Spirituality and Shameless Self-Promotion

Bagged, unbagged, or both

Now comes the part where I try to spread the word about my debut novel, The Innocent. Am I the only shy writer? I used to read about famous reclusive authors (Thomas Pynchon or J.D. Salinger anyone?) who hunched over their writing tablet, sweated and tortured themselves over producing the prefect prose, then staggered to a publisher, plunked down the manuscript with a grumble and lurched away back to the darkness of their word-a-torium or labor-wordium, or some such cave-like place where they wrote. Many years later, a small obituary would be written about how, sadly, they were found dead in the gutter like Poe. That was my dream of being a writer as a child.

Now I have to promote myself. Unfortunately, this is completely against my modest, ego-destroying lifestyle. How can you destroy the ego while promoting how great you are? There is the rub! I find myself torn between the greedy little kid in me that wants to be queen of the writing world and the sublime being in me who doesn't give a shit.  All day long I go back and forth: "All bow down to my lyrical sentences and profound sayings, and make me queen of the written word!"; "Oh, please! One day I am going to die. Nobody who ever died wished they had another dollar or sold another book. Fame is nothing. You can't take it with you"; "But money is good to have now"; "Money can't buy you what is important in life!"; and on and on.

So, I have some things to work out karmically. I know I shouldn't care, but I want to give writing a try. I know the world is an illusion and a game, but I want to win this game. Why? Maybe because my mother never loved me or my dad died of AIDS. Or maybe because deep down inside I know I am a good writer.  Perhaps, that is the middle path.