Review: The Digital Rabbit Hole by Larry Kilham

Amazon Link

So I read The Digital Rabbit Hole by Mr. Larry Kilham regarding our future as it applies to technology, and I don't write many reviews (check my blog if you disbelieve me), but I wanted to write one for this book.

Because it deserves a review. And I kinda actually dug on the book.

See, Rabbit Hole is atypically interesting. He frames the yawnish topic of modern techno-consumerism into a Wonderland of truthful lies and fictional fact, a place where everyone is mad and rabbits dash down holes chasing useless misinformation, skittering in haste over tufts of trampled truth in search of whatever Google's sponsors insist we chase and consume.

All hail Google!

Anyway, Mr. Kilham stirs the balderdash hash of the modern world into his hookah, puffs a wise cloud and describes how we can spur intellectual growth in this mockery of ad-driven insanity, rather than simply melt down our life candle with blinking lights and calloused thumbs.

Because technology is a Wonderland of Wonders -- but only if we ~think~ about it.

He's sort of an authority on the topic of technology. I won't go into details, because you can figure it out if you read his profile, but I will say it is refreshing to discover an authoritative opinion on what the future might hold, embedded in a well-written, novelesque and easy-to-chow book.

"You should always think critically and search for the truth."

That's a quote from his book. It is a sky-is-blue obvious statement, but this is an ongoing theme throughout his work. That's why I bring up that he is genuinely an authority on the topic. His expertise shines in the details as he addresses such concerns as immediate gratification and our endless appetite for the next useless gadget. We sell our souls for shiny beads, but the silver lining is that there is a silver lining.

See, the techno-flood plains are littered with golden nuggets, if you are patient enough to pan out the mud and pebbles, and the intellectual plate is piled high with whole-grain goodness, if you are wise enough to winnow out the chaff.

He mentions a lot of interesting topics, such as fear of loss, why we socialize online, how virtual lifestyles affect us and our children, and he dubs the Internet of Things The Knowosphere and so on. I won't steal his thunder, but he will leave you with a wizened vocabulary of interesting catch phrases, and a slick sideways manner of debating the present-future world in which we exist through avatars and an impatient cursor.

I enjoyed the book and its take on technology, but I did find one question begging as I read. So I asked his publisher if she would mind asking him if I could beg him a question, and she asked, and he said he would answer, and so here it goes.

My begging question for Mr. Kilham

You nailed the useful-less-ness of the Knowosphere, as you describe it, pointing out the dichotomy of fact and fiction and suggesting how the thinking class might expand (or is it expound?) their knowledge, while still allowing the consumer class to enjoy what has become our most precious distraction this side of television and booze.

But I was hoping you would explore a point you touched on in this quote:

As Erik Brynjolfsson and Andrew McAfee point out in Race Against the Machine, “How can so much value creation and so much economic misfortune coexist? How can technologies accelerate while incomes stagnate? These apparent paradoxes can be resolved by combining some well-understood economic principles with the observation that there is a growing mismatch between rapidly advancing digital technologies and slow-changing humans.”

While we will continue to witness a flurry of interesting technological advances, I wonder at what point the economy of technology will balance out the replacement of humans by machines, and I wonder if it already began, perhaps with the bust in the early 2000s and China's usurpation of American labor.

So I ask: What is the tipping point of too many economic dead-ends before the remaining workers can no longer sustain the consumerism that companies require to spawn new tech?

Mr. Kilham's Outstanding Response

I don’t know when your tipping point will happen although it probably happens in phases, creeping up almost unnoticed.

Partially reacting to the economic dead-ends you refer to, the Millennials are increasingly convinced that cheaper, simpler, eco-friendly living is the way to go. Tiny houses are no longer a novelty. Automobile ownership is no longer taken for granted. Now it’s okay to wear second-hand clothes and to buy rebuilt appliances.

The capital required to invest in new tech is not scarce, at least not by large, inventive companies. Apple and Google have more cash than they know what to do with. What they seem to lack are significant new product ideas. For small companies, access to venture capital probably has never been easier.

A new economic system catching attention is the move away from consumerism and towards economic subsistence for the less fortunate. This is called Universal Basic Income. It is being promoted by such apparently conservative visionaries as Mark Zuckerberg, CEO of Facebook, and Elon Musk, CEO of Tesla. The economic support for such a program would, of course, come from taxes. Economists calculate that taxes can provide enough funding. It is being tried now experimentally in Finland and in Ontario, Canada.

