I was reading some passages from the Koran this morning, selective passages that speak of apocalypse and annihilation and love.* And this I understood:

That behind the literal words of any Holy Book worth its salt lies a mystical interpretation and perhaps even tradition. And that mystical interpretation is a journey of self, a confrontation and annihilation of the self-ish and corrupt within us all, a loving pathway to ecstatic awareness and direct experience of the Divine force that permeates and binds us all in relationship to every living breathing organism on this earth and beyond.

So while we – meaning all of us who look to Holy Books for guidance, and whether or not you look directly you are certainly influenced culturally by the religious traditions of your tribe, so I’m talking to all of us – while we insist on literal interpretations of any and all of the words we hear or read, we are condemning humanity to ignorance and stupidity.

And that applies also to the words we hear from our leaders: political, fiscal, social, religious.

The challenge is to forego the fight and look deeper, pierce the veil, allow the mystery of more than you could possibly know to be in play. For standing before is a politician, a banker, a priest . . . masquerading as yourself.

Let’s allow ourselves and others the room to breathe.

• Oh my servants, you will never be able to harm or to benefit me by your thoughts or your actions. No amount of devotion or worship can increase the sublimity of my kingdom. No amount of negation or rebellion can decrease the sublimity of my love. Were I to offer every conscious being everything it requested, this could not diminish the abundance of my kingdom, any more than dipping a needle into the ocean diminishes its depth.

• If I love one of my servants intensely, I summon up the angel Gabriel and say, ‘I love this servant, so you, too, must love and support him.’ And then the archangel speeds throughout the heavenly realms crying ‘Allah most high loves this servant, so all of you must love and support him.’ Thereafter, profound love for this particular servant is gradually established and all the beings on the earth rejoice.

• On the day of Resurrection, I will call out, ‘Where are those who love one another through my divine glory alone and for the sake of my glory alone? Today I am offering them refuge and sweet refreshment under my shade, for this is a day on which there is no shade but my shade.’

So you’ve written a great book. It’s piled up in boxes in your garage. You know it’s great and if you’re lucky your family is supportive and your friends are excited about your enthusiasm for your own work.

Family and friends, however, can only get you so far in the book sales stakes.

How do you let the world know about your fabulous book?

You start with your local community – and expand from there.

But before we go on: if you’re not willing to stand tall and true with your book and give it a public face, then hopefully you’re reading this before you forked out those big bickies for the printer.

Because the stark reality is this: regardless of how fantastic and awesome your book is, unless you plan on holding out for high-hope lotto-like stakes that a) a mainstream publisher is going to stumble across your work and b) love it so much they’ll open the marketing coffers on your behalf – you must be prepared to devote every spare waking and sleeping moment you posses to promoting your book.

You will spend an awful lot of time wondering about how to approach the book industry itself and I would simply advise this: unless you have contacts who are serious players in the industry, you’ll feel like you’re firing pebbles with your little slingshot over the castle wall . . . without ever knowing where they land.

So all that’s left to do is – do it yourself!

And this, friends, is how you do it, starting from the top:

1. Local book stores
Unless you’re lucky enough to have a distributor to take you on (personally I don’t quibble about losing nearly 70% to distributors and retailers – I consider them my ‘team’ and am deeply grateful to them for the work they do on my behalf) – but if you don’t want or can’t find a distributor, you’ll find many local book stores have a ‘local author’ section and will happily stock your book on consignment.

They’ll guide you through invoicing and consignment notices etc etc etc (in praise of distributors).

2. Launch
Yes. You launch your book. You invest in your product and you show the world how much you love it. You hire a room, you put on nice food, you theme the room, you send out invitations to people you know and don’t know (making sure you invite the good folk from the nearest writers’ centre).

You find someone ‘important’ who is willing to launch it (be cheeky!) and – and this is very, very important – you write a speech and tell the world something they didn’t know about you and your work.

And then you invite the local media****(more on this later).

3. Book signings

Plan your signings around calendar events that involve the public buying large quantities of gifts, such as Christmas, Mother’s Day, Father’s Day etc.

