Other Plans than Intended

Or, Taking the Long Road

Sometimes you have to take the long road. Like it or not.

In mind, my destination loomed clear: a literary agent and publisher for the book in-progress. As things turned out, however, I ended up in an entirely different place. At least, initially.

In early 2025, I sat in my preferred chair by the front windows to pen a new work—literally. A French notebook and Parisian fountain pen in hand, a lap desk across my knees. My well-accustomed setup as an old-fashioned writer. Another nonfiction venture, as usual. Guided (in ways that defy succinct explanation) to write a collection of essays on well-being. In book terms, blending genres of Mind Body Spirit and Personal Transformation. Familiar territory for me as a longtime body-centered therapist and soul-based coach.

Yet the new project would diverge from my previous offerings on self-awareness—a handful of books and a podcast on “radical being.” Instead, an inspirational work outlining a path of practice, the one I follow diligently. Differentiated from its genre(s) by the uncommon perspective(s) of each chapter. A unique vision.

As summer arrived, the chapters written, typed, and edited to my satisfaction, I began seeking a literary agent. I no longer wished to independently publish—for numerous reasons. To my dismay, as I devotedly pitched the book, the rest of the year slipped away amid rejections and silence (read, they can’t be bothered to reply). From the proposal and pitch, not a single agent requested to read the manuscript.

Regardless of four, award-winning books to my name, my latest undertaking was not an easy sell, I knew. Agents work on commission, and despite the “compelling” and “warmhearted” project, a similar message arrived repeatedly (from those kind enough to respond): my platform—visibility via followers, subscribers and listeners—was “not robust enough” to interest a traditional publisher. A partial truth, only.

While publishers always seek potential mega-sellers, they also print books which they do not expect to sell well. A few tent poles (read, bestsellers) hold up the entire canopy. Often they will gamble big with fiction (on debut writers, even), yet rarely in nonfiction. In nonfiction realms, a modest author platform means an agent will face difficulty in selling the manuscript to an editor; who, in turn, must pitch to the acquisitions committee or editorial board of the publishing house. In an agent’s view, if a home for my visionary little book could be found, the contract would be a small amount of money, not worth their time. No champion stepped forward.

So much for my intended destination.

Per the previous post of this column (”Shedding One’s Skin”), as the year came to its end, I began something new. A fiction work. Knowing that the “Big 5” publishers do not require a platform for novelists; thinking a different track (i.e. penning a novel), if successful, might eventually lead to a home for the shunned Mind Body Spirit project. Fingers crossed.

Mystery underpins the cosmos. During the months of querying literary agents, as I twiddled my thumbs (figuratively speaking)—waiting and hoping—I launched The Soul Compass. In exploring the Substack platform, algorithms led me to some “stacks” on writing; general-themed guidance, seldom pertinent to an author and blogger for more than a decade. Here and there, I encountered some worthwhile tips; relayed from books on the subject of writing, a couple of which I subsequently read and learned from. Ever an apprentice, refining my craft.

Perhaps most notably, in one of those Substack posts, a nugget from an accomplished novelist—the point of the piece (written by someone else): write the thing that won’t let you go. The words struck like lightning.

Determinedly, I set out into the woods of fiction, leaving the familiar path behind.

Along the way, numerous serendipities and synchronicities transpired. Like a trail of breadcrumbs, leading me forward through the trees. Things I could not have orchestrated, planned, or imagined. One by one, a handful of golden keys for unlocking the art of a novel. A larger plan at work, evidently, for an enigmatic purpose.

Around February, wandering deeper into the tangled woods, an insight dawned. Had a single agent said yes to my earlier manuscript, I would not have spent time on Substack, nor encountered the relevant bits of guidance I found. The golden keys would not have materialized as they did—a writing course, a vital book by a literary agent. Moreover, I would not have ventured into the whispering forest in the first place. Twists of mystery, as I say.

Somewhere along the writing trek, my own guidance came back to me. The journey is the thing. The writing itself, the creative process. Not simply the finished product, eventually pitching it to agents, editors—selling it; nor eventual acknowledgment by readers, listeners. Rather, the unglamorous work of revision and refinement, the crafting phase. That which sets real writers apart from AI users. The quiet hours of honing words; trimming to bold, vivid prose. Distilling to essence. Beyond the story itself, building presence on the page, in editor’s parlance. A word at a time. Day in, day out.

I worked five to seven hours daily, five days a week, for six months. My sole agenda to create a thing of beauty. To tell something remarkable about existence, the mysteries of life and death. Letting the story well up from an unfathomable source, carrying me where it wished to.

The fact that a greater, mysterious force guides my life (my perception of a Self, that is) has proved unquestionable. Despite my clear guidance to write the earlier book, perhaps all along I was meant to take the longer road than the one anticipated. Who can say, and ultimately, it doesn’t matter. Similarly, the outcome.

In the end, the entire journey surprised me. Walking a path I did not foresee or plan on taking. Finding my way through the forest. A creative process that altered me in its slow unraveling. One cannot fathom the mystery, I have long said and written. Words to myself as well as others.

As summer arrives on the proverbial doorstep, once again I knock on the gates of the citadel, manuscript in hand. Pitching a different book to literary agents than a year ago. Posing as a novelist. Perhaps Fate will smile and a door will open. Only time will reveal.

Whatever the outcome, a profound satisfaction fills me for the work itself. A soulful offering, beautiful and rare.

For writers and artisans, the journey is the thing.

Friend, maybe where you think you’re headed—including notions of success and failure—is not the destination, at all. The only place to be, is being present with whatever is.

Life is a creative act. Say yes to it.

Did you miss the previous post of The Soul Compass? Read “Shedding One’s Skin”