously believed I could write anything
that another living being would want to read.
This
chattering pessimist reminded me that the average writer
trying for their first publication was about thirty
years younger than my fifty-six years. Of course, it
couldn't let me forget that I'd barely made it through
English classes in high school and college. I know it
kept track of these things because this voice never
forgot—anything.
Finally, I screamed, 'SHUT UP', surprising the voice as
much as I did myself. It started again immediately, but
I noticed it didn't have quite as much steam. I screamed
again and saw it weaken. (Shades of Peter Pan.) I
continued to yell to take away its power.
I'm
sure many of you who are old hands at writing, still
remember when your love affair began, and how powerful a
relationship it was and still is. I've done many things
in my life, but nothing has so quickly become a part of
my being as creating people, places, and stories to
share.
The
voice remains packed in a box, wrapped in layers of duct
tape to mute the discouraging words. It's still ranting
and might even be telling me I'll never make it as a
writer. I won't listen. I can't. I am a writer and the
next voice you hear, could be mine.
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What Does 'Tsk' Mean
Anyway?
People
are angry. I don't think anyone is surprised to read
those words. I wanted to write an article about
healthy ways of dealing with other people's anger,
but before I could start, I had a few chores to do.
I decided to use the time to plan the story.
My
first chore meant a stop at a large discount store
to pick up a few office supplies. I try to park far
away from stores and walk, for a couple of reasons—I
need the exercise and I have no desire to fight with
aggressive drivers determined to park near the door.
I
gathered my products and went to a self-checkout
counter. As I scanned the last item, I realized the
total was at least $50 more than it should have
been. I didn't have many items and could quickly see
there was a $50 charge that wasn't for anything in
my bag. I began my search for someone to help and
heard the people in line behind me begin to grumble.
Finally finding an expert customer service
representative, I showed her the problem.
"What did you do?" She asked.
The
grumbles got louder and my face flushed. "I scanned
my items, but this one's not mine. Take a look."
She
tsked and looked at the growing line of customers
apologetically, if rolling her eyes and cocking her
hip was an apology. Then, slowly, she removed the
products from my bag one at a time and dramatically
waved them over the scanner as she punched in her
secret manager's code. I thought she was finally
convinced that the error wasn't mine, but noticed
her eyeing my purse. I hate shopping and the idea of
starting again kept me from walking away. Besides,
at that point, I expected an escort to a dark room
for a full body search. Everyone attending this
drama apparently thought I should have paid the
extra money and walked away. Everyone except me.
On
the way to my next chore at a grocery store, a man
pulled a shiny new Lincoln in front of me. I had to
hit the brakes and my office supplies once again
left the bag. He proceeded to slow to answer and
talk on his cell phone, even though talking on a
cell phone and driving is illegal in our city.
"Little care I for the law," says he. I don't think
he was even aware that there was another car on the
road.
Knowing I neared the end of my chores cheered me and
I brought my basket to a checkout counter and waited
in line. I wasn't going to fall for that
self-checkout scam again. Let the error be the
clerks fault. As I neared the register, I noticed
the milk carton leaked. I showed the clerk and,
guess what; she tsked. "I'll run over and get
another one," I told her and looked at the
disgruntled faces in line behind me. They may have
been the same people I saw earlier. Of course, by
the time I ran for the replacement and returned to
the line, everyone had 'that look'. I almost
apologized for complaining about a leaking milk
carton.
The
drive home was to be a chance for me to organize my
thoughts about the article 'how to deal with angry
people'. Instead I thought about a $4,000 dentist
bill that I had to put on a credit card only to end
up with a toothache and advice to have a specialist
do surgery on the tooth. I thought about the $500 I
spent for a pair of glasses designed to
self-destruct two days after the warranty ended.
Another credit card purchase. I thought about the
fact that no matter what something cost, and no
matter who wants to take my money, I'm not supposed
to be upset. I'm not supposed to complain.
When I put away my purchases, I sat down at the
computer, ready to start the article. The phone
rang. A woman from a firm that does television
ratings wanted to take ten or fifteen minutes of my
time to do a survey. No, she didn't offer to pay me
for my time, but I was quite sure that the survey
would somehow make them money. I said no, and before
I could explain that I didn't watch television, she
asked, "Do you know who we are?" Asking her if she
knew who I was would have been childish and petty. I
almost did, but instead looked at the phone and set
it down gently.
My
remarkable self-control kept me from slamming it on
the desk, that, and full credit cards that couldn't
buy a new phone. I mentally cracked my knuckles and
started to type. 'How to deal with angry people…'
The next part of the sentence made me smile…'when
one of them, is you.'
It
wasn't an earth shattering revelation, but it
brought with it a sense of relief. I don't have
control over anyone but myself. Except for staying
out of the way of someone angry enough to hurt me,
my anger is the only one I can or need acknowledge.
Deep breaths, focusing on things that matter and
doing what makes me happy help diffuse any anger
that creeps in. My ultimate goal is to not have
anger. I mean, what does 'tsk' mean anyway?
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Where Do You Go When You Create?
Most
schools teach that there are five senses: sight,
hearing, smell, taste, and touch. I'm not a
scientist, so I'll offer the existence of another
sense as a hunch-the creative sense, and the
processor responsible for deciphering the sensory
input-the soul. All people have the sense, but just
as with the other five, some of us are creatively
impaired.
People
fully aware of their creative sense tend to feel
awkward in the world. They may work in it, or spend
a large amount of time with non-creative people, but
it isn't comfortable and it certainly isn't
fulfilling. Often, it's simply necessary for
survival of the creative body.
What about survival of the creative soul? What
experiences lighten the load or replenish the
energy? I have found over the years a short list of
things that work for me: walking, sketching,
writing, and playing my guitar. Writing is on the
top of the list.