Call your local stores and tell them you’re available. You’ll be surprised how friendly and supportive they are! Make a list of bookshops in large towns and CBDs in your district, lend yourself to a wide geographical area – then hit the road with your little tour.

Make sure your signing table looks great –and always bring along everything you need (don’t assume the shop is going to provide you with anything more than a table). Include a nice tablecloth, book stands, a tray of wrapped chocolates (great icebreaker – in case you haven’t noticed, women love chocolate . . . and women buy books). Also, bring along extra stock in case the store only has limited numbers (and besides, the more books you have on the table, the more you’ll sell, so pile ‘em up!) AND, finally, a great big well-made, professionally designed sign (this is seriously worth the additional outlay).

As well, while we’re on the subject of promotional materials, the only paper flyers I worry about these days are bookmarks. Have bookmarks printed when you print the books – the printer can use the cover cut-offs, which would otherwise be scrap, and reduce costs. Print both sides of the bookmark and hand them out – they’re a wonderful way of introducing yourself to potential readers, because you are offering them something.

4. Local markets
Put that book signing stall to work on the weekends and hold a market stall with your books. This is seriously worth your while because a) it’s extremely cheap public promotion, b) people love to meet authors and c) you will learn how to approach a wide range of people and talk to them about your book in wide ranging ways.

5. Local media
This is where the 4 stars come in ****.

This is the difference between 100 sales and 2000 sales.

This is the difference between recognition and oblivion.

Why? Because media coverage is free.

And because media coverage is free it comes with credibility you can’t buy.

So, wherever you go, from here on until you’ve sold every single copy of your book, every holiday, every visit to a friend – regardless of where you’re going, you contact the local bookshop and tell them you’re a (location)-based author who is coming to town and you’d like to organise a book signing. Rural areas in particular will welcome you with open arms, because the arts are metropolitan-focused industries and people rarely take the time to go to isolated areas.

And while you’re there, think about turning your book writing and/or publishing experience into a talk, workshop or seminar – they’ll love you out there even more, and this also creates sales opportunities.

Then you write a media release.

I’ll keep this short:

• the story is not about you and it is not about your book
• the story is not about you and it’s not about your book
• the story is not about you and it’s not about your book.

Got it?

Are we clear on this?

Because this little fact is the singlemost important factor in your success with local media. Indeed, understand this fact and you are a long long way down the road to having journalists choose you, over the thousand other media releases they received today, for an interview.

You are offering them a story idea. So if it’s not about you, what is it about?

A tip:

Local media is a news organisation. News = what’s new. If you want publicity then they’ll send you down to the advertising department where you can pay for it (and rightly so).

News = what’s new.

What is new about your work – what is its message, what is it saying that hasn’t been said before, what is new (and this is where organising a talk or workshop is very handy, because what’s new is that local people have the opportunity to learn something from you AND if you make it free chances are HIGH local media will be more than happy to reward your generosity with an interview).

What’s new?

Imagine you are bursting with excitement about something relevant to your work. You race home to tell your friend or partner, you burst in the door – what is the first thing you tell them?

This is your lead.

This is the point of your media release.

This is your story.

So, briefly, here’s how to write a media release:

1. date and headline (remember, it’s not about you)
2. 6 short sentences with a space between each sentence explaining ‘what’s new’ and why it would make a great story for their readers or listeners
3. your contact details, including mobile phone number (check, check and double check you have these details correct, including spelling).

A final note of caution: it’s not about you. The story is not yours to control. If you don’t like the story they tell about you, try this on for size: 1) they know their readers and listeners better than you, 2) you probably did say what they said you said and 3) weigh up minor factual errors against the value of the media real estate (space) you’ve just been assigned. I promise you, it’s worth every sale.

And finally – good luck.

Stay focussed. Believe in your work. Have fun.

And remember this: no-one owes you anything.

