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I went to this movie yesterday with family members, two of which were children, and as I sat there watching it, the following ran through my mind:  creepy, weird, disturbing. In the movie, Spike Jonze goes right up to “the line” of “unsettling,” dips a toe over it, then backs off. But keeps tapping that damn toe right on that line.

How is this made for kids?

How was it childlike, carefree, and happy-go-lucky—like the book?

Before seeing the movie I admit I read a review, but after having gone, I had to reread it. Check out some others. I really loved the book. Loved the weirdness of it—I like weird—the message and artwork, and all, but seeing it as a movie…my first thoughts were that some things are perhaps better left as books. As the reviews stated, the movie was not made for kids. However, the book was created for 4 to 8 year olds.

Now, sure, kids might “like” the movie—but what, exactly might they “like” about it?

Visuals, of course.

And define the age group “kids.”

Yes, the movie is visually stunning. Incredible imagery! But, more so, its atmosphere is dark and creepy. Foreboding. Constantly alluding to “something” not shown on-screen that is just barely contained (well, there is one scene of bones hidden in the embers of one smoldering fire). And the low-talking Wild Things are about as unnerving and disturbing in and of themselves as any other on-screen monsters (I admit I really liked their portrayal in that way). The restrained and heavily implied element of nasty power. The dialog definitely is that of a child’s mindset—and I understand all of that. And since it was made into a movie, you do have to fill in more than all of the five minutes it takes you to actually read the book. And, in that vein, I think Jonze did a great job of capturing Child Think. Even seeing the opening 15 or 20 minutes of “reality” of the movie brought me screaming back to my own youth, in terms of the low-lit wintry atmosphere and snow tunnels. The cozy dark feel of an older house in winter. That really touched a nerve for me. Got me into the mindset. Then later, at Wild Thing Island, I understood the “cut out their brains” lingo and dirt clod fights, the fort building, etc. It’s about adults trying to capture the mind and thoughts of being a kid. I get that. And after doing some more Internet searches, I found that the movie wasn’t even supposed to be marketed to children, at least 4 to 8 year olds.

But after finding the Wild Things YouTube, and watching that (yeah, I know—we don’t own a copy, but other family members do…), it reminded me that the book was more lighthearted. Fun. Childlike.

I really can’t fault a person for wanting to make a movie out of an iconic children’s book. Heck, even Maurice Sendak apparently wanted the book made into one. But, I think what perhaps really caught me off-guard was that Where The Wild Things Are was a children’s book, so I expected a children’s movie. That is not what was delivered. And I don’t think the production company’s “mentioning” that in any way could have saved the film. Thinking back on the movie trailers I saw, this was not what came across in any way, and just voicing that concern didn’t do the trick. That book is so ingrained into everyone’s mindset that no matter how it was marketed, people everywhere were going to see it, come hell or high water—and bring kids. There was no way around that. And as my wife and I discussed, and I agree with her, I think the movie could have taken a much lighter tone—more like the book.

Again, with the book.

So, the movie was an adult’s re-imagining of a treasured children’s story, but it’s not a movie for children. It’s made for adults—and that’s okay. Even adults need a “children’s story” or two. Help remind them where they came from. So, had I gone into the movie with that in mind, perhaps it wouldn’t have unsettled me so much that children were being brought to this movie.

The movie is dark.

It is creepy.

And disturbing.

And I liked it.

I just finished reading Soul Survivor: The Reincarnation of a World War II Fighter Pilot,  Bruce and Andrea Leiningers’ (with Ken Gross) account of their son, James’s, experience with the reemergence of WWII Navy Lieutenant (junior grade) James McCready Huston Jr’s soul. It brought tears to my eyes.

On the first of May, 2000, when James Leininger was barely two years old, he began having nightmares that caused him to kick and scream into the night. Little did the Leiningers realize that in their quest to be good parents and try to quell these episodes that they would break open a whole new world of hurt to some of their long-held and rock steady beliefs. What they discovered was that their young, two-year-old son was the reincarnation of the abovementioned WWII fighter pilot.

There’s no “seems to be” modification of “was the reincarnation of” here. Even the staunchly religious Bruce had to modify his view of the afterlife.

