Frustrations of Authorship

frustrated_writer_by_photonerd88-d3gobx6I wrote a book about existence and I thought everyone could empathise with that. Everyone I have met, without exception, has pondered the deepest of all questions, “What is the meaning of life?” I wrote a book on the subject and thought it would be the most popular volume in the universe as it answers the question; the question everyone asks. I know everyone initially pretends that meaning is what you gain from life; the meaning is life itself. At one level this could not be more correct. My book goes into the detail but it probably doesn’t give the answers readers would expect, though why would readers expect anything? Corvus_corax_arizonaIf the book merely satisfied expectation what would be the point in writing it? Perhaps my mistake was my not spearheading a zealous campaign against windmills. I could have attracted a gaggle of likeminded zealots with fragrant positive affirmations. Perhaps I should have listened to those muliebrous ravens. Didn’t they crow? What was their suggestion? One new idea only for each small book and up to four tangents for large volumes, they said. The rest is padding, filler. Anything will do. Add lots of references; the more the better. Authors should conceptualise. People like that, providing it is within reasonable limits and boundaries, of course. No tin foil hat rubbish. That won’t do. It also mustn’t mess with what they know. Everyone knows the Earth is flat, sorry round, the nucleus is the brains of the cell, and gravity affirms Newton-Cartesian philosophy. To even suggest anything different would be crazy.

8820039_origIn order to do this, pull off the impossible, authors must parrot prettier than galahs. New ideas, spontaneous thought, mould breaking concepts are absolute no no’s; well, maybe one new idea per small book, but don’t fret if you can’t think of one. The few that will spot it won’t like it and they will use that to harpoon any chance of your literary success. Better to be a chicken than a turkey?

People are very predictable and very safe. Everyone, without exception, supports the banking system to hilt. Those that prefer cash bless Federal Reserve bankers. There you go. Big business, again pretty much without exception, is the hinge pin of all commerce. I consider my book one of those exceptions, but am I right? Certainly any sales through Book Tango (an offshoot of Penguin Books), Amazon, etc. would not qualify. Although there is a twist (all good plots need twists, I’m told). Purchases via these mediums give me nothing, zero, zip-doodle. Thus, I can honestly say, I personally have extricated myself from the bankers and Federal Reserve pariahs. For the other option, PayPal, it should be stressed, whilst it is not a formal bank, it may as well be one. As a currency transfer management system it upholds all banking principles, including those fine print fees that normal people can’t fathom. The book itself leverages the mega-corporations Adobe and Microsoft products in the soft version. An array of big brand printers might facilitate delivery of hard copy.

rash-s1-facts-rashOf course, there are some that won’t buy e-books. They can visit mine or Jon Rappoport’s websites, for instance, absorb all the free information; each and every article online. They might read some better entries twice, just to make sure the message was understood loud and clear. But those e-books give them each a rash. They are different some way and simply won’t do. I say the only way they are different is they are going to require each and every one of you to fork out money, skinflints. They aren’t free. That is the only difference.

My Facebook network is growing. In fact, just as with some of my more ambitious blog entries, the ruder, more unfairly confronting I am, the greater the interest in me. The phenomenon is akin to school playground fights which attract swarms from nowhere. One of my Facebook friends, I’ll call him Danny, is attempting to establish a truther network (whether he recognises it or not). Most of these guys are retired, semi-retired or on the pension (dole, social security). They are all angry, have lots of time and are mostly clueless. Danny is different. He is, to the larger degree, in tune. He’s got sharp eyes and a good nose, but he’s not infallible; far from it. Well, aren’t we all… infallible? But I didn’t mean it in that way. Jon Rappoport mistakes are very hard to pick and oh so subtle. There’s the difference. Jon is a class act. Danny is not. Pure and simple.

1409022444458Danny doesn’t see it that way. He thinks he is a class act too. But he is not because when the content he promotes is flawed it is very wrong. He doesn’t always learn. Though (to his credit), sometimes he does comprehend, change and adjust past errors. I would categorise him as having potential, but nothing more. Jon Rappoport sees. Danny doesn’t. My book content isn’t beyond him, but it will challenge him. It will be hard going because it will break his world; a world he isn’t sure about, because he doesn’t see. Like everyone else, normal people, he breezes through life, takes things as they come and has a big accumulated chip on his shoulders that started as a pimple in his formative years. Casually, almost in jest, I suggested he seek out “The Beauty of Existence Decoded”. That’s all. No big sales pitch. Did it open a tornado of denial and guilt or what? Danny, over several responses, has presented an essay of reasons why he quite definitely cannot seek out my book. And none of them would stand a chance in any fair court.

