I’m having a hard time today.

Celebrity deaths are a strange phenomenon to me. Missing someone you’ve never met, crying over someone who you’ve only ever seen on a screen. And yet those people were a part of our lives, perhaps as much as our friends and family.

Trevor Moore died a few days ago and I haven’t been okay. I’ve been a big fan of the sketch comedy artist since I was a child growing up in a strict Christian household. Growing up in such chocked atmosphere, the outlet The Whitest Kids U’ know provided me was like a breath of fresh air after being locked in a basement my entire life. The face of Trevor came to be the face of independence, even freedom of thought for me. A beacon in a dark room. It sounds cheesy. Maybe it is. But it doesn’t matter.

I haven’t missed someone this much in a long time. It feels like some fundamental part of myself has been removed, a key part of my identity dissolved.
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Rest in peace, Trevor. 

Maybe it happens to everyone at some point. Maybe it's just me. Either way, no one talks about it. You can't. Because what would you say?

Would you be called a liar? Would you be declared mad?

If a word exists in the English lexicon for a fundamental, even existential sensations of wrongness, I haven’t found it. But that word would describe the phenomena.

To look up at the sky, and watch. And as stars consume your senses, you hear something. A conversation not meant for your ears. A debate not meant for mankind.

Or perhaps you found yourself on the stage, standing before a grand sentinel of empty seats. Your breath echoes off the vaulted ceiling. You turn behind you to the curtain. To peel back that red fabric and peak behind it, you glimpse that thing.

Indescribable. Liar. Madman.

What you see and what you hear, those things do not exist. Cannot exist. Because existence would demand something you cannot give.
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I no longer listen to the night sky, and I no longer look behind the curtain. 

​I dislike marketing. I love writing books (obviously) but getting them in front of readers is eternally frustrating. Sometimes I get sucked into hours of trying to understand complex Facebook/Amazon algorithms. It is certainly a part of the game, but one I sincerely loathe. 

​Not much else to say today. Just a frustrating Tuesday. 

I finished reading Ready Player Two and was troubled by it. It feels as though the publishing industry is speeding in a direction that is not entirely healthy for literature.
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In short, if an author does not fall into a specific mold, they will be boxed out of the industry. If the writer does not pander heavily to one political party or the other, publishers have no interest. In fact, most major publishing houses won’t finish reading your query if you are not emphatically in favor of the political left.

Before people stop me there, point a finger and accuse me of being Trump-Loving Right Wing Nut Job, let me assure you my political views are left-leaning libertarianism. I consider myself a moderate.
The issue is that it’s not enough to be a moderate, or even be passive about your liberalism. The publishing industry demands that writers actively promote left-wing bias, to a point of exhaustion.
Back to my original comment about Ernest Cline’s sci-fi work, it almost feels as though he was bullied into this position by Penguin Random House. Ready Player One was fantastic. It had subtle political commentary about a potential dystopian future but remained largely A-political. And the story was fantastic. I could not put it down.

Ready Player Two, however, felt contrived. In what felt like every other chapter, I found myself slogging through a rant about how women don’t receive enough credit for achievements like the moon landing, how the Lord of The Rings is racist because of the lack of diversity in the cast, the list goes on. Now again, before you aim your finger at me and declare, “How dare you suggest that women’s rights and achievement shouldn’t be talked about!” Of course, women have been undercelebrated for their achievements throughout history, and certainly the course of society should and will change to reflect that.

That’s not the point. When such issues are shoved into the story with such incongruity, as though to check off a list of “Woke” boxes for publisher criteria, the story suffers. I kept finding myself ripped from the action to hear another rant about how much homosexuals have been discriminated against in situation “A” and “B” that simply felt like it did not belong in the story.

My reason for pointing a finger at the publishing industry, rather than Mr. Cline himself, stems from the fact that Ready Player One focused on a fantastic story with well crafted allegory; only the sequel shoved its bias in my face like a toddler showing me a new toy. As the political climate has edged more towards intense tribalism, it feels as though it is the publishers pushing this material, not the authors. 

Wonder, in and of itself, is one of the fundamental reasons for our very existence. It’s been said that the universe created sentient beings to appreciate its own beauty, to stare into the cosmos with awe. There may be something to that, although boxing it so simply feels a bit contrived.

I’m not going to dive into the entire “why are we here” question today. The coffee’s running low so my energy for such philosophy is not present. But I find myself feeling fundamentally at peace the most when contemplating such things or staring up at moon on a cloudless night. To let the silence envelope your ears and feel the breeze on your skin is bliss.
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It is easy to get bogged down in the 9-5, to deplete your soul in the pursuit of the dollar. Even I catch myself doing it. I encourage you not to do this. Although every American metric of success stems from digits in your bank account, you won’t find what you seek there. Not really. I won’t pretend to have found the secret to happiness, nothing of the sort. But try and take a moment soon to stare at the sky and simply breathe the next opportunity you get. 

I’m trying to get some feedback on the Project Renaissance: White Wings. DM me what you liked about White Wings, what you hated about it, and what you’d like to see in future sequels. I’m always interested to hear from the reader’s perspective. When I'm reading any book series, I always hope for specific encounters or plot points. When I was a child, I’d write letters to authors with requests. I don’t think any ever replied (looking at you D.J. MacHale). However, rest assured I will do my best to respond to worthwhile ideas.