Curiouser and Curiouser

When completing a book manuscript I feel a tremendous sense of gratification on several levels. That I finished it at all. That it is a creative completion. That it is an offering made with thoughtfulness to entertain and educate the reader. That it required discipline. That it will read well for generations and that it is a statement of the times and of my perspective being offered with some humility to contribute to the pool of knowledge by which we may guide our lives to new dimensions of happiness and continuity of joy. 

Then the response. Nothing. My neighbours haven’t read The Dead Sea Revelation or Raising a Banner on a Path of Heart. Included in this non-readership,  my relatives. Two of my neighbours actually returned the Banner book, unread. The library claims of the two Dead Sea books, one was stolen; and one was damaged but they haven’t reordered.

My neighbours and acquaintances like to introduce me as a famous author – or at least an author – but that’s it. No readers.

I explore and write about human potential. And the absence of curiosity about my work is telling its own tale.

I happen to believe I am now writing from the dark side of the Doomsday Clock given that we as a species are facing the very real possibility of annihilating ourselves as we continue to strike an imbalance thanks to the wealth-addicted one-percenters. I wrote Leonardo DiCaprio, head of a New York based ecological foundation and recently winner of an Academy Award with a suggestion we establish a dialogue to help his foundation become much more effective. After some string-pulling to get the letter into this celebrity’s hands, no response.

This across-the-board disinterest is getting curiouser and curiouser. In a depressing way. For more than ten years I have been e-zining this English Bay Banner and there have been almost no comments posted. 

Soon enough I won’t exist. And my words having been dismissed before being read will wilt away.  And people will go on reading the fashionista and foodie columns in the ad rags masking themselves as newspapers and live(?) as usual scratching away in darkness at the interior wall of their cave of fear.