Life

*One necessary component. Sugar. It fuels my musical creativity. Don’t judge me!

Transgression has two Masters,
called cowardice and greed,
there is no backbone to a man,
Who’s soul has not been freed.

These are lyrics to a song from the musical I’m collaborating on. (Since they’re a bit of a tongue-twister they may not make the cut).

Anyhow, they are sung with a combination of great angst and gut-wrenching passion by the antagonist, the villain if you will, during a moment of long overdue self reflection—just before he either cuts and runs—or redeems himself. (You’ll have to see the play to find out what happens).

At this point in the plot he has repeatedly fucked up. Big time.

His intentions in the beginning were pure, make no mistake about that. But he has talked himself into believing that his transgressions were okay and that nobody was getting hurt.
Wait. Make that cowardice and greed.
Those two rapscallions are the ones that hold his attention now. They are the ones doing all the talking and through coercion and lies they have convinced him to do their bidding.

They have turned an otherwise good guy into a villain.

All that got me to thinking.

During the year and a half of character development, this guy has morphed from Voldemort (pure evil) to a heroic guy who’s lost his way (most of us).

He has strayed off his path, his moral compass spinning wildly, but he’s chosen not to look at it. And although he lost his backbone,(it is lying in a ditch somewhere, along with his integrity), a large part of him thinks he’s doing the right thing.
AND
Buried so deep it will take an archeological team years to uncover it—There is still love in his heart. Really.

It was important for us to have him reveal his struggle, otherwise no one would care about him, the audience would turn on him and by the second act he’d have to get extensive plastic surgery—or die.

You know what? The audience is just a microcosm of humanity.

We have to show that no person is made up of pure evil or pure good.

Writing this character is convincing me that we’re all just a delicious gumbo of both.

Listen, who hasn’t succumbed to the dark side once or three hundred times?
I know I’ve played the villain in some shitshow along the way; and at the time I either didn’t care or I wasn’t aware.
Both of those suck and I’m not proud.

It’s amazing to me how we come to realizations in our lives.
I’ve had more epiphanies writing this blog and developing this musical than any ethic’s class, spiritual lecture or monastery retreat.
And even inside my own resistance I can hear the words of my villain, the one I created on the page,
Reminding me:

The villains in our lives are not ALL bad.

They believe what they’re doing; their cause; is right.

And contrary to popular belief there is not an empty space inside their chest.
A heart beats there. And it loves.

A dose of understanding and compassion. I got all that from a fucking musical! 

The Universe has such sense of humor when it’s figuring out its wisdom delivery systems.
You won’t believe where it will come from.
Don’t you love that?

Carry on,
xox

*This post is from a couple of years ago, but it is forever intertwined with our wedding anniversary, so I can never forget. I don’t think we should.
xox

It is ridiculously dark in a hotel room with the black-out drapes closed.

It is a trip over stuff because it’s a strange room; blink, blink, blink for your eyes to adjust; bang your shin and stub your toe, kind of dark.

I experienced all of those things on the way to answer my phone which was shoved in my purse, somewhere under piles of room service napkins, magazines, and assorted other crap.

La la la la la la, my phone chimed its little heart out.

Who is calling me? Everyone knows I’m on my honeymoon and judging from how dark it is, (forgetting the drapes) it MUST be the middle of the night. How rude!

Five minutes earlier the ringing had woken me up, and I had stumbled like a drunken sailor, half asleep in the pitch blackness, to the bathroom. ‘Wrong number‘ I thought, still half asleep as I felt my way like a blindfolded mime, back to bed.
I heard it go to message. Now I was awake.
Hmmmmmmmm…that’s weird.

It started to ring again; this time, I could swear it sounded more insistent.
LA LA LA LAAAAAA!
Curious, I quietly slid out of bed and started moving heaven and earth to find it, only to hear it go to message a second time.

Not even a moment later, as I was finally holding it in my hand, it started to ring again.