Ignoring the excuses, which included “being able to read energy inherence” or “plugging into the anthropomorphic field”, the reasons Danny will never invest money or time in my book are three fold. And this goes for just about every other visitor to my blogs too – my readership.

facebook-the-place-people-post-problems-funny-quotes-sayings-picturesHe doesn’t know what he believes because his belief systems are supported by that big chip on his shoulder that has evolved from the formative years. The only suggestions he can take seriously, as a consequence, are “one liners” that are easy to rationalise. That is why the majority of Facebook posts are sayings or proverbs accentuated by pictures.

He is frightened and greedy. This means he will only spend money on “safe” products/services that are guaranteed by the corporate machine. If it is a book, it must be written by some corporate credentialed author. When push comes to shove, only those endorsed by the system in some way have anything meaningful to say. Of course, the system has cracks and that is why Jon Rappoport managed to slip though. His backers will have rued the day they saw potential in him.

free stuff on the netFinally, and perhaps most importantly, Danny is bombarded with free stuff. There is so much out there he doesn’t know where to turn. He doesn’t have time to actually read the articles he promotes or to check out whether they are credible or not. A truther network is a machine; resilient, never stopping. In fairness, I would need to devote my life to process the front page of every blog that was ever created. It would definitely be a futile exercise, but not necessarily pointless. How do I know what I might or might not uncover? Even though I am connected to everything in its vastness and have the potential to source anything from any when, I am not arrogant. There is so much I don’t know, so much waiting for me to discover. Methods are merely vehicles. If an e-book is the vehicle, then let me at it!

When apathetic people hold a demonstration.

In cyberspace I regularly encounter folks that don’t get that a protest creates the battleground and achieves no more than that. Protests highlight how weak and apathetic human beings have become. Virtuous patriots drone on about their marvellous constitution and the betrayal of the founding fathers’ ideals. Nonsense. The constitution never changed except into what it became. The problem was the founding fathers and the subsequent constitution. Prior, the magnificent Magna Carta validated plunder. Plunder is AOK providing you draw up a treaty, according to that logic. No, not right. What did not belong never belonged and you [that cherish ownership] are all thieves. You certainly have no right to anything without a charter. And even with one, if anyone doesn’t agree with any of its clauses, individually, then tyranny has been executed if the agreement is not deemed null and void.  Ownership is cancelled. Money-is-worthless-unless-we-want-it-poster.001-e1409085262488You own something only because the other agrees. Everything else is nothing more than possession. It’s mine because I found it. I ignore history. Funnily enough, your beloved cash; money is fiction too. If the belief in fiscal systems was fractured, eventually all money would be worthless.

I haven’t said anything to Danny, but if I had the chance, this is what I would say. The reason I provided PayPal as the method for purchasing my book is would be readers can make donations. My advice to Danny would be he should donate as much as will force him to treat the book with absolute respect. If that means it costs $1000 so be it. Imagine that. If you were forced to pay $1000 for my book, you would make sure every word counted. You wouldn’t read it once. You would read it hundreds of times, at each sitting savouring a little more. And that would be no bad thing, because some of you might be required to do that for full, solid comprehension of contents. Remember the advice from the ravens earlier? “The Beauty of Existence Decoded” is a work that goes the other way. It gives only new ideas, some admittedly formed from old, but, ultimately, everything always will be what it was. All those that grudgingly coughed up the bare minimum for the volume hated it. They had no respect for it; it broke their world, so they hated it. One lady paid many multiples of retail price (sic), read it several times and, eventually, loved it because she understood it. She had to understand it because she respected it. Understanding became the mission.

scroogeLet’s say someone did donate $1000. It would only ever be hypothetical because none of you are capable of doing that. Let us say this hypothetical philanthropist (if that’s the right word) read from soft cover to cover numerous times, but still could not overcome the typos, strange non-words, weird writing style and alien phrasing. They put everything into it and still hated it because they didn’t understand it because they were not ready for it. Even then, it would still be value for money. Every inch of real estate was devoured but simply did not compute. Outstanding discipline met with an outstanding result, because from an arena of respect, lack of understanding amplifies the discovery tour. Leave tackling the advanced literature for the time when materials for beginners and intermediates are mastered. The book merely opens a new time doorway, possibly put on one side for graduation day.

Whether I am nasty or nice, I will guarantee not one of you (that hasn’t already done so) will donate for my book for any or all of the reasons above. Those that donate small amounts are always too busy. Please don’t bother.


