Brian,
I am nearly sixty four years old. I have been writing since 2016, with no intention of ever publishing. In 2017, my best friend, who had been in remission from terminal malignant melanoma, was finally able to convince me to join him at the Oregon Health Sciences University Men’s Cancer Survivor writing group. His name was Marty C.(died Sept. 11, 2017 through a Death With Dignity process), a most intelligent, insightful man, and the best listener that I have ever met.
Marty had a recurrence of his melanoma, and it had metastasis to the brain, and other places. He had successful surgery, yet, somehow, I knew that he was going to die. I joined with him in June of 2017 in the writing group, which he had belonged for close to four years. I am also a melanoma survivor, but, so far, mine has no metastasis.
Marty and I had a “psychic attunement”. Together, we experienced a true Miracle of Life, and I was able to experience some events that few people have experienced, let alone can write about. I wrote about, not only spiritual realization, but of the potential for the seemingly miraculous capabilities of the human mind and heart. I had touched and had been led by powers much greater than myself, and powers that I did not adequately understand, let alone have the capacity to write about. Yet, through Marty, I brought aspects of that experience into words.
Marty’s statement to me was that
“Bruce, getting you to join me in the writing group, and for you to finally become willing to share your creativity is the best thing that I ever did in my life”.
Wow, for a successful, though dying, man to say that to me blew my mind, because no one else in my life, save my wife, had any interest in my writings.
How do I carry on that legacy?
A teaching has resulted. The teaching infuriates my remaining best friends, for it threatens some well established opinions that other friends of mine have thought “sacred”. My friend Gary S., who established the Institute for World Peace in Portland, thought that I had “lost my way” and claimed that the Dalai Lama would not approve of my message. My remaining other male best friend, Jim H., a sort of Byron Katy adherent, thought that my unique take on life was only that, and contrasted too much with his own understanding. My friends on Facebook stopped reading my posts when I started posting chapters,to the point that I finally closed my account because the people that I knew were just not interested.
I kept at the writing, because I would die if I did not. In March of 2017, I had a decision to make. The message that I heard was that if I did not finally share my message with the world, I also would soon die. I begged my wife, who is a published writer, to carry my message to the world, because I did not have the competency, and it was beyond my capacity to carry it, but she would not, so I continue on my personal writing adventure.
I attended a Hay House workshop earlier this year, and got the pep talk. Reid Tracy indicated that works of my nature DO NOT SELL, there are no profits for prophets, but if I had three minute meditations for transcendence, or a new celery drink that I can write 172 pages about, I might have a winner. What the Fuck? I submitted a proposal to two book publishers, one local, and they just don’t get it. I have nobody in my diminishing group of friends and family who are interested in my work, and I would have to travel far around me to even give away 50 copies, let alone to sell them.
I have written some of the most profound works that I have ever seen, but, apparently, it is a personal profundity, with little relation or relevancy to those in my world, who are already well established in their own points of view. Nobody can see me for who I now am, or the message that I now have to deliver, save my wife.
I almost died because of my own participation in the conspiracy of silence, a silence that our culture has adopted that allows us to collectively not reach for the stars, but instead accept something less as the best experience that we can have. Well, less than the best spells doom for me, but other people define “the best” differently for themselves, They certainly do not enjoy my writing style.
My own sister, who loves me dearly, could not even get halfway through the first chapter of one particular proposal,saying it was a little heavy in the intellectual department. That is kind of funny, because most of the material is straight from my life and my heart, with spiritual interpretation as well as some Biblical reference to give the message a context that others might be able to relate to. I am NOT religious, though I plough forward on my unique spiritual path. And so I write. And so my world could care less, which is pretty standard, I think.
Brian, self-publishing has no value to me, who would I sell to? I do not need or want money, I just have a message, with fruitage that is dying on the vine, because there is something not being communicated by me, or not acceptable to those who views are pretty established, and probably grounded in the opinions of others that they respect more, such as the Dalai Lama, Eckert Tolle, etc..
I do not want to become yet another minstrel of the truth, hawking my point of view, and hoping for a few scraps of acceptance from others. The Miracle found me, yet I am at a loss as to what to do about it.
So I write, and I delay my own death. I was hoping to delay the deaths of others, as well, having lost most of my friends and family to its finality already due to disease, dysfunction., and early death This is what I write about, too.
Blessings to you,
Bruce Paulln