At that same instant so did my husband’s phone charging next to him on the nightstand.  Then the hotel room phone on my side of the bed. It became a cacophony of three different rings, each one of them trying desperately at that point to get our attention.

I heard my husband’s voice behind me in the bed, “Shit, this CAN’T be good”. He was suddenly wide awake as he grabbed both the room phone and his cell, putting one to each ear.
“Hello!” he announced tersely into both.

I had just flipped mine open only to listen to my best friend Jen, mumbling and weeping. At the same exact moment, we both lunged for the remote as three different people screamed into our ears “TURN ON THE TV!”

We were two days into enjoying our post wedding coma. Ensconced in a room overlooking the Pacific at the Biltmore in Santa Barbara, still feeling giddy from the excitement of such a magical night.
Exhausted, we had given ourselves a couple of days to decompress before we were to fly to a friend’s party in Chicago and then on to Italy to have a motorcycle honeymoon.
None of those plans would come to pass.

My brand new husband pulled open the drapes with one swipe to reveal bright sunshine; it wasn’t the middle of the night, it was after six in the morning. This must be a movie, I thought, as we both slowly sat on the edge of the bed; watching in stunned silence as the second plane hit the tower.

I think I screamed. I know I screamed. A movie scream.

Everyone we loved was calling; apologizing for bothering us, but wanting us to know.
Because that’s what family does. They share bad news.

Just thirty-six hours before, they had all been loopy from too much champagne and wine, laughing, toasting and celebrating love…now they were crying and asking me, Why?

I couldn’t wrap my brain around what was happening. Everything felt surreal, like a slow motion disaster film.

I certainly didn’t have any answers.

My husband is an architect/builder. He knows about steel and fire and in his most serious Bob The Builder voice he didn’t pose a question or wonder aloud—he made a statement:
“I hope everyone’s out of there, that building’s coming down.”

And right on cue, as he finished that sentence…the first tower fell.

“Shit, shit, shit!” he yelled, sitting up straight on his knees.
I was screaming and shaking, “No, No, No…Oh MY GOD!”

Peter Jennings’ solemn voice said something to the effect of, “This has turned from an act of terrorism to an act of war.”

Time stopped. The planet shifted, and in my mind, that was the moment it happened. There will always before 9/11 and an after.

It was impossible to look away from the TV and I could not stop crying.

My mom called to tell me that Pam, who is like a big sister to me, and had flown in from San Francisco for the wedding, had to deplane on the tarmac at LAX and run for her life. The pilot had directed them all to run as fast as they could, away from the terminals and the airport.

Really. He told everyone to RUN!

No one knew what was going on, and where the next attack, if there were to be others, was going to take place. Lee and my mom picked her up as she ran east on Century Boulevard with a whole crowd of other panicky and confused thwarted travelers.

Many of the women had ditched their heels along the way, running in bare feet and business attire.

They had no idea where they were going.

How far would they run?

How far was far enough?

Where could you go that day to feel safe? I sure as hell didn’t know.

If you had told me a place—I would have run there with you.

After the second tower collapsed and the news went into that perpetual recap mode, I couldn’t watch another second; so I pulled on some sweats and sunglasses to hide my red swollen eyes and walked like a zombie downstairs to the lobby.

My inner historian/collector had kicked in and I went to see if they had the newspapers in the gift shop without the headline of the event, and the later edition, with it.

The adrenaline of the past few hours had subsided, which had dropped us both into a kind of numb stupor—so we also needed coffee. Bad.

The lobby was a ghost town. Everything was closed. No gift shop, no Starbucks, nothing. There wasn’t a soul in sight…this huge hotel felt deserted.

Back upstairs, I called room service.
It rang for what seemed like an eternity, then the voice that finally answered sounded out of breath and off of hotel protocol. She didn’t say Hello, Mrs. Bertolus, (which I was loving by the way), like they had been doing for the past couple of days.

“Yes? Hello, I mean, room service” she said.

“Um, are you guys open? Is it possible to get a pot of coffee?”