There will always be those who disbelieve something…ready to take issue with pretty much anything…and after having read this 256-page book, and the Leiningers’ intense six-year investigative journey, I would love to say that the only ones who do not see the obvious are those who are rigidly close minded…but I pull back on that statement. I suppose there could be any number of reasons why one does not believe what the Leiningers went through to be real. I suppose fear and apprehension could be one, resistance to change, another. Sheer surprise, and the need to internally and spiritually assimilate? Possession of a mental construct that simple does not allow such a structure to intrude? Sometimes the most obvious is the answer. This book is powerful and moving. It details things that a child of two or three or four or five or six years of age has no possible way of knowing—I don’t care what all the skeptics rant and rave about. Skeptics, by definition, question everything. “Investigating” everything and “questioning” everything are two very different things. This book details an incredible trail of facts and events that should give everyone hope that there’s more beyond this world than “meets the eye.” All before he was six years of age, the following samples of behavior were exhibited by James:

—Shouting “Airplane crash! Plane on fire! Little man can’t get out!” over and over at two or three years of age.

—Knocking the props off every toy airplane he was ever given.

—Insisting on familiarity with Corsair aircraft.

—Signed his name as “James 3” on all his drawings, which were of aircraft strafing and bombing runs.

—Mimicked the act of putting on a leather flight helmet before he’d ever seen one (in this life).

—While still in diapers, corrected his mother about what she thought was a “bomb” was actually a “drop tank.”

—Naming the G.I. Joes he got the names of dead friends of James McCready Huston Jr.; G.I. Joes that also just “happened” to look like these dead men.

—Correcting documentaries about incorrectly identifying a Japanese aircraft being shot down as a “Zero,” when it was really a “Tony.”

These are just some of the actions James exhibited on his way to six years of age.

Everything comes and goes to and from somewhere. Soul Survivor gives us yet another peak behind the veil of death, and it is nearly exact in structure to Jenny Cockell, and her re-experiencing of another life she lived as Mary Sutton, in early 20th-century Ireland. She, too wrote a book (a couple in fact), titled, Across Time and Death: A Mother’s Search for her Past Life Children. In Jenny’s youth, she, too, had been assaulted by intense images she could never get out of her head…images of a bay, children, an abusive husband—drew pictures as well—and one day, she, too, took matters into her own hands and did some research. Even revisited her own children from that life, who were still around, though well into their eighties! I very well remember hearing about both Jenny and James over the years, and was absolutely captivated by them. I’ve always believed in past lives, and have had my own experiences, one of which is detailed on my website, but reading and hearing about them always powerfully affects me. I’ve even written a novel manuscript about a severe case of what I call, “reincarnational angst.” Heck, Ray Bradbury has even spoken about meeting a magician, a Mr. Electrico, at a carnival when he was a kid in 1932. This magician told Mr. Bradbury that he (Ray) was the reincarnation of his best friend, who had literally died in his arms in the Battle of the Ardennes, in 1918.

So, there are many people out there who have had similar experiences—perhaps not as intricately detailed—but experiences, nonetheless. It is curious, however, that the above detailed existences all involved violence. Perhaps there is something to be said for that? The emotion at work “at the end”? So, the work of Bruce, Andrea, and Ken Gross is to be lauded. They put in the footwork. The blood, the sweat, the tears. Had a powerful experience to relate.

One passage, of Soul Survivor, on page 217, was of the last person to ever see Lt (j.g.) James McCready Huston Jr. alive, Mr. John Richardson, a gunner on a TBM Avenger during the same bombing run on Futami Ko, Chichi-Jima. His description of that moment really struck me, because I could really, really picture that moment. Mr. Richardson related how he’d seen Huston flying alongside his own plane, about 30 yards away, and how, at one point, Huston had turned to look him directly in the eyes, and how there’d been a connection…and in the next moment, Huston’s plane had been hit by anti-aircraft fire, and he went down in flames to his death.

Now as moving and poignant as all the above is, I was even more curious about areas that were not better explored—or at least questioned. But it is understandable, given any number of reasons, from simply being overwhelmed with the surface issues being addressed above, or a publisher’s need to fit a book to a useable size and format, given budgets, etc.:

—I wondered if Bruce and Andrea had ever given any thought to their own reincarnational existences. Had they ever had any inklings or odd thought intruding that they tended to ignore and brush aside? Any that might have been even somewhat related to what was unfolding before them?