"I started writing a little later in life
just as you did. When I made the decision to
try, it wasn't because I suddenly wanted to
become a writer, but because I couldn't deal
with my life any longer. I was always sensitive
to noise and things that went on around me, but
suddenly everything seemed grimmer and people
unhappier. What I really wanted was to run away,
but I knew how unrealistic that was.
"I tried to escape into television but it too
had become extraordinarily violent. Every time I
changed a channel, I saw a dead body. Outside of
a few funerals that I'd attended in my life,
that wasn't an everyday experience for me. I
started to write stories almost in defense,
stories that were about living instead of dying,
of loving instead of hating. It helped me feel a
little more in control of things."
"I know exactly what you mean, but wouldn't
you like other people to read them?"
Donna's ambivalent shrug mirrored her words.
"I'm not sure. Liz, where do you go when you
write?"
"You mean do I have an office or a favorite
coffee house?"
"No. I mean, what happens in your head when
you start to write."
"Oh." Liz leaned back on her hands as she
gave the question some thought. "Sometimes I
think I leave the earth, other times, I'm
convinced I leave my body. Is that what you
mean?"
"Yes. No matter how overwhelmed I am by life,
the moment I begin to write, I'm happy,
sometimes joyous. Even if the story I'm writing
is in an unhappy place, I'm so elated it's as if
someone gave me an injection of a drug. At
first, I thought it was a fluke, but no matter
what is happening in my life, or how confused I
feel, when I write, I'm alive. Not just alive,
but wonderfully alive."
The
above is from Murder at the Littlecrow Lodge,
which will be published in 2009. I ask you, how
could Donna not write? How, in a world as complex as
ours, could she not want to feel 'wonderfully
alive'.
I share her feelings
about my own writing. It isn't a matter of wanting
to do it anymore. I have no choice because the
survival of my soul depends on it. I recently read a
book called 'The Highly Sensitive Person', written
by Dr. Elaine Aron. I recommend it and her web site
www.hsperson.com
to anyone who struggles with fitting into the
aggressive societies we call home. I found immediate
comfort in the number of people who felt the things
I've felt my entire life and thought were failings.
How nice to know that they're not.
I
no longer doubt that I'm a creative individual. As
long as I can remember, I've picked up pen or pencil
to write or draw and listened to the flow of
thoughts and ideas that seemed constantly to fill my
mind. It took me a long time to understand what all
that information meant, and what to do with it. A
creative person must create. It's as simple as that.
Beyond White Bread in
the World of Publishing
Recently, my brother, RH Sheldon, posted an
article called 'Writers—Cheap, Easy,
Expendable'. In it, he discussed where
writers landed in the publishing heap. Yep,
on the bottom. The statement that struck me
as the saddest and most telling was,
'without writers, many in the industry would
end up baristas at Starbucks'.
I have long been a proponent of print on
demand, and it truly allows us all a shot at
finding readers. Remember, the primary
relationship is between readers and writers,
not publishers, agents, or distributors. If
writing is the goal and selling what you've
written the bonus, than self-publishing is
the solution. If you haven't been able to
get beyond a query letter, maybe you should
look into it. You won't need a large
financial investment, but you will need to
spend a great deal of time trying to reach
your readers. This, of course, is separate
from the time you spend writing. If what you
have to offer is readable, you have a shot.
Most people, across the board, are willing
to admit that the industry is in bad shape.
I am not saying that the people published by
the large publishers don't deserve it. They
are just not the only ones worth reading. Do
the big guys really believe that people only
want to read the books that they select?
More importantly, do you believe that? Is it
possible that people simply don't know what
wonderful authors are out there waiting for
readers?
I went to the library the other day and saw
four shelves of books by the same author. A
friend of mine who has spent a great deal of
time in libraries over the years, both
working and hanging out, said it is what
readers want that fill the shelves. They are
removing many classics to make room for
'popular' books. Now that is scary.
It's not unlike any other product marketing.
You go to the grocery store and on the bread
shelf, you see one companies' products. They
sell white and wheat bread. You choose what
you want from the choices available and go
home. You chose wheat bread, and after a
while you and your family are not only used
to it, but like it. The next time you go to
the store, you go right to the wheat bread
and fill your cart. You don't even notice
the little upstart company that has a tiny
part of one shelf selling sour dough and rye
bread. Soon, the store sees the little
upstart company isn't selling anything.
Rather than give them more space, they
discontinue their products. They never had a
chance, but the little upstart company
regrouped. They began to sell only online.
Slowly they developed their line of breads
and became popular. Guess who tells them
they'll give them a whole shelf to
themselves, only if they receive
seventy-five percent of the profit.
Okay, back to the library. What if it is
what readers want. Is it what they
really want, or is it because they don't
know there's sour dough and rye bread
available? You can't blame the
librarians. Every book publisher in
existence pitches them, and it would be
physically impossible to read the number
of catalogs, brochures, and books that
pile up on their desks. They have to
trust someone, and go by what their
readers want.
Not many self-published authors have the
money to run full color ads in papers
and magazines, and often times it is
even too expensive to find a cooperative
catalog they can afford. Let's assume
that the self-published author is in the
same league as the author who has four
shelves, or maybe even better. What do
they do?
Today, I can see only one level playing
field—the Internet. Though it is often
like shouting in the wind, at least
there's a chance someone will hear you.
You certainly have nothing to lose by
trying. I don't see publishing as a
whole improving anytime soon. There's
far too much money involved, but people
who have a passion for something don't
give up. It isn't a question of 'will
I', for most of us the question is
'when'. As long as there have been
powerful people running things, there
have been groups of people considered
less powerful, battering down the gates.
I say we grab a couple of poles and
start.
Read RH
Sheldon's article,
'Writers—Cheap, Easy, Expendable'
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