I discuss these concepts in detail in my book, Winter of the Genomes. It is available on Amazon in paperback and ebook.  http://amzn.to/2cGsPjF

The Digital Rabbit Hole 

Will digital media sweep us into a new era of prosperity? What new advances in entertainment, culture, education, and knowledge can we expect? Will we get stuck in Cyberland only to be saved by digital detox?

The Digital Rabbit Hole reveals that we are becoming captive in the digital universe. The portals are smartphones and the world is the Internet. We immerse ourselves in social media; we learn through packaged feel-good information; and we will leave the hard work to robots and AI. The book details digital media and discusses smartphone addiction problems. It proposes solutions to stimulate creativity and education and to recapture our humanity.

Paperback: 144 Pages
Genre: Social Science/Non Fiction
Publisher: FutureBooks.info; 1 edition (January 1, 2016)
ASIN: B01A3MTVBS

The Digital Rabbit Hole is available in print on Amazon.

About the Author:

Larry Kilham has traveled extensively overseas for over twenty years. He worked in several large international companies and started and sold two high-tech ventures. He received a B.S. in engineering from the University of Colorado and an M.S. in management from MIT. Larry has written books about creativity and invention, artificial intelligence and digital media, travel overseas, and three novels with an AI theme. Currently, he is writing a novel about free will.


Larry can be found online at:

Website: www.larrykilham.net 
Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Larry-Kilham/e/B003UPNVNK/ref=dp_byline_cont_ebooks_1
Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4352387.Larry_Kilham

 - Eric

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Eric W. Trant is a published author of several short stories and the novels Wink and Steps from WiDo Publishing, out now! See more of Eric's work here: Publications, or order directly from Amazon, or wherever books are sold.

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Haunted by visions of a demonic angel and sold into servitude by his father, young Alberto battles to survive the horrors of a nineteenth century Sicilian sulfur mine. Suffering merciless brutality, Alberto must save not only himself but his deformed older brother, both pawns in their father's mad plan to overthrow a group of wealthy landowners.Bound by a death-debt to his hunchback master, Alberto discovers a door the miners call Porta dell'Inferno, the Door to Hell, deep within the sulfur mines. When he learns the demon-angel of his dreams stalks the caverns beyond the door, Alberto realizes a strange fate has lured him and his brother to the gates leading to the underworld.Now Alberto must face the creature from his visions and rise to become the man his father demands him to be, or remain forever trapped in a hellish world where none escape.

Is ~LOGAN~ the best-written Marvel movie yet?

So we watched Logan this past weekend, and it was not at all what I expected. I'm not sure what I expected, because I didn't get amped to see it in the theaters, and I wasn't all that anxious to see it when it hit video.

But I kept seeing ads for it -- nicely done, marketeers! -- and I watched the trailer again and this time decided to go ahead and rent it. I read somewhere it was unexpectedly dramatic, and that did it for me.

So we rented it.

My wife watched it with me and my young son. I know, say what you will, but my boy liked it. He is still going on about the "movie with the claws." Then he growls at me. He's three.

I realized it must be a good movie when my wife put down her phone. That right there, folks, is the sign of a good movie in this house!

She cried at the end. My daughter watched it later with a friend of hers. They both cried at the end.

Now, how many Marvel movies have made you cry? Not many, if any. Heck, I don't recall any superhero movie bringing out that much emotion in me. Let me think, hold on and let the worms dig a little... nope I don't recall any superhero movie, at least not a blockbuster sort of movie.

Anyway, Logan stuck with me, and I got to thinking that this might be the best Marvel movie yet. I've watched some of the Netflix Marvels, and although those try to do the same thing as Logan, they fail to reach the same level of depth.

And what was it that Logan did so differently, anyway?

I'll tell you, since you asked.

It depicted very ~HUMAN~ characters. Full of flaws. Full of frustrations. A life of mistakes, but you didn't mean to make those mistakes, they just happened as mistakes tend to happen.

It depicted love on a level that most of us hope to never experience. By that, I mean hard-love. If you've ever had to hard-love someone, you know that's not an enviable thing.

It depicted redemption. It depicted fall and rise. It did all those things it should do if you want to create a touching, moving story that will draw in your audience, regardless of the genre.