“I’ll try my best, I’m sorry ma’am, but no one has shown up for work this morning.”

“Oh my gosh, I completely understand—it’s just so terrible…”

“Yes ma’am,” she said, “it’s so sad.”
She started to cry, which set me off.

“Don’t worry about the coffee” I sobbed, feeling like an ass. “Just forget it, I’m sorry to bother you.”

“No ma’am, don’t be silly” she had composed herself, now the epitome of professionalism, “Your coffee will be right up Mrs. Bertolus.”

Ten minutes later a young man brought up a pot of coffee and some croissants, and after some caffeine and food, the shaking stopped and I started to feel a little better.

The government had halted all air travel until further notice. Planes were finding a safe place to land and staying put. It was unprecedented and I was relieved.

The absolute LAST thing I wanted to do was get on a plane.
We had a lot of phone calls to make and rescheduling to do.

Against my better judgment we kept our reservations that night for a seaside dinner. The place was beautiful… and depressing as hell. Everyone seemed to just be going through the motions. I sobbed like a three-year-old through the entire dinner, having a hard time forgetting those faces we’d seen all day of the people who were missing.

“How can I enjoy any of this? People lost husbands and fathers, brothers and wives and sisters. So many people died today!” I put my head in my hands, I couldn’t eat.

“How can you not?” my husband whispered, resting his hand on mine.

“Those people would give anything to be here, where we are right now, enjoying life. We don’t join them in death, that’s an even greater waste. We enjoy our lives. Every minute. Every day to the fullest. I think that’s what they would want. That’s what I would want.”

Damn, he’s good.

Just writing these memories makes me cry. It instantly brings me right back.

I think it’s important to tell the story. To never forget what happened.
Everything before 911 feels different, simpler somehow, like as a country we lost our innocence.

It just happens to coincide with my wedding. I can never think of one without the other. I celebrate the ninth of September, and I light a candle on the eleventh.
In my life, they are forever intertwined.

Just like our parents had the Kennedy assassination, this is our generation’s “where were you?” moment.

Do you have a 911 story? Tell us.

much love,
xox

CONTEMPT IS CONTAGIOUS

The only emotion that spreads more reliably is panic.

Contempt is caused by fear and by shame and it looks like disgust. It’s very hard to recover once you receive contempt from someone else, and often, our response is to dump it on someone else.

If you want to be respected by your customers/peers/partners/competitors/constituents, the best way is to begin by respecting them and the opportunity they are giving you.

And the best way to avoid contempt is to look for your fear.

Seth Godin

This is from Seth Godin’s blog and the title resonated…deep. Contempt is contagious.

Have you ever had someone look at you this way? I have; although at the time I wasn’t altogether sure, so I mistook the first few times as indigestion or constipation. Eventually it became clear. Yep—it was contempt alright.

You know why? They could smell my fear with its side of shame.

Fear. Shame. Contempt= The Shitstorm Trifecta.

If you’re in it, you know it—you can smell it.

Right now! Quick! Are you the dumper?—Or the dumpee?

I’ve been both and I can guarantee you—either way, it sucks.

Looking for the fix? What’s the alternative?

Expose your fear; shine a light on the shame; brush yourself off; gather your wits; show some SELF  RESPECT FIRST and keep moving forward.

It’ll be all right.  You can take it from me, a “Silkwood Shower” and some Visine works wonders to wash away contempt.

I’d love to hear YOUR thoughts.

Carry on,
xox

Hey you guys,
This is new territory for me.

I’m a mover, I’m a doer. A striver. I strive to MAKE things happen.

I will ignore a closed-door, swim a moat, or hunt you down, to get to where I think I need to go.

At least that’s been my M/O in the past.
These days?… I get still.

Mostly when I’m stuck—ESPECIALLY when I’m stuck.

I wait to be inspired.
What?
You heard me.
Inspired action. I wait to take inspired action.

I check in with my gut. What is it saying? Is there excitement? Is there enthusiasm? Am I meeting the right people? Seeing the signs? Am I observing things moving into place?

