Toward the end of April 2020 as I was trying to scrape together a little book that reconciled me to the universe, I read through what I had written so far and suddenly realized it was done.
“I don’t know how to explain it, I don’t know why, I don’t know how or when it happened, but this is the book I wanted to produce. It’s finished,” I said to myself.
I published it that weekend.
It has a ridiculous name: How to Play a Blue Guitar. I have never been able to put into words why I think it hangs together as a work of art and expression. It is just plainly obvious to me that it does.
The marketplace has told me I was being foolish. No one wants to read it. Was I wrong about this thing?
Every so often I page through it. It’s eccentric and eclectic. It has short essays, poems, fiction, and maybe it doesn’t work, because I seem to be the only person who thinks it does. How to Play a Blue Guitar is exactly the book I wanted it to be.
What does it mean that almost no one in the universe will read or buy what, to date, feels to me like my most real book?
It means a simple, liberating truth: that, as a wise man once wrote, the universe doesn’t give a flying f*ck about me.
You know? When I think about that carefully, it’s downright exhilarating.
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This is the end of my second full year of blogging every day. Thanks for dropping by.