I wasn't expecting so much drama from a Marvel installation. Usually these are cheeky and fun, focused on senseless violence and some mind-numbing twists that do not often make sense. I'm looking at you, Guardians 2!

But in any case, Logan was a pleasant surprise. I will probably buy the movie since I would like to watch it a few more times.

Anyway, I just wanted to share that. If you want to see a fine depiction of how a drama-thriller-action-superhero movie is written, watch Logan.


 - Eric

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Eric W. Trant is a published author of several short stories and the novels Wink and Steps from WiDo Publishing, out now! See more of Eric's work here: Publications, or order directly from Amazon, or wherever books are sold.

** BE A SUPER-HERO! BE AN ORGAN DONOR! **

All I Want for Christmas...

Periodically I write little comments on my wife's bathroom mirror. Goofy stuff like, Beauty begins here, or, My heart is here, and then I add arrows pointing to where her face will be when she looks into the mirror. Stuff like that.

This week, it being near Christmas, I wrote, All I want for Christmas... and added those arrows pointing to where my wife's face will be. She wrote on my mirror, Is you! She drew a happy face.

And it is true. All I want for Christmas is my wife, and I tell her every year she is all I want, and I mean it. I don't think she believes me, so I decided to write it down. For some reason, writing things down adds a veracity and absolution to events that cannot be duplicated verbally.

So here it goes, My Love! I am making a list of the gifts you have given me over the years, ones you may not even realize you delivered, but which have been received and noted all the same. This is why you are my most treasured gift, and why you truly, truly are all I want for Christmas.


Christmas, 2005: Beauty

I simultaneously finalized my divorce with my oldest son's mother and met an amazing woman named Amanda. It was almost as if I had jumped overboard expecting to land in the ocean, only to find myself laid out on the deck of a passing ship. I had recently written a story about a man in such a situation who met a woman named Amanda, and I let her read the story, and I may post it later because it is short and sweet. She was beautiful. She still is, and perhaps I had not landed on another ship when I abandoned the old one. Perhaps I had washed onto the shores of a wonderful oasis, and she was cold water on burnt lips.

Oh, she was amazing. She still is, and I loved her from the moment we met. No awkward silences. No shy discomfort. I took her hand. I asked her to dance. She said, No, but she danced with me anyway and never let go of my hand. I taught her to two-step. She reminded me how beautiful life could be. One touch, one playful flirt, keep my hands to myself and no kissing on the first date, and is this our first date?

We spun that night, and somehow we were already an old couple. Neither of us felt those pangs and worries you feel when you first meet someone and sort of wonder if this is going to work out. There was none of that. It was absolute in that moment as when you hold a newborn child.

I loved this woman. There were no conditions on that statement, nothing she had to do to earn my affection. This love simply was.

She is a book I must have read in another life, because I already knew her, and she knew me, and with such primal knowledge there was no need for pretense or doubt or insecurity.

And that year, in 2005, the woman who would become my wife and bear me two sons showed me a beauty I had long, long forgotten.


Christmas, 2006: Passion

What else could follow such a beginning but passion? We were in love, and we danced, and we celebrated life and youth and freedom. We lit a gasoline bonfire, and that outburst from the darkness blinded us, seared our cheeks, and we reveled until the flames began to settle, and the light came back to our eyes. We found ourselves hovered together over a glowing warmth neither of us had ever experienced or expected.

Honestly, it scared the ever-living shit out of me.


Christmas, 2007: Patience

Oh, Lord did it scare me. I was terrified, and I had for so long allowed dark angels to perch on my shoulder and whisper in my ear that I followed their advice and ripped the petals off this incredible flower. I threw it in the fire, stomped the ashes and ran. I dove in the ocean and slapped the waves, and I left this beautiful, beautiful woman alone to stoke the embers.

Is patience even the right word for this year? Perhaps it should be tolerance, or faith, or something more befitting and specific, but I do believe patience encompasses these things. An underlying faith exists that things will turn out all right. There is a tolerance for the wait, and what happens while you watch the clock tock. She showed faith. She showed tolerance. She showed patience.

It was not a pretty year, and I did not swim very far from shore before I missed her warmth. My heart beat too heavy, and I sank. There really was no other choice but to turn back, wade ashore, sling off the muck and hope to receive what so few people are capable of giving.