Then there’s my answer. Hell YES!

Otherwise it’s a Hell No.
Too fucking easy, right? I’ve got to say, I’m tired of swimming moats, I’m really beginning to embrace easy.

Have a lovely, easy, Labor—free week,
Carry on,
xox

I was married at twenty and divorced by twenty-six.

It was the eighties, the decade of Princess Diana and Madonna, and it seemed everyone was doing it—getting married young and divorcing.

Even my best friend at the time shocked me when she suddenly filed for divorce. When someone close to you calls it quits you take a magnifying glass to your relationship, searching for the cracks. No need to look very close, ours was shattered to bits; held together with spit and glue.

I have to admit; in the beginning her divorce left me appalled! But after a while, I saw how happy they both became and that’s when it finally dawned on me that deep down my husband was probably as miserable as I was, and so I decided that for the sake of the continued happiness of us both—we could not stay married for one. more. minute.

NOBODY LIKES A QUITTER

It was impossible to paint a picture of my ex as an insufferable troll.

People understand when you divorce a man who is a cheater, an addict, or someone who can’t hold a job. It wasn’t him it was me. That line is cliché I know, but some sayings become clichés because they’re so damn true!

My ex-husband was/is one of the nicest men on the planet and that sucks even more. I left an all around great guy because I yearned for something more.

“More than what?” my dad asked upon hearing that I wanted a divorce. “What more could you possibly want? It doesn’t seem like anyone can make you happy!” He was right about that. That was my job, only I didn’t know it at the time.

I only knew that something profoundly wonderful was missing. Something…untenable, indescribable and indefinable—and I wasn’t able or willing to settle.

That made me feel greedy. And wrong.

Other people settle. Why can’t I? It would be so much easier!

God, I had so much to learn! I had gone from living under my father’s roof to living under my husband’s. I identified as someone’s wife. Until I wasn’t.

HIDDEN BENEFITS

I would say the biggest benefit was becoming comfortable with my independence. I had been half of a couple, a team, and now every decision, every mistake, was mine alone. I needed to figure out who I was and what I wanted from life, and in the process I was forced to become comfortable living without a man.

When there was a creepy sound in the middle of the night who checked it out? Me and my trusty baseball bat.

I started taking some risks, teaching myself how to invest money. I bought stocks and bonds, which scared the shit out of my dad, but ended up rewarding my courage with great returns.

I also became skilled at all manner of apartment maintenance and eventually acquired a power drill and a small, red toolbox. Woof!

DATING

I had a hard time with the label divorcee. Every form I filled out asked me my marital status and checking the DIVORCED box reminded that I had failed at one of life’s most cherished milestones.
In my twenties.

Guys aren’t sure what to make of a twenty-six year old divorcee.

No wild-eyed desperation or ticking time clock here. Some of them acted relieved. Many seemed a bit bewildered. Truth be told, it scared the bejesus out of most of them.

I don’t know where all the other twenty-something divorcees went to date—but in my circle, I was as rare as a Unicorn.

A twenty-six year old divorced Unicorn.

TRANSITION IN MY THIRTIES

Once I realized, much to the amazement of my single girlfriends, this controversial fact: that most of the men out there really did want to get married and have babies; and that a divorcee was way too much of a wild card for them at that stage of the game—I was able to formulate a game plan.

I dyed my blonde hair red, which narrowed the field even further. Only serious, artsy guys need apply.

I decided that unless I met someone extraordinary, marriage and children would probably not be a reality for me; and except for about a month when I was thirty-three and everyone around me was having babies—I was more than okay with that.

I made a great life for myself. I had a career I loved; great friends, wonderful family and I made foreign travel my passion.

That all felt amazing. Until it didn’t.

EVEN UNICORNS GET A SECOND CHANCE

After I turned forty, stability became my middle name. I settled down, bought a house in the burbs, let my hair grow longer and went back to being a blonde.

