How writing the book is going

Beloved Blogreaders,

I am amazed how when we just intend something, it's done. Or the timing is right. Something is right.

Right now I am speaking of the autobiographical book, The Little Things, although this also applies to the Godwriting book which I may actually call The Godwriting™ Book. 

Let me tell you what I do not do. I do not sit at the computer, thinking of what to write, what to tell about, what is significant etc. I do not think.

For one thing, truly, I have little opportunity to sit down and think about what to write. Every day, seven days a week, it is usual for me to spend six or seven hours at a stretch in the morning on daily Heavenletter matters. Then a bite to eat and a few words with Heaven Admin. Lunch often is at two.

After lunch, there are always new pressing Heaven things that come in, and emails to answer, and accumulated undone things that push their way in.

Then a walk on the beach, and, once a week, a grocery-shopping trip with Heaven Admin.

So let me tell you how the book is writing itself without any effort whatsoever. I don't have to think at all. Whatever I may be doing and involved in, an idea simply pops up, just as an idea for a Heavenletter might pop up on its own.

Quickly, when an idea for the book appears, I jot the idea down in an email I keep in drafts. Sometimes much more than an idea -- sometimes the development of an idea seems to engineer itself. It's not Godwriting by a long shot, yet it's not altogether Gloria writing on her own steam either.

So, in bits and pieces, the book seems to throw itself at me.

The pieces stir up emotions from long ago. I want to think that writing this book is going to expurgate all the memories I don't want to have hanging around.

I will end with an example, and thank you for reading:

Helen, oh, how I would love to know you now that I am wiser and love more. You were a tiny skinny thing, and had a Ph.D. and taught something in a prestigious college. It could have been literature. I don’t remember how I knew you. You were from New York, and I liked you a lot.  

What I would give to change the words I gave to you.

We were in our twenties, or maybe thirties, and you, with brown eyes looking up at me, asked me why men were not attracted to you.

I don’t remember now what flip remark I made. I probably told you something as silly as to wear ruffles and be more flirty.

How I would say something different to you now, Helen.

I would say to you:

“There is someone special who will find you. He is looking for you now.”

I would say:

“What do you need to go through all the dating and pawing for?”

I would say:

“All you want is one good man. And he will come to you.”

I would say:

“Follow your interests and not give a thought to being sought by men. One day you will look up, and he will be standing there.”

If I could, I would kneel and take back whatever I said that I saw made you feel smaller.

Oh, Helen. I weep for me, who I was then.