15 Mar Writing a book means Nothing
As you may well know or perhaps then again you may not know that on Feb. 26th 2010 at 9:25 am while I was on a city bus during the only snow storm of that season I died from what should have been a fatal heart attack.
The type of heart attack I had is known as a widow maker. These types of heart attacks have roughly a 2% survival rate IF taking place while in a hospital. In biological terms my left anterior inter-ventricular descending coronary artery was 100% blocked. That doctor jargon in simpler terms is the only highway that supplies blood and oxygen to the heart muscle itself. Then your big red pump supplies the rest of your body with the same. Blood and oxygen are really the only two factors, well at least the two most important ones anyways, which allows your heart to function at all. Take the gas out of your car’s tank and then try to start it. There you go, you got the idea!
The whole trauma and drama of the physical situation spun me into an unimaginable NDE (near death experience) that even today, six years later, still makes me shake my head from time to time.
Coming back with a few gifts, ummm hold on a second. No, not gifts, but actual innate abilities in all of us, I began, totally unintentionally to help people.
From nearly the git-go I knew I was going to write about the experience. So I started digging for three years into the Self Publishing industry trying to learn all I could about the in’s and out’s as well as the how to do. After writing down notes here and there on anything I could for the first few years I finally got serious about publishing the now newly released and growing popular book “I Had to Die to Learn How to Live”.
Now to the Heart…of the story –no pun intended.
Finishing the work and then seeing that work become physical in form ended up being a real contradiction. On one hand it was some-what of a surreal moment, yet on the other, it was quite anti-climatically. Rather hard to explain in terms of all that went on within myself to be honest, so forgive me if I just step over that and proceed onward. When it was all said and done I felt as though writing the book really meant nothing at all in the end.
Just the other day I was out to sell a few books and do some signings. After meeting several nice and very interesting people I packed it up for the day and headed home. There is a corner store just up the road here a bit I continueally have to force myself to drive on by so as not to stop and pick up some of my favorite Ben & Jerry’s. At the very last possible second I wheeled in, knowing for some reason I was suppose to.
The store owner had wanted a copy of the book once it was done. I figured I was going in to deliver on my promise to give him a signed copy. When I walked in, there was a younger man standing a ways away from the counter as I held up the copy I had for the owner. The book ended up being placed on the counter top while the owner was busy helping a customer. The young man came over and picked it up stating he was a book lover and real collector.
He said “ What the heck is this? Who is this?”
While standing just next to him I replied “ It is my book and that is me.”
“So you are the author”
“Yup” that would be me”
“What is this I had to die to learn how to live?”
“ I was dead for roughly ten minute from a heart attack I had.”
His eyes began to well up uncontrollably as his fiancee came to him, placing a hand on his back to easy a pain I now felt at my core. They in turn hugged and held onto one another for a moment or two. Then he slowly look to me and said “ my mother died, passed away just last week!” Showing me tattoos on the back of both hands that read RIP — Mom. I was then included in a three person hug and hold for several more moments. I said to the owner that this guy really needed the copy of the book for now.
As I drove away I realized that writing a book means nothing… at least until you put it in the hands of someone it helps. My book now means something to myself and at least to one other Human Being.