**** And if you’ve come this far you might be interested in an ebook I wrote called The Little Black Book of Fame. It’s available at www.mpowermedia.com.au

Many, many years ago, soon after my children had both left home, I was completely at a loss as to what to do with my life. We had been living in New Zealand and even though I had raised my kids to be independent as young adults, when they both returned to Australia I felt the need to be at least within coo-ee of the homeland.

The trouble was – I had no idea where to be.

So I bought a car. I drove the east coast. I slept in the back of the station wagon, spent my days walking the beaches, reading, fishing and taking my occasional catch down to the local restaurant, where they’d cook it up for my dinner. I was utterly lost, though living a delightful, easygoing life.

Then I got down to my last fifty bucks. Fifty dollars between me and proverbial starvation. I sat on the wide green headland at Hastings Point, the light bright blue above and the deep ocean blue below, staring at the yellow note. And decided I would have a yoga lesson, a private session with my old teacher in Byron Bay. I found her number. I rang her from the phone box outside the shop (it was the 90s). I booked my lesson for the next morning, 6am.

I woke in the darkness, snuggled down in my comfortable bed, safe and warm in the back of my station wagon parked high on the headland, and drove south to Byron Bay. I was early, so I drove on to Broken Head. As I stood on the dunes looking out at eastern horizon, the morning crisp and clean, I marvelled that in all the years I’d been driving to and through Byron Bay I had never previously stopped at Broken Head.

I ran down the golden dune towards the water, the sand cold on my bare feet. And I walked along the water’s edge as the rising sun lit the morning gold. The waves, small and gentle, white and frilly, lapped at my feet. Shoosh. Shoosh. They broke in tiny tumbles over my feet, coming and going, coming and going.

I was lost. My spirit overwhelmed with my lack of direction and purpose. Bathed in the beauty of the earth and her gifts, deeply connected to our natural world, I was without bearings in the realm of human endeavour, or even community and connection.

As the golden sun popped above the horizon I suddenly turned my heart to the light and with all the passion and fullness of my entire being I raised my eyes to the light and asked the world a billowing bellowing question – ‘what’s it for?’

‘What’s it for?’

At that moment I looked down at the wet sand as a small wave tipped her lacy frill onto my feet and receded to deeper waters.

And there, on the damp and spotted golden shore, just near my toes, lay a small green heart.

I stared. I bent slowly to pick it up. I held the polished green heart, the size of my thumb nail, between my fingers. I held it up to the light. I stared in wonder at the precious gift – the answer to my question.

What’s it for?

For love.

This whole human journey is for love.

It is for love.

I have my first male testimonial about my book, My Pilgrim’s Heart: A woman’s journey through marriage and other foreign lands, and it had me laughing out loud.

‘Insightful as the Dalai Lama on a good day,’ said Paul, a toy maker from Bellingen.

I’m not sure what followers of the Holy One might think, but nonetheless, it’s nice to know a man appreciated My Pilgrim’s Heart.

After all, women can’t put it down!

Paul’s comment is especially touching – and haha funny – when you consider he is the father of my children.

Of all the people on this good Earth who might have had legitimate cause to find it confronting or infuriating, it would have been Paul. As it is, he loved it. He read it three times, cover to cover.

Because, of course, it’s not just my story about my experiences of marriage and relationship – it’s just about everybody’s! And that is the secret of its success.

(Okay, so some of us are enlightened enough to have moved beyond the themes of obligation and compromise and their relationship to sex, money and power – blessings and love upon the rest of us still sorting ourselves out.)

I love that Paul has read it and I applaud a man with maturity enough to know it’s not personal . . . yet can recognise it is an offering, a gift of insight into the cost of marriage to a woman’s spirit.

Imagine that! I, as a woman, can say what I like without tiptoeing around a man’s sensibilities – and a man can receive my truth. He may or may not agree with me – that’s not the point.

The point is: he allowed the truth of a woman.

He received the truth of a woman.

And that is a hallelujah moment for humanity.

For human beings, truth is a shadow. It is the underside of the leaves playing in the light. It is the coals that warm the fire and burn the flesh. It is the path that humours no choice. It is benign and terrible and when it can no longer be contained, it is the earthquake, the tsunami, the hurricane, the bush fire.

