You have an idea. A thought that thrills. You want to write a book.
Give up the dream of being a published author. Let go the hopes of notoriety, of money, of telling highbrow conferences you’re already booked. Forget that you ever wanted to be popular.
But you use those petty desires to start your novel.
You call on your imagination to piece together sounds which form words to convey ideas from your consciousness. You heed advice and write a blog. Another human being understands. The miracle isn’t they read your blog. The miracle is they understand the concept you’re telling them. And the glory is their conviction from your words. They are a better because you write.
You start your book. And you write more. And you look around.
What have you done to get here? You offend everyone who ever hoped you’d be something. You disappoint people you know. It bothers many because you know who you are and where you’re going, because they don’t even know what they want. You’ve pursued the Sacred and production and given up performance.
You put your head down and keep writing.
You’ve discovered that respect comes not from doing what you’re told, but by creating, taking everything from every opportunity.
Take what you need with no apologies.
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