I started dating. A lot. I told anyone who had a friend with a pulse that I was looking to settle down. I was finally ready to share my life.

Eighteen unmarried years had gone by and men my age and older couldn’t have cared less that I got divorced in my twenties. Seriously. Most of them were on their second or even third divorce.

I was no longer an anomaly, an outsider.

I decided to go on a blind dating binge and that’s how I met the extraordinary man I married at forty-three—he was definitely worth the wait.

At last I found that indescribable, indefinable something I’d spent nearly two decades searching for—and he found me.

Isn’t timing everything? Ain’t love grand? Maybe it was greed. I don’t know; I think it was all just dumb luck.

We all know how lucky Unicorns can be.

photo credit: http://therealbenhopper.com/index.php?/projects/naked-girls-with-masks/

Happy, Healthy, Dead.

That is the clarion cry of the spiritual community I belong to. The one that lost Wayne Dyer this weekend. By the way, he isn’t really lost…but that’s another story.

I can’t remember where and when I heard it first, but it made one hell of an impression: happy, healthy, dead.

Irreverent I know, but just irreverent enough for me to embrace it wholeheartedly. A new idea about the transition of death. How you want to leave this earth. The day you depart you want to be healthy, happy, dead. Lights out. Just like that. In a chair in front of the computer (right after you hit “send” on the best thing you’ve ever written), in your sleep (hopefully in clean pajamas), or sitting at a stoplight (at the end of an amazing road trip). Boom. Gone. Sayonara. That’s that!
And that’s exactly what he did.

Transition. Why is it so fucking hard, so goddamn always?

September is a big month full of transition. Fall begins, the days get shorter, the nights get cooler (in theory), my big, fat, flip-flop feet have to squeeze themselves into shoes; and as the summer begins to wind down we all get a little bit squirrelly.

School starts. The nest empties. The time changes back to whatever the hell it was in May, and fucking Christmas decorations show up in the stores.

I like to say I’m pretty good at transition. But I also like to say other things that I know deep down aren’t completely true. Like: I’ll only take a couple of bites of your dessert or female politicians don’t lie.

I’ve discovered I’m okay with transitions as long as they look, feel, and taste EXACTLY like what just ended.

When I move, the joke is that my new place will be unpacked, with pictures hung, and fully decorated within twenty-four hours of receiving the keys. Everything will be in its place and it’ll look as if I’ve lived there for a decade. I even break down the boxes and drive around until I find a back alley dumpster. Anything to keep the place from looking chaotic and temporary. THAT my dear friends is not an example of someone who has a facility for change.

It is the white-knuckled fingers of control around the neck of my anxiety.

Why can’t transition be easy? The next logical step? The next great adventure? And since it’s a necessary part of life—why can’t we just chill?

How come we can’t remember what it felt like to graduate? To get our first job? To fall in love that very first time? Those were all transitions. Big ones. Ones that formed us. And they were pivotal in the unfolding of our life’s narrative; they were uncharted territory; fresh, new, and exciting!

Have you got an empty nest? Fill it with all the things you’ve been putting off for…Oh, I don’t know, almost twenty years!
Listen, now you get to look forward to college graduations, foreign travel, potential new family members, and maybe, eventually, the patter of little feet that go home when you’re tired of them.

I love me some summer and dread its ending, but then I remember that I also love fires in fireplaces, the smell of burning leaves, cozy sweaters, hot mint tea and rainy days. So what’s the big deal?

Transition. Happy; healthy; dead. Easy, peasy, Parcheesi.

Excuse me while I go wedge my paddle foot into some sexy black boots.

Carry on,
xox

Jason! Where have you been man? I’ve missed you!
Your stream-of-consciousness, existential ramblings about creativity, life, consciousness and technology have been sadly missing from my weekends as of late.
Welcome back,
xox

“Slow down. Stay in one place for a while. Stop searching for what’s next. Give life a chance to show up for you.”
~Cheryl Richardson

I love this blog post of Cheryl’s. I’ve had the privilege of seeing her speak oh, I don’t know, half a million times over the years, and I love her message of self-care.
This is a little different for her, it feels mystical and magical, yet wrapped in an ordinary evening at home
In these waning days of summer—let’s all just slow down,listen, and let life show up. (There’s that surrender again!)
xox

~*~ If I hadn’t listened, I would have missed this.