—The “finding” of Bruce and Andrea as his parents, at the “Big Pink Hotel,” in Hawai’i,  before James was born into the Leininger family. It would have been fascinating to learn more about the soul at that point in time, had a little more coaxing been involved. Why had James picked them? What was it like at that point in his journey back to physical life? Why had James picked this time period? Why did he come back?  Did he meet any of his dead brethren while in-between lives?

—Was he aware of any kind of “Oversoul” guiding him in his journey to return to physical existence?

To me these would have also been some exciting avenues to pursue, but perhaps things were just overshadowed by the current life experiences and dealing with James’s activity.

But I loved this book. It was riveting and powerful. Put a smile on my face more than once and a tear in my eyes. I would love to read this book again. Like the Civil War, WWII is an crucial, affecting period for me. I can’t say enough about this book (but should finish up this post!)—it will have you thinking about things differently if you don’t already. Like their website says, this book challenges traditionally held beliefs about the afterlife.

Go ahead, crack its cover. I dare you.

A friend of mine, in her blog, posted about writing memories, taken from a technique by Joe Brainard, called “I remember.” I loved her blog. It evoked much emotion, so, in honor of the end of summer, I post the following childhood memories:

I remember waking up after the last day of school, in my in Lake Clear, NY, bed, thinking…summer.

I remember how the early morning sun looked, in all its golden glory, as it sprayed through the trees and splashed upon the lawn and truck and cabin and barn on our property.

I remember the way the crushed gravel of the driveway sounded and felt as I walked Converse-sneakered feet across it.

I remember looking down at the lake across the house from us. Watching the whitecaps during the storms and windy weather. I remember one day, my Forest Ranger dad, seeing someone in trouble on the lake, rushed down to save him.

I remember exploring the thick woods behind our house. Getting lost in my imagination in all those hardwoods and firs. Alien and girls and Star Trek on my mind. I frequently roamed alone and aimlessly among the trees.

I remember my dad showing me how to use the rototiller for the first time, and thinking how silky and cool all that churned up dirt looked.

I remember chopping wood. When my Dad first showed me how to use an ax…and how grown up it made me feel. I loved chopping wood.

I remember stacking cords of wood. Cords and cords of wood. Everywhere.

I remember my absolute love for climbing trees! Weaving and twisting and wiggling my way up through their whirls and branches! The feel of the branches and pitch and sap. The sound the my clothes rubbing against the trunk and limbs. The jagged little snapped-off limbs. Branches hitting and swiping at my face and body. Looking out over the landscape so far below. Closing my eyes at the very top as I hugged the tree and became one with it, feeling the wind in my face and listening to it breeze past my ears….

I remember playing Civil War soldiers with one of my brothers, Chris, back by that huge boulder in our driveway. I remember punching the crap out of each other with our boxing gloves in the same location. I remember winning.

I remember Dirk Ewan.

I remember Mrs. Lereaux.

I remember Mom taking us to the trailer park, by the airport, to visit her friends. I remember all four of us kids learning to ride bikes there. I remember never having used training wheels, because Chris, Greg, and Marilyn needed them. I remember the utter freedom learning how to bike lent to my life from that point on. I remember that day.

I remember chasing fireflies at night.

I remember stargazing with my dad’s ex-Navy binoculars.

I remember paddling up Fish Creek at night, and watching and smelling the campfires and shadows and muffled conversations of the camps we passed…I remember feeling I was a 1600s explorer….

I remember looking out over the Adirondacks from fire towers with my dad and Chris.

I remember barbeques out back with my family, at the fireplace my dad built, in 1969. Eating at the picnic table on the platform my dad built. I remember following the smoke from the fireplace curling up into the air, and into the branches of the nearby spruce tree where our tree house was, wondering what I would be doing when I was forty. God, how I remember that day.

I remember playing around in a smoldering burn barrel out back by the crabapple tree. I remember my eyes becoming so overcome and pained with smoke, my mom had to take me inside and plaster my eyes with cold tea bags. I remember wondering if I was going to go blind.

I remember cutting my feet in the lake one day, my grandfather having to carry me back up the house.

I remember walking up back one day and finding this huge snake in the process of swallowing a large something. I remember standing, there, just watching it in utter fascination.

I remember water balloon fights with Greg, Chris, and Marilyn. I remember rigging up a really cool water balloon trap that involved a door, string, and a razor blade. I remember getting up on the steep roofs of the house (we had three sets) and bombarding them all from above. I remember getting caught by my grandparents and catching hell when dad came home.