Life on Mars – Inspired by Harry Potter

Life on Mars Revision 5 with OT4

Book cover by Andy Duong – an aspiring graphic artist


I have a real treat for my regular visitors. New faces should be equally charmed. My “short stories” section is rarely contributed to so I feel another entry has been long overdue. As an extended essay, the full version populates thirty pages of large font text – not quite enough to be classed as a “book”, but big enough to develop layered themes. At least nine separate edits saw several months invested in the finished article.

Though the expressive content is nothing like any of JK Rowling’s novels heralding the supernatural hero Harry Potter, it is as equally inventive and very “British” in character. I also had a school chum of the exact same name and the lead character is based on his memory. Here is the opening, background and suspense development section. Enticed readers will be advised of “next steps” to continue on to the exciting bits. So, without further ado here is:

Life on Mars (inspired by Harry Potter)

This tale was told over a cold winter fire. Flickering light, sweet cocoa and blackened marshmallows etched the background. We were cocooned in a swirling blackness. No tree, hill or impasse could be separated from the throbbing void. Our narrator would transport us to a brave new world of the most mystical kind. Was it truth or just fantasy? It is hard to believe but this is the saga of Steve.

By all accounts the manuscript had been the only possession of a deceased medium that had travelled the seven seas. The parchment had been cursed by witches, blessed by the Papacy and nearly eaten by a remote dragon. DigitalMysticalMikeAstropatiaWe were not sure whether that was the Asian Komodo variety or some strange, exotic creature from a mythical past. Either way, the precious work had survived and now was our narrator’s prized possession. An ominous hand written message in blood red featured on the front page:

“If only they would hear me. It is though my life has been reduced to a giant dream. I walk in dazed slumber and lie with eyes wide open riveted on…something. That fateful journey changed everything. Why oh why did it happen to me?”



Chipping Norton is an average English village situated somewhere near the historic city of Oxford. We had a pond and a green and lots of quaint old houses; some dating back to the fourteenth century. This was not the place for anything unusual to happen. Every day was an average day with matching weather. In the cold season the weather turned bad. When the hot season bothered to make an appearance some nicer days sought refuge as fond memories. We, like everyone else, enjoyed ice cream, pizza and popular television shows.

If there was a difference, it was only because we were English and naturally upheld the age old tradition of cream scones for tea on weekends. Our semblance of a cricket team had to combine with other local villages to complete a line-up. The mighty Thwackers played at Abingdon town oval on Sundays in the summertime.

The atmosphere at the village was always jovial. One general store and no public house ensured placid, cordial interactions with little ado about nothing. People would meet on the way to, back from or in the store. Kids occasionally amassed on the green or terrorised the ducks and frogs on the pond.

Our house was typical for the location. It had an expansive thatched roof and was reputedly constructed in 1512. Grounds were large so investment in a metal detector had produced eighty four coins and three bolts. There was also a cellar basement area which smelt rather dank. With it came a permanently musty odour. The metal detector picked up nothing but I felt sure there was a fortune buried somewhere.

Our sun came down and went up, days turned into months, months’ years and people eventually became old and grey. Occasional rumours or minor dramas interrupted the criss-cross circles of peoples’ lives. Nothing I had heard was remotely television worthy. As for our house, well there was me, my little sis and mum and dad, of course. I’d dropped out of university. It wasn’t for me. My plan was to make some money and travel, catch some excitement; see things that would never be seen at Chipping Norton village.

I did have a trade of sorts to fall back on as I had always been good at building things. Fortunately the local mechanic needed an offsider so I put my heart and soul into fixing machines. It is difficult to know if that is why “the event” happened. I have been racking my brains as to why they picked me, why I was chosen. Did I have any special skills? Was I of the right temperament? Could genetics have been the reason? They never told me. Well, actually, they did not tell me much. After meeting them, I realise how we like to talk.

One day, I stayed late at the workshop. This was not unusual in itself. I rarely went home at the correct time. What was there to do in Chipping Norton village? Some of my friends used to head off for Abington town, but I was not an avid boozer. In fact, I rarely partook of alcohol. All the fun I needed was at the workshop. That fateful evening I noticed a strange light shimmering in the courtyard. Perhaps “light” is the wrong word. Maybe iridescence better described it; whatever it was. A glowing blue-white gave a ghostly effect, but it was not ultra-violet. Like a poor fool, I ignored the hue and carried on with my work. Why did I not flee from there as fast and as far as my vehicle would take me?

“Why oh why?”



The fire crackled cheerily. Every now and again a slightly louder snap or pop gave the atmosphere vitality. The whiff of seasoned wood burning seemed like incense; almost medicinal.

We had finished all the marshmallows, drunk the hot, sweet cocoa. A nice bed of embers radiated extra warm. Around us was a thick soupy black that just kept closing in. Were it not for our lustrous fire we would have been swallowed up whole and indeterminate from the void. The saga of Steve was far from over. Our narrator paused, cleared his breath and continued.



Chipping Norton village had been the centre of attention two weeks before. A boisterous arts and crafts fair had passed through. It was a colourful troop that included mystics, spiritualists and even genuine gypsies. Apparently some had international reputations. One of the locals learned that our village had been cursed for its role in the inquisition, but no one really took any notice. This had come from a strange foreign woman who carried a crystal ball in a small, battered, leather suitcase. Other than that, the lead up to “the event” had shown no irregularities, no suggestions; no insight as to what was to happen. Indeed things had been more normal than normal.

I looked at my watch. Save the mysterious light, it was almost dark. I could barely make out the hour. Nine o’clock! “Well, time for a cup of tea,” I thought.

Then, an almighty crack!

What was that? It sounded like a large tree had just been felled. The ground vibrated. Not being the inquisitive type, I carried on to the small kitchenette where there was a kettle, small stove and all the essentials for tea making. Poking up on one of the shelves was even half a packet of chocolate digestive biscuits. I picked up a small plate, the biscuits and placed them on the side table. The kettle had already started to hiss. That was quick. I had only just switched it on.

Outside a fog began to appear, slowly but distinctly. It was the rolling sort that shimmered in the mysterious luminance.

To the left of the kitchenette was mounted an electric wall clock. The second hand usually went “clack, clack, clack” stridently. It was so loud, in quiet moments it could be heard in the workshop.


Nothing; no hissing, no clacking, just silence. It was as though time had stood still. It’s funny, but it took a few moments for the serenity to sink in. I am sitting there, trying to read a pamphlet in the half light. So absorbed, I almost missed it; the moment time stood still. When it came to me, when I realised, it was too late. “The event” was already happening; so fast, I can barely recount.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a cleft or, at least, I thought that is what it was. The wall to my right side seemed to just open up. First a chink of that mysterious light seeped out, slowly oozing towards me like sticky treacle. The fissure widened to a shaft and then there was just light; blinding, throbbing light.



Our narrator cleared his throat again. “Can someone throw some more wood on the fire? It’s dying low.” He then rummaged in his backpack and produced a tired wooden pipe and a pouch of smoking tobacco. Clearing his throat, once more, for good measure, he proceeded to fill up the bowl, meticulously evening out any odd strand of tobacco. “You like smoking that pipe, sir?” said one of his group obscured by an orange tinted blackish fog made from the combination of the fire and the pressing outer elements.

A vague nod and silence

“Um, now where was I?”

To our left a large bat skipped by. Out of nowhere, silhouetted against the darkness it shocked the be-jeepers out of us. “What was that?” screamed one of our brethren.

“Don’t worry Alan”

The narrator pensively scanned the lack of horizon hoping to make something out of nothing, then lowered his head and began reading again.




How to finish a fine read?

I hope you all enjoyed that. If you wish to continue the full read is for sale less than the price of a BigMac ™. It will not give you heartburn and you can read it over and over. My friends at Book Tango have kindly acted as sales agents for various e-book versions. It is listed on the (Penguin Books) Book Country website here.

Testing content on a number of friends, a couple felt it was ideal as a reading tool to encourage our modern youth. It is not too long, keeps the reader engaged (even in the boring bits) and there is a “payoff” (oh boy, is there just!). In fact the only criticism was; where’s part two? So, I would be most appreciative if you would all raise awareness of the tale on social media networks, even if you chose not to read on yourselves. That isn’t too much to ask is it? Harry Potter would approve.

Though the story can be purchased through Book Tango and Amazon, it is now also available as part of a bundle, including a wonderful audio presentation by myself. Harry-Potter-and-the-Deathly-Hallows-–-Part-1-2010You will find a PayPal link and simple instructions on what to do here.

Depending on the desire of wanton readerships as expressed by numbers completing the first part of Life on Mars (inspired by Harry Potter), other parts will follow ultimately preparing more serious readers for my next large book, “A New World Order”. This, in light of the constant requests for it to be so, may be produced in print. But that is for a future time beyond the control or whims of our beloved Harry Potter.