I asked, and in 2008, this woman granted me the gift God himself believes is holy enough to sacrifice his own son.


Christmas, 2008: Forgiveness

She granted me forgiveness. I asked. She forgave. It was that easy, and here is that beauty I have seen since our first dance.

She even shares some of the guilt for my behavior, though she was not to blame. Fault lies entirely on me, and reading this she will likely sway her head, and if I were behind her she would turn and say, No, I did this and that, remember?

No you did not, Love. What you did was suffer, and then forgive without condition. That would be my answer to her, and she still would shake her head and insist on dividing my sins between us. She would probably tell me to go in the other room, now, and quit pestering her so she can read.

Not only did she forgive, but she asked for nothing in return and demanded no punitive damages. We simply sat down at our fire, uncovered the coals because they never died, not really, and began collecting sticks to rebuild something we both knew could be beautiful again.


Christmas, 2009: Determination

We rebuilt. We rekindled. We stacked logs on one another and I shrugged away those dark angels clinging to my shoulder. They fluttered over us, though, waiting, because they never go away, not really. They only shy from the light and crouch in the shadows. So we built up the fire. We surrounded ourselves with friends and family who believed in the light we could envision so vividly, and we bent our backs and poured the foundation of our home together.

Truly, this year my future wife kicked in the door to my heart. She dragged in her furniture and clothes and ensconced herself deep in my core and refused to budge, nor would I ever want her to leave. She is right where I want her, and there is a certain warmth to knowing someone will fight to keep you, or slug through dark waters to find you. I would have my own chance to test my patience and determination later, but first... we had to celebrate!


Christmas, 2010: Joy

Oh, the light began to shine. A boy was born. He cemented two older siblings who shared no blood. He joined a man and woman who both thought they might be too broken to find happiness. This year was pure joy, and this amazing woman spun in the center of it all, and here she would stop me and say, No, I didn't. It was all of us.

To which I would respond, Yes, you did. This was all you, and without your determination and will and grace, none of this would have happened.


Christmas, 2011: Bliss

What is bliss, really? It is living within the light such that you can see none of the dark. That is bliss. We lived in the light, and the dark angels flew far above. We embraced friends and family who would walk with us, and we lived what might have been the happiest year of either of our lives thus far.

Wanna get married? I was not very formal.

Neither was she. Sure, she said. How about Saint Patty's Day.

Perfect, I said.

And here is that old couple so comfortable with one another, married for lifetimes and many more to come. Neither of us felt any compulsion to pretend to be someone we were not. It was bliss. It was heaven. It was a wonderful, wonderful life, and she spun and I twirled her and our children danced around us, and the dark angels circled just beyond where we could see.

We made plans. She bought a dress, and that Christmas we shared a pleasant bliss that the light would forever burn around us.


Christmas, 2012: Strength

We married. Our two oldest children, bound now by one little boy dressed as a Leprechaun, red-headed, blue eyed, fair cheeked and protective of his gold-wrapped chocolates as the fairy creature he was, witnessed this woman give me her hand as she had on the first night we met. This time when I asked, she said, Yes, and we danced, and we celebrated, and the dark angels fell from the sky on a clear summer evening.

They took the little boy and flew him away. The joke was on them, because the boy left his heart with us, inside a little girl, but they knocked down this beautiful woman with their wing beats, stomped our fire and heaped sand on the ashes. They knocked us all down, and in some ways they still haunt our yard and peek through the windows, and we have to chase them away with a torch and a rock.

But here my wife made her own dash into the ocean, and she slapped the water and she screamed, and the dark angels shouted around her and there was nothing I could do but watch.

So I sat at our fire. I found a few embers, and I stoked them, and I waited. See, this woman about to drown herself had taught me patience, and when she waded ashore and slung off the muck and asked for that gift so few people are capable of giving, I said, Sit down, it was my fault, too. She had taught me grace and forgiveness as well.

And we sat for a while. We gathered wood, because she had taught me that steel-willed determination can lift mountains. We watched the flames begin to catch, and those friends and family who had seen the light with us huddled around us and provided warmth while the fire began to grow and a new light shone from the flames.

This new light was strength. These are blue flames, if you wonder, the color of dusk and dawn, and they are closest to the burn and sometimes not visible. They are the hottest flames. They may not chase away the dark angels with their light, but they will turn them to ashes if you can put their feathers to the test.