Truth, my dears, is elemental.

Honesty, some of us like to say, is the best policy. It is a shared value, as it suits us. Usually it depends upon what there is to lose. We can dance with honesty till morning denounces night and darkness returns to claim the mantle, round and round, but we know, instinctively, that truth is the point of no return.

Honesty is telling your boss you do not enjoy the way he pats your arse in the tearoom. Truth is telling him you can no longer work with him. Either he stops or you go.

Honesty flirts with the situation – truth puts it on the table.

Honesty says I don’t like it but . . .

Truth says I am willing to risk all for my integrity. And, ironically, yours.

Women do not tell men the truth. It’s been centuries now, millennia even. We hold our tongues and hide the truth of who we are and where we stand – largely because we’ve forgotten who we are and where we stand. O yes, there are women who rage and spit their fury. Their expression is not a reflection of the words that spill from their mouths, or even truth; it is, rather and always, the madness of their grief. They are telling stories to make sense of their loss, for they know they have lost something . . . they just have no idea what it is. Or was.

We have a contract, men and women, a contract that buys the silence of one in exchange for the manipulation of the other. Most women, the maddening un-mad, sign it the day they arrive through the portal between their mother’s legs. Since the greatest truth-telling exercise in history, the Women’s Liberation Movement, women in the West and courageous souls dotted elsewhere around the landscape have made their peace with honesty.

Do not claim, my darlings, to be telling the truth.

Honesty is the emotion of the wounded heart speaking. Truth is the pin-point focus of pure mind, the non-negotiable here now.

Honesty is malleable, dependent upon time and circumstance. We cannot split hairs with truth.

Honesty is uncomfortable; truth is downright dangerous.

Honesty is a story, a place to define our reality outside of ourselves. Truth is on the inside, the absolute reckoning of self.

Honesty is the child making a courageous stand. Truth is the adult, invincible and vulnerable.

Honesty is gratification; truth has nothing at all to do with what we want.

And that’s the frustrating and confronting thing about truth

what we ‘want’ is irrelevant.

When you are in a car, beautiful places are a moment;
if you stop the car, they are a cluster of moments.
When you walk, beautiful places are an eternity carved into the soul.

From My Pilgrim’s Heart, by Stephanie Dale

Okay, so leaving my marriage to walk from Rome to Istanbul was a particularly dumb thing to do . . . at least that’s how it looked to so very many people.

And then there’s how it looked to me . . . which was a bellowing call echoing through every cavernous chamber in my body to walk with my son across the landscapes of Italy towards the burning eastern sun.

Pilgrimage is the art of ancient travel. Pilgrimage harks back to forever, when human beings set out on journeys from which they might not return, journeys they knew would transform the rest of their lives – journeys that were worth every risk because, live or die, to deny the call was to close the door on life and that meant certain death anyway: death to the spirit.

Pilgrimage is a subpoena from the heart that defies all common sense. It is a mistake to attempt to rationalize the irrational – and an even bigger mistake to attempt to justify your decision to set forth to those around you (they’ll think you’re a basketcase anyway).

Just ask Jessica Watson, the 16-year-old Australian who has just sailed solo around the world. Her parents understood that Jessica had to go – that the call to put everything on the line for transformation was greater than their fears for her safety.

The pilgrim is not unlike a comet, burning off all that is futile and unnecessary until what is left is the essential, unmalleable core. The pilgrim walks the Earth, walks the wheel, walks the turning seasons, surrendering all of who she is and all she thinks she knows and all she think she wants to the road and the weather and, in Jessica’s case, the world’s great oceans.

Pilgrims are those who embark on journeys of endurance and, in the end, these journeys ask nothing more from us than to keep going. Crazy as we look from the outside, we are honouring the call of the human spirit – our collective yearning for transformation – and, in so doing, we do it for everyone.

Pilgrimage is where the romance of the road meets reality, boots to the bitumen.

We can think about what we’d love to do in this life – or we can do it.

This is why we need our pilgrims – the ones who put everything on the line for freedom and love and truth – for all of us.