I remember Chris and I rooting around in cedar hedges on one of my sister’s birthdays, and stirring up a ground wasp nest. We did our best to outrun the little bastards. Oh, yeah. We got the crap stung out of us. I remember it hurt. Really bad.

I remember learning how to mow the lawn and loving it. The smell of cut grass, the stain of its green on my sneakers, and later, on the hood of the cutting blades of the tractor. The sound of the mower. The bugs, the heat, the humidity, the summer sun. To this day, I love mowing the lawn, whether from childhood memories or the cathartic joy of simply being under a warm summer sun.

I remember….

As I began reading Soul Survivor: The Reincarnation of a World War II Fighter Pilot, I came across a blog post dated 2005, where someone took issue with the book and its contents. As I read the blog it became apparent to me, and reminded me, that many seem to take great pleasure in labeling themselves “skeptics.” It seems for any point of view, topic, or whatever, you’ll always find someone out there ready to rip it a new one. So, I came across this post, and read it. I’ll just leave it at that this individual only took their argument so far, and didn’t bother to post anything about how the mind may or may not work—it was purely a superficial cut at surface indicators. Had nothing to do with the work of doctoral professionals in the field of reincarnation, psychology, or any other mental operation of any kind. Didn’t look into Drs. Ian Stevenson and Jim Tucker, for instance.

So, anyway, I had this long post all ready to publish late last night, when it occurred to me—why? I don’t want to get into some long, drawn out He said/She Said intellectual Battle of the Bulge. I really don’t want to rip into someone, well needlessly. I don’t. I don’t even like ripping into others. Sure, I have my moments, but, basically, I don’t want to be—mean spirited.

So I trashed it. My post.

People are who they are for a reason. And a large part of that, in any soul, is growth. So, instead of doing what I accuse others of doing—tearing someone else a new one, of publicly debunking another because they think differently than me—I decided against it.

Chagrin.

Thing is…I’m cool with others having a different opinion than me. Talk it over with me…just don’t kill me with it, okay? Agree to disagree, and we’re cool. I love diversity and intellectual banter and discussion. Sure, myself and others might very well even get rather “animated” during some of our discussions, but that’s because we’re passionate about what we think and talk about. It’s who we are. Just be respectful.

I hope I always have this kind of presence of mind in every situation I encounter similar to this, but I’ll probably slip up and there’ll be another out there ready to “call” me on it. Fine. I apologize up front. I’m only human…

And just runnin off at the mouth.

We just got back from a Labor Day weekend trip to Moab, Utah, and while there, it reminded my of an article I’d long ago written for a newsletter. Though I no longer mountain bike, I thought the article timely enough to republish in this post, with minor editing.

Eat dirt. Taste life.*

There’s all this talk about what to do for, and about, writing…all this talk about hooking up with agents and wooing publishers…all this brouhaha about technique, style, and yadda-yadda-yadda…but not much about (now, hold on to your sensibilities!) getting away from it all.

Heresy?!

Recently, my wife, Laura, and I went to—no, not “went to,” yea, experienced—the Mecca of Mountain Biking. Trails with names like Porcupine Rim to Jackass Canyon, Slick Rock, Poison Spider Mesa, and Top of The World. Panoramic vistas that make you wanna either leap off butte ledges and soar like a eagle…or stagger backward, curl up into an eyes-closed fetal position and bawl like a newborn. Now, neither of us make fantastic claims about being gonzo riders, or anywhere near gonzo, but we both do profess an ardent enthusiasm for the sport. Laura’s more into road-boring-biking, but I love barreling over obstacles. After all the formative and adult years of trying to avoid things like rocks and tree trunks, I’m fascinated that I can now ride over them. Well, attempt to, anyway.

So, we became one with Moab, Utah, the small, desert community with a humungous, legendary rep. Mountain Biking. To da max. Talk about gonzo. Talk about a fit population. Easy trails here are not-so elsewhere. Into town we roll, somewhere between beginner and intermediate, and, boy, did we take the plunge.

(are you afraid to die…)

Somewhere along the way, we talked about the stresses of humanity. About how we get so caught up in the Rat Race. About how can we make our personal lives more manageable–and was that even possible? Laura actually brought up the topic of writing, and I, I’m not in the least ashamed to report, cringed. Yes, you betcha, I actually cringed. How could I profane such awesome desert beauty and total getting awayness with the thought of…writing?

With “work”?