She and I burned blue that year, as did our two older children, as did our friends and family who could see the blue flame growing within my wife. The darkness shied away from us, but there was work to do and work that remains, because these creatures do not die easily.


Christmas, 2013: Encouragement

This Christmas my wife gave me endless encouragement. We decided to have another child, and at the same time I started a company and abandoned a flailing career. It was hard work and a headlong charge into the unknown. There was doubt. There was uncertainty. The dark angels whispered to us that we would fail, that we were weak, that we were misguided fools owing to the loss of our child and should do as we were told and douse our fire and quit.

My wife met this with the same determination she always meets challenges. She bent her head and got to work. She encouraged me. She supported me. She walked with me and I walked with her, sometimes leading, sometimes following, but always together in lock-step lock-arm, into the unknown, swatting away the doubters and waving our flames to snuff out the shadows. This was a Christmas of healing, still sore but not so wounded, and one in which we looked forward to the next year and the year after that.


Christmas, 2014: Hope

In 2014, for Christmas my wife bagged and tagged a bountiful bouquet of hope for me and our children. Another boy was born. His brother had ushered in joy. This one ushered in hope.

Life had swerved us down a back road that led to a destination unknown. There was only hope that we would find more light, faith that we had the strength and determination to get there. But we had been prepared for this journey, and my wife inspired hope in us all that we would find light amidst whatever the dark angels could drop from the sky.

As always, she was right. I believe she will agree heartily when I say she is always right.


Christmas, 2015: Optimism

In 2015, again the angels swarmed us, but they are no match for the blue flame and we know that, now. My wife casually fought them. It was like watching an ape fight a kitten, almost cruel how easily she dismissed the darkness of a failing business and the flap of wings as the whispers and threats began to surface from mouths we thought we had seared shut.

It was too easy for her. She is that strong. Our friends huddled around us. We stoked our fire. We cleaned our home and honed our strength against the stone of this new challenge. We employed all these skills my wife has inspired in me and our children, and showed the heart she inspires in everyone she meets.

She granted me optimism for Christmas in 2015. She reminded me of the hope she had given me the year before, and regifted her encouragement from 2013 with an extra box of strength she had saved up all year to purchase.

And there again is that beauty. Truly her beauty is the gift that keeps on giving.

She really is that strong, and her youthful, blissful, beautiful, magical optimism is another blue flame. She displays this optimism in everything she does, and she has all along, and I finally put my finger on the source of her strength.

It is an undying optimism that the future will always be a pleasant place to live, and that we should live there together for as long as we can.


Christmas, 2016: Wisdom

This year, I already figured out what she got me for Christmas. She is getting me wisdom. I think by now that should be pretty obvious.


 - Eric

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Eric W. Trant is a published author of several short stories and the novels Wink and Steps from WiDo Publishing, out now! See more of Eric's work here: Publications, or order directly from Amazon, or wherever books are sold.

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Recipe: How to Make a Fear Sandwich

A Fear Sandwich is my favorite recipe. I eat it daily, and have found it keeps me healthy and spry. Your body might give out, maybe even your mind, but your will and faith should always remain as young and strong and fearless as a toddler's.

Ingredients

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1 cup Fear
1/2 cup Doubt
1/2 cup Insecurity
2 tbsp Luck (more if you think it will help)
1 lb of Fresh Faith
2 pieces of Hard-Baked Determination

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First, mix the Fear and Doubt thoroughly. I find beating them with a whisk not only creates the best mixture, but also makes me feel better. Beat the hell out of these two.

Once mixed, add half the Insecurity. Do not add it all. We'll add more later. Beat thoroughly.

Sprinkle in your Luck and let it settle for no less than five minutes. The Luck takes time, so be patient. I find setting a clock works the best, and if you let it settle for longer than five minutes, it will only thicken the mixture. You can add more Luck if you like, but a little Luck goes a long way.

By the way, I've found my best Luck at a store called Grindnose, on the corner of Workhard and Sweat, here in Dallas. You probably have something similar in your town.

Once the mixture has thickened, add the rest of your Insecurity. Beat it into a well-destroyed, unrecognizable mixture, with the consistency and color of creamy peanut butter.

Spread to 1/4" thickness on a covered baking sheet and bake at 450 degrees for 45 minutes. You must bake at an excessive temperature in order to leach out the Bitterness and firm up the Luck.