It was 10:30 when the oppressive summer heat finally gave way to cool night air that kept the mosquitoes at bay. I plopped down on a zero gravity chair in the middle of our deck, pushed back on the arms, and came face-to-face with a stunning, cloudless sky.

I can’t remember when I’ve seen stars so bright.

My plan was to catch the end of the Perseid meteor shower that started a few days earlier. So I settled into the chair, adjusted the pillow underneath my head, and made myself comfortable.
As I gazed up at the stars, I shifted my eyes this way and that, doing my best to take in the full sky before me. I didn’t want to miss anything.
Ten minutes passed.

I focused more intently, widening my vision so I could see everything possible without having to move my head.
Five more minutes. Nada.
There’s nothing like waiting for a shooting star to remember what “attached to results” feels like smile emoticon.
Be patient, I told myself (about a hundred and fifty times). Just let go of any expectations and enjoy the beauty of the night.
I took a few deep breaths as my mind began to wander…

I wonder what’s happening out there in the wide-open spaces between the stars? Is there anyone looking back at me? Where did this all begin anyway?

Come back, I ordered my wandering mind, be present for this experience.
But my existential angst continued…
How small of a speck am I on this revolving ball? Why are we here, really? Are the souls of deceased loved ones out there somewhere looking back at us?

Ten more minutes passed and still no sign of a shooting star. Disappointed, I figured I missed the finale, so I thought about going back in the house.
But something told me to stay.
A little voice invited me to appreciate the solitude, to soak up the silence, and just be with the immense beauty of it all.
So I listened to that voice and I stayed.

Over the next ten minutes or so, I melted into the Oneness before me. No agenda. No expectation. No need to see anything.
Just me and Presence hanging out under the stars.

And that’s when astonishment arrived.

For the next hour I stared in amazement as the meteor shower above my head turned stardust into the most extraordinary entertainment. One shooting star after another filled the night sky, some with long streams of light trailing behind.

Mystery. Awe. Wonder. Magic. An experience to remember.

All because I surrendered to the wise little voice inside.

Later that night, as I crawled into bed feeling wrapped in the love of the Great Universe, I thought about that voice and how I need to pay more attention to her invitations.

Slow down, she tells me. Stay in one place for a while. Stop searching for what’s next. Give Life a chance to show up for you.

Wise indeed.
xo Cheryl

http://www.cherylrichardson.com/about/

You know how when we present our dilemma to a friend and they launch one solution, one brilliant idea after another our way and we barely even listen? And even if we do, we can find something wrong with every solution offered and argue for our dilemma.

Why do we do that?

You know what I’m talkin’ about. We argue FOR that thing that is driving us bat-shit nuts with the skill and tenacity of a fucking Supreme Court Judge.

“Well, yeah, but that takes money and I can’t afford it.”

“Well, yeah, but I can’t just leave.”

“Well, yeah, but when I walk on it, it hurts.”

Overruled! You are all overruled! I want to stay stuck and miserable; mired in my miasma of muck. (Holy alliteration!)

I think I’ll call it MY YEAH BUT HABIT.

Listen, we even use this tactic when things are going well—WTF?!

You got a promotion! “Yeah, but I didn’t get more vacation days.”

You got a raise! “Yeah, but, not as much as I wanted.”

A baby boy! Congratulations! “Yeah, but, I really thought we were having girl, and everybody says boys are tough, and he doesn’t let us sleep for a minute.”

What’s with that you guys?

Do we like to complain? (I know someone who thinks that complaining is the force that keeps us all alive. Seriously.)

Do we like to hear ourselves speak? (yes, yes I do)

Is unhappiness and dissatisfaction a habit? (yeah, but, I REALLY don’t know why).

Do our dilemmas get us attention? (Similar to publicly—there is no bad attention)

Here’s a thought.
What if we used that skill all the time? Like an equal opportunity Yeah but. Like this:

Oh, that’s a nasty dent is your fender; “Yeah, but, I’m lucky that’s all that happened.”

There are a lot of people applying for that position. “Yeah, but, my resume is stellar, I have tons of experience, and they’d be lucky to have me.”

Wow, he left you? “Yeah, but, if I’m honest with myself things have been lousy between us for a while, and now that the ball is rolling we can figure things out and move on with our lives.”

I know. That ones a streeeeeeeech. (but we could do it)

Then how about this one? Let’s all try to be more aware when we’re arguing FOR the muck we’re mired in.
It is BEYOND limiting!

Once and for all, lets all get off our Yeah butts.

Carry on,
xox

At Abraham on Saturday, a woman was relating to all of us how wonderful her life has become.
“Except for this one thing,” she said as the smile faded from her lips. “I feel like I’m blocked, like there’s something in my way.”

Well, shit, (we all let out a collective sigh), who hasn’t felt like that?

Sometimes I feel so blocked, so constipated with worry over an implied detour or an actual closed-door in my face, that I pray for a cosmic laxative.

“What if there’s nothing in your way? Really. Because there isn’t.” Was their answer. (Cue collective gasp).

I’m not sure why you guys, but I got this on so. many. levels. I really heard it. It’s the only note I took during the entire seminar.

So of course I took my own life situations and immediately ran them though that familiar filter. I’m going to call it THE FAILURE FILTER.

Desire: Write a book. Easy right? Sit down, gather inspiration, type your ass off and viola! Book!

Enter—The Failure Filter: (The failure filter is always a diatribe, a monologue, a compilation of all the worst case scenarios, and it goes something like this)—

Ughhhhhhhh…yeah, sure. You wrote a book. Big whoop. Join the crowd. Now you have to find an agent. A good agent. A successful agent. An agent who loves your book as much or more than you do. Then said agent has to get you a publishing deal. A real deal. Not some bullshit deal, no, something lucrative and prestigious. Then they’re going to edit the book. You have to pray for a good editor who is also a decent person, because they’re going to change…every word. You won’t even recognize the finished product. They’re going to change your book to their book. The book they’ve aways wanted to write. Then you have to get testimonials. From other successful authors in your genre. Oh yeah, that should be a breeze! Then the book cover, you’re going to hate your book cover—everybody does. Publicity. don’t even get me started on publicity! Do you have a platform? Ten thousand followers you say? Why don’t you have one hundred thousand? Or Five Hundred thousand? Kim Kardashian has over forty million and she co-authored a N.Y. Times best seller. You better get on that.
Then it has to sell. People have to actually pay money and read it. FUCK! I feel blocked—like there’s something in my way!

I could run my screenplay, musical, latest great idea; basically every creative endeavor AND my relationships through that Failure Filter and you know what?

I wouldn’t start them.

I would be tempted not to finish them.

My energy and enthusiasm would stall and any creative juices I had left would dry up. Can you say constipated?

Besides you guys, all that stuff we think is blocking us—it’s made up shit. Let’s just file this under the giant heading: LIES WE TELL OURSELVES.

Yeah, you could say all of that is real, that you do have to chase a book deal…or do you? I know people who have been approached by publishers! Seriously! EVERY deal is different. Anything can happen!

Believing the bullshit and staying blocked separates the weak minded from the…not so…weak minded. You can quote me on that.

And this applies to not only writing, butanything in life.

There is NO THING/NOTHING is the way.

WE are the only one’s in our way. Its OUR thoughts, beliefs and general bullshit thinking that blocks us!

Let this post act as a cosmic laxative to unblock you and get out of your own way.
I did and I feel better already!

Love you, Carry on,
xox

http://www.abraham-hicks.com/lawofattractionsource/about_abraham.php