I did my best to steer her away from the topic, all the while aghast and fascinated with myself—was I actually doing that? Was I actually trying not to talk about what gets me off like nothing else (alas, this PG-article isn’t about that, either…)? I couldn’t believe it, yet somehow I continued to drive myself to not talk about writing. Our conversation turned toward the related topic of “getting out of our heads.” That, perhaps, this was what more people need to do (in our exalted opinion); to get out of their heads. Get away from it all. To do something that so shakes up your sensibilities as to exhilarate you out of your box. Your cage. That stupid little goldfish bowl most of us tend to find ourselves trapped within.

I used to think the gym was my getting-out-of-my-head thing. But it ain’t. It’s a daily activity. Sure, it releases stress, and it’s good for me, but it’s not quite… you know…that. It’s…“local.” Every day.

I used to think writing was my getting-out-of-my-head activity, from the work-a-day world. From reality. Well, lo-and-behold, neither is it…that. It is what I pledge my life to, and there are a trillion-and-one essays written on what writing is to each and every one of us, but, you know, it still wasn’t…that.

(…or just afraid to live!)

We needed shock. Total and utter getaway.

Something that each of us should probably do to give us our much needed, spiritual and/or physical, swift kick-in-the-pants. That human reset/reboot. And I found my epiphany on a T-shirt I bought in Moab, one that reminded me of one of our more intense rides: Are you afraid to die…or just afraid to live! Eat dirt. Taste life.

There’s no machismo to this story. No I’m-better-than-the-next-guy/gal one-upmanship. Just a message, plain and simple. To—every now and then—get the hell out of that frigging fish bowl and experience a little excitement, what it is writers are trying to write about in the first place. To do whatever it is that sets adrenaline to pumping, body to bruising, and minds to reeling. Is it sky-diving? Scuba diving? Hiking? Traveling?

Acting? Rafting? Flying?

What is it that you always wanted to do, and are willing to shake up your life over? Is it to get in that car and just drive? One-lap USA? Or just Kansas?

Do it.

Drop what you’re doing and give yourself a reboot! Do it now, and don’t waste a second thought on your writing, work, your “previous” life. It’ll be there when you get back, believe me. It’ll always be there. But give yourself totally and unconditionally to this process. Without worry that you could have written thirteen more chapters, answered piles of fan mail, or Facebooked some more. Soak—yea, drown, I say!—in what you’re doing, be in the moment, and the moment only. Don’t talk to others you meet about what you do for a living or even that you’re a writer (and certainly don’t ask them about their previous lives, either). Pretend that all you do is what you’re doing now. Focus on the clear blue skies turning pregnant with thunderous intent. On the fear of being struck by lightning on that mesa or mountainside. On whether or not you have enough water and the right stuff. On the rattling of your gear and bike chain and how hard you’re gonna hit that rock (and why the hell doesn’t it move, anyway?). On what pretty colors of purple, blue, and yellow your arms and legs are going to turn after your tree/rock-hugging OOBE (out-of-bike experience). The smell of dirt, rock, and river. The screech of the raven, the howl and sting of the wind and rain….

I’m not saying to try to kill yourself, or that you need do this with every vacation. Find your own way, your own thresholds. What makes you sweat and wonder if you got in just a titch over your head. Or if your tire’s gonna blow over that rock, or the next—and can you patch it? Expand your perspective. Put the fear of Kokopelli in you. Give it all you have. Eat some dirt and experience what it tastes like. Do you feel more alive? Do you wanna taste more from a different butte? Experience the hardness of a different rock, the scrape of a different shrub? Or just the breathtaking view of a sheer, two-thousand foot, jaw-dropping, red rock, gorge.

And if you’ve experienced any of these, then you’ve found your getting-out-of-your-head thing. As I’ve said, my wife and I ain’t (yet) gonzo bikers, and I certainly don’t go looking for endos—but when I find myself soaring head over heels over my front tire, limbs a-flailing, I sample the dirt. Then I pick myself up, bruised, scraped, and whatever, but wholly exhilarated. Rebooted in a way difficult to describe. Alive.

And isn’t that how we’d all like our readers to come away from our writing?

Eat dirt. Taste life.

* Taken from a trademarked T-shirt sold in Moab, Utah, by SanSegal® Sportswear. I can no longer find this logo over the Internet.