Once baked, place on cooling rack for ten minutes. While cooling, grate your Faith into a cup, and sprinkle over the Fear-patty to melt. Your Faith may seem to dissolve, but this is how it clings to the Fear. The Faith will spread and cover the entire Fear-patty if you lay it out properly. Ensure there are no gaps or holes where the Fear can seep through.

Flip the patty and cover the underbelly. Do not forget this, as the underbelly of Fear can be the most tasteless part of this recipe.

If you need more Faith, add it. This is one ingredient you cannot overuse.

Now, you can buy your Hard-Baked Determination at Grindnose, or you can bake your own. Either way, slice two pieces of Determination to fit your Fear. Cut to length and width. Make sure the Determination hangs beyond the edges of your Fear, as you do not want even small pieces of Fear protruding beyond your Determination. A bite of pure Fear, without a mouthful of Determination and Faith, ranks as one of the most repulsive flavors you can create.

You can then season to flavor by adding such ingredients as Joy, Celebration, and Ecstasy (not the drug). I like to sprinkle a bit of Gloat over the top, since that helps subdue the Fear, but this is a personal preference. Too much Gloat can be spicy, and can cause unseemly side-effects, so use this with caution.

Whatever your taste, enjoy your Fear Sandwich!

What about you? Do you have a favorite recipe you would like to share?

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Eric W. Trant is a published author of several short stories and the novels Wink and Steps from WiDo Publishing, out now! See more of Eric's work here: Publications, or order directly from Amazon, or wherever books are sold.

** BE A SUPER-HERO! BE AN ORGAN DONOR! **

Do That Which You Fear the Most

So I'm walking home from dropping off my son this morning. His mom works at an in-home daycare in the neighborhood, and I work from home, and on kind-weathered mornings I put him into the backpack (he's a little over 18mos) and haul him down there on foot.

And I'm walking back thinking about fear.

I think about fear from time to time, because it is one of the greatest measures of a man. (I mean human and include women, don't get your panties in a knot. Geez. Is it that time of the month already? People are so easily offended these days which is way more fun, isn't it!)

You can tell a human's (better?) demeanor by how they react to fear.

Some run and hide. These we call either cowards or survivors depending on whether you are looking out of or into the hiding den.

Some charge at their fears like dumb salmon up the stream into that goddamned bear's mouth. All that work to get your fat ripped out by some grizzly cub. Nice one, karma, very nice, but the next joke's on you, ya bitch.

These second types we call either fools or, well, something else. Usually we call them fools.

See how they failed? we say. See! See what happens when you swim upstream, ya dumb fish! See!

Well, not all of us say that. Some of us stand back and call them heroes. We mourn their passing and admire their bravado. We swim with them next time and face our fears, knowing full well we could at anytime be chomped, flayed, spread on the bank and our heart swallowed beating.

Me? I admire these guys. Sure, I fail. I have lots of failures to report. Heck, I'm in the oil field. I quit my job in semiconductors in 2013 to get into the oil field. Do the math, folks. It's not good math. I missed med-school by half a point of GPA. I'm divorced. I'm short and have small hands. So yeah, I've failed.

I also made it upstream a few times. Missing med school, I created a great career in semiconductors. I remarried a beautiful woman and had two children with her. I published a few novels and shorts, two from a decent publisher, even. I earned respect as an author from friends, family, and enough strangers to measure on both hands and half of one foot. I created a business and established myself in a niche market as a genuine player, albeit a very quiet player as oil prices refuse to rise up (stupid bears!).

The point is this: Do that which you fear the most.

If you fear heights, climb up there and look down. Afraid to try something new for fear of failure, ridicule, mockery or debauchery? Do it anyway. Try it. Fail. Fail often. Fail happy or die dreaming.

Chase out your fears and leave them on the bank with the other dead fish. Swim hard. Slap those bear-cheeks with your fins, and don't forget your teeth. Fight hard, die hard, live hard.

Anyway. Jump in and swim.

How about you? Are you afraid to swim through the bear's mouth? At least I made you a salmon and not a chicken.

 - Eric

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Eric W. Trant is a published author of several short stories and the novels Wink and Steps from WiDo Publishing, out now! See more of Eric's work here: Publications, or order directly from Amazon, or wherever books are sold.

