The chain is broken
Melted in the flame of my knowledge.
Turning his face from the fruit,
He needs nothing;
In a week I am going to set up my book table at the Cincinnati Coffee Festival. Last year I was there as a humble coffee lover with one novel to his name. The Trier was not finished. In fact, as I type I can’t tell you where in the book I was. I know it wasn’t done however because if it were, I would not have set the intention to return to Cincinnati in a year.
In the year between then and now, I worked on writing the book. My book producer then took the book from my laptop and got it to Amazon and Ingram Spark by early June. I set the intention to return with the novel completed. That intention was met. I don’t even have to make the trip to sell a single book to know that all my work means what it is supposed to mean.
Ideal industry, work, and purpose is free from the judgement of others. Results driven. Paycheck. Fruit of the labor. There is no reward in any of these. If there is, then you are giving something, or some arbitrary person, the power to define what your effort means to you. What your early mornings and tired body mean to it’s owner and founder. How can any one else know what that is worth? They can’t. Its just a guess at best. Do not let what lands in your bank account on payday define what the work you do means.
So, I am going to have a blast, a caffeinated joy ride surrounded my books. I will sell a good amount of books because work went into making that inevitable. But the real reward, the true lasting fruit that cannot go rotten, lies in working on the next book. Or books.
Tags: the writing mind, writing, Writing novels