Celebration - I finished the book!

It took me nine years. It’s much the biggest project I have undertaken in my life.  

One friend says she can’t understand why her friends write books: we put ourselves through such agonies. But I would not have done this if I hadn’t felt driven to it. 

By what? Obviously my own psychology, hang ups, traumas, perceived debts. Plus some revelations, some good news, some things I desperately want to share. But it didn’t feel like it was all mine: it felt like it was coming from outside me. 

That’s a problem for an agnostic. But for me, the essence of agnosticism is “I don’t know.” Atheists seem to know there is no God, no supernatural. I am open to the experience, resistant to the labeling. It didn’t matter to me if some kind of God had laid this on me or if I had done it to myself: I just had to do it. Not my fault. See Good Morning Judge for a catchy exculpatory song. 

Until year 6. That was when I paid an experienced book editor and marketer in Britain tom assess the book. He told me it had good stuff in it but would not be picked up by a publisher without drastic changes. I forget all the reasons: it’s too odd, covers too much ground, doesn’t fit most genres, especially not the “literary memoir” that was in vogue. 

Suddenly I discovered that whatever had been driving me had vanished. What a relief. 

I mourned the book for many months, as if it was dead. 

But it wasn’t. Zombie-like, it rose from its grave. This time I knew I had to finish it. I couldn’t let my life go by without trying and I couldn’t land the task on my wife Debi’s shoulders if I conked out: I knew she would feel compelled to get it published. Now it was just up to me. I had no excuse: if I drove Debi crazy I was entirely to blame. Now it was my fault that I obsessively kept at it.

So here it is. Massive celebration and popping of champagne corks! And thank you, my dear life partner, for still being with me. So this is also a celebration of the wondrous Debi Clifford.