** BE A SUPER-HERO! BE AN ORGAN DONOR! **

What is your ~Why~?

I want you to ask yourself this question: Why am I doing this?

Pick your "this".

For me, I will pick writing. Why do I write? Most writers, when addressed with this question, reach in their back pocket and pull out the Stock Writer's Response to All Questions:

1) What are you writing?
Answer: It's top secret. I'm not allowed to speak of it.

2) Wow, you're a writer. Are you published?
Answer: (Lie) Why yes, yes I am.

3) Where can I get your books?
Answer: Amazon

4) Where do you find the time to write?
Answer: I don't. I make it up as I go.

5) Why do you write, anyway?
Answer: Because I have to.

Now this last one is super-common among writers, but I want you to stop yourself and do me a favor: smack yourself in the forehead. That's right. Smack it good. Make it sting.

Because that's a stupid answer.

You don't "have" to write. You don't have to do anything. Jesus, you make it sound like it's some burden to write, sort of like sex after marriage. "Well, I have to. It's just part of the job."

No, it isn't. It's not part of the job. You don't write because you have to. You write because you ~want~ to.

Figure out what you ~want~ from writing, and maybe you'll be a better writer. Is it money? Is it a career? Is it a little bit of fame, or is this just a hobby for you that will spin and spin and never go anywhere but up and down?

All of those things are fine, but understand ~why~ you are doing whatever it is you are doing. I tell my kids:

Smart people know how to do something. Geniuses understands why. That's the difference.

So try not to just know ~how~ to write, but understand ~why~ you're writing in the first place.

Me, I want to make a career of this. I want to write full-time, and support my family on a sic-six-figure income, maybe seven, and I'll do it not through savvy marketing, but by writing something truly phenomenal that even my writer friends will gawk and and say, Damn, I actually read one of his books, and Eric Trant doesn't suck. Go figure.

That's my goal. That is my ~why~.

What is your why?

 - Eric

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Eric W. Trant is a published author of several short stories and the novels Out of the Great Black Nothing, Wink and  Steps from WiDo Publishing.See more of Eric's work here: Publications, or order directly from Amazon, or wherever books are sold.

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Obstacle Popsicle

You know, I run into this all the time: Obstacles.

Many folks run. Some hide. Others turn around and go home. Me, I tend to curse a little. Stomp around a little. I spin a few circles, flip it off, think about going home, and then either I or my wife talks me out of quitting.

Then, after all that (and it is sort of the way a dog goes to sleep -- three laps, makes no sense, but that's their method), I buckle down and lick it.

I lick it like a popsicle.

Obstacle popsicle. Get it?

- Eric

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Eric W. Trant is a published author of several short stories and the novels Out of the Great Black Nothing and Wink from WiDo Publishing, out now! See more of Eric's work here: Publications, or order directly from Amazon, or wherever books are sold.

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Overcoming Odds

So over the past couple of years, I've been researching heroes. Not the fictional kind -- the actual kind. I re-read Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse Five and finally got around to The Things They Carried. Now, both of those are written by pacifists, so I had to balance that out with some hardcore fighter types, and I read Marcus Luttrell's Lone Survivor (and watched the movie), and Audie Murphy's To Hell and Back. I even read Laura Hillenbrand's Unbroken, about a WWII bomber-sprinter (good book) who was sort of in-between warrior and pacifist. He simply did what needed doing. Hillenbrand wrote Seabiscuit, by the way, and she made a point to mention that in this other book, in a very nice cross-over. I read James Clavell's King Rat (he's the Shogun guy, which I also read). He was a POW in Japan, and Rat is pretty amazing.

And so on.

But of all these books I read, the one that's stuck with me the deepest is Mark Twain's Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc. He considered it his crowning achievement, and his most significant work. It is an amazing book, if you're into that sort of thing, and is shamelessly researched and cross-referenced and accurate. Jeanne D'Arc, as is her proper name. Pronounced in French, it sounds like Shown Dark, which is appropriate for that poor beautiful creature. She fought her fellow countrymen, the church to whom she dedicated her life, and the invading English. She fought her troops, her family, her friends, and the king she crowned. They all watched her burn alive, and even afterward she fought on, death being no match for her, until the Catholic church finally repented and elevated her to Sainthood. God, what a story that girl is. Of all the stories in our verifiable and recent history, there is no other as magnificent as that of Jeanne D'Arc. She never faltered, never wavered, never gave up. Heck, she never even questioned her heroism.