I recently completed reading book five of The Personal Sessions, by Seth, Jane Roberts, and Robert Butts, and I found a certain section coming to mind, I wanted to, well, “run off at the mouth,” about. About two-thirds of the way into the book, Rob and Jane discussed problems they were having with Prentice Hall, their publisher for the bulk of the Seth material (it no longer does metaphysical publishing as far as I know). This is of particular interest to me, because I’m also a writer. And it’s not so much that what Seth said was such a surprise, but it was the corroborative nature of his comments that hit home, you know, once you get past those out there who say, “nothing mystical about what was said there.” Point taken from those of you from that particular point of view, but to those like me who do believe in these teachings, we—I—find it corroborative.

But there’s more.

Seth went on to discuss how things—at least things for Jane and Rob—took the best course of action possible, and reminded them that still, we all create our own reality, and this occurred here, too. Seth reminded Jane and Rob, back in October of 1979, that for all they were both interested in doing—and not doing—Prentice Hall suited them extremely well…and allowed them to, essentially, publish their efforts in as untouched and as pure a manner as they came in to Prentice. That Prentice Hall did not distort their work. Seth also went on to say that had Jane and Rob desired to do more in promoting their books, Prentice Hall would have done more, too. That Jane and Rob had to better trust the Framework 2 of their lives, the nonphysical origin of our physical selves, of Framework 1 (have to scroll a ways down to find these terms).  Essentially, go with the flow, maaan.

Then Seth discussed the business side of things. Seth pointed out that businessmen and women run businesses. We (writers) don’t always think of that as writers—well, maybe nowadays most of us do—I do, given all my “schooling” in the world of publishing, but this is something that needs to be remembered and pointed out, if not known. Business people, for the most part, are not artists. They are business…people…yet, in the publishing world, they do have an interest in publishing for some reason, or they’d go run another business in mining or vacuum cleaners. They (these business people) do what they do best, and artists (us neurotic sacks of flesh and bone) do what we do best, and together we two [should] work together in the best possible way to make our collective dreams and goals come together. It is, Seth says (quoted form page 219 of book five of The personal Sessions), “…foolhardy to expect them to have a sense of the artists’ values, whatever the may be, and then to become upset when they do not live up to that picture.” That really struck me. Yeah. Completely true! To them, and this is being heavily pushed to the author level these days, books are products, and as such, businesspeople do their damnedest to get those products out and sold as best as they know how (here I might add, that this, IMHO, doesn’t necessarily absolve them from continuing to use outmoded publishing practices developed during the Great Depression—no, not 2008—the Great Depression…), all things considered. But even considering books as “product” (this is my running off at the mouth, now…), we need to not forget that they are, first and foremost…books. Period. Ideas and emotion and all of humanity captured between various types of binding.

Books.

What it comes down to, Seth continues, is that at the end of the day, these are cubicle workers who just want to get through their day so they can go home. Now, maybe this was all geared toward the publishing world of the 1970s, but I’m sure there are definite elements that continue to thrive in today’s world. I understand this, also being a cubicle worker myself.

Seth also pointed out where one people, in this case, the Dutch, might cut a few words from the book, another people, such as the French or Spanish, might add. That no idea written in one language can really be totally translated into another language word-for-word. That the mindsets behind each language are different and don’t always translate, well, basically. Makes sense. If they were absolutely the same then they would be of the same language.

The overall message of this passage seemed to be, “don’t take life too hard.” That in Jane and Rob’s lives they had it pretty perfect, the two of them. They published books, pretty much untouched (not sure how the actual editing was handled or how much was actually bestowed upon their work—I’ve always wondered about that!), they was spreading across the world, and they only did as much or as little promotional efforts as they wanted to do.

Pretty much unheard of in today’s publishing world, yeah.

What I take away from all this is that if we go into our efforts with a good heart, some smarts, and expect the best, the best will come. It may not be exactly as we want or expect it, but come it will. I know many out there probably laugh at these words, but I ask…how is your life working?

Do you have lots of conflict, strife, and negativity? How do you look at life?

Do you think pessimistically?

I always say, I’d much rather be happy and positive in life than the alternative, no matter the outcome. And reading this section on the publishing world gave me a new perspective fro a different angle, if you will. Yeah, there are contracts and such, oligarchies that decide the fate of our efforts in no less swift a manner than in the days of sword and mace, but if we properly form our desire in Framework 2, then act it out, it will work its way into reality in the best possible way. We all just have to be open to that.

And keep writing.

Frank