I was riding my bicycle a week ago or so, in the late late afternoon when sunset is threatening but it's still light out... enjoying the quality of the light, so luminous without heat. There's a long slope alongside a pond where you don't have to pedal and I sat back as I sailed past, listening to the click-click-click of the bicycle chain and the distant piercing whistle of a heron... watching the breeze ruffle the surface of the water into shining folds, smelling star jasmine and cut grass.

dracosphynx and I have been having a discussion about whether I'll sell 50 books (at the time, I was at 44 sold and no movement for weeks). But out there in the quiet, some part of me detached from the idea that it was important to sell as many books as possible. It had been gnawing at me that I haven't had time to put together the marketing for The Aphorisms, and that beyond sending out the review copies I haven't really pushed it.

And I wondered: why do I have to push? Why is it important? Five books or fifty, it is what it is. When I have the time to put together fliers and letters and send out newsbits to websites, I'll do it. But I don't right now, and it's not a big deal. There's so much temptation to mistake your successes for your identity... to look at what you do and say "That is who I am." But it's not, not really. Nothing external truly is.

People will find the work... or not. And I'll still be here, and so will the books. In the mean-time, I have living to do... or else what will I write when I finally sit down?


( Of course, the moment I stopped fretting about it, I sold three more... figures. I think the universe just wants me to have another cup of chocolate. :) )


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