Now consider Audie Murphy. He was refused by the Marines and the Paratroopers. If you saw Captain America, the recent movie, Audie Murphy, the most decorated soldier in WWII, was the size of the Captain BEFORE they juiced him up on steroids. Murph didn't need that extra Marvel / Stan Lee meat -- all he needed was a target and Garand. Well, the Army finally took pity on this poor scrawny wimp and enlisted him. They tried to make him a cook and a clerk. He had none of it, and snuck out on patrol until they gave up trying to stop him and said, Fuck it. Murph, we're going to send you into battle until you're sick of it.

He got plenty sick of it, but he fought all the way through Italy, France, and Germany, leveling up as he went. I challenge you to read his book, and note how cold and determined he was, and compare it to the baby-face little boy he seemed to be. It's frightening.

The dude was frightening.

And he was 135lbs, 5' 6" tall. And a Texan from right here in North Dallas. I had dinner at one of his old houses, before it shut down. And he killed a hell of a lot of men.

Now don't get me started on Luttrell. He's from just north of Houston, where my son and I go hunting and camping. I know those woods, and although I've never wrestled gators, I've water-skied over plenty of them in the brackish waters of the Galveston Bay.

In all these stories, the hero never gives up. They never falter. They never feel sorry for themselves. There is no pity for themselves or for others. They never question their motives, because inside exists an indestructible sense of right-and-wrong, the very core of life-and-death, and to live is win, to die is to win. A true hero (or heroine) can never be beaten. Defeated and killed, yes, but never beaten. Re-read what I said about Jeanne. She kept fighting even after they burned her. She won. Look at Christ. He did the same thing.

Read Luttrell. Read Murphy. Read Unbroken. Read Things and Slaughterhouse, about guys who had no heart for war, but went anyway because it was their duty. Heroes. Write heroes like that.

Write people who do it because it needs doing, even though they ask the cup to be taken from them.

- Eric

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Eric W. Trant is a published author of several short stories and the novels Out of the Great Black Nothing and Wink from WiDo Publishing, out now! See more of Eric's work here: Publications, or order directly from Amazon, or wherever books are sold.

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Two Year Heart Birthday and Angelversary

So it's been two years since we lost our boy, and in some way gained a daughter. May 22, 2012, is the day we rode the elevator down to the O.R. and watched them wheel away an eighteen month old boy who looked like me but with red hair, had that hot temper of his mother's, my and his brother's eyes, and his sister's lips and all of us kludged into this tiny little body.

They declared him brain-dead on the 20th, if I recall correctly, which I may not. In any case we'd been in the hospital a couple of days already, arrived Friday, May 18, 2012 just before 10:00 P.M. That was after the transfer from a local hospital to Children's in downtown Dallas. They thought about life-flighting him because they weren't sure he'd make it, but the chopper pilot was out of flight hours. I don't know how that works, but they transported him and his momma in the ambulance, blowing through the lights and screaming. After a while, I followed with the car, the bags, all that shit that's nothing more than ~stuff~ because everything I had was in that ambulance.

I had enough piece (peace? peas? pees? shit. whatever.) of mind to stop and grab some drinks at a 7-11 along the way. I got beef jerky, snack supplies, Cokes for Momma and Red Bull for me and Dr. Pepper and Sprite for the kids. I knew what was coming and maybe that was my way of delaying my arrival at the front lines for this coming battle.

See, he'd had a seizure that grew progressively worse over the course of two hours. Imagine some invisible guy shocking your eighteen-month-old baby boy every few minutes. It was like that. At that first hospital, he seemed to be doing okay, stabilized, and we were all standing outside his room crying but still hopeful. You heard that bleep-bleep of his heart monitor, and there was this nurse in there tending to him when that bleep turned into one long tune. No warning, just bleep-bleep, bleep-bleeeeeeeeeeeeeeep. Like that. It wasn't like in the movies, or maybe it was. The nurse was a dude hovering over Dastan, and he yelled, SHIT! I heard something crash because I think he knocked over his tool tray. Maybe he was the blood tech drawing blood. I don't know, but he yelled, knocked over something, and I mean about a dozen nurses seemed to drop from the ceiling. I'd swear some of them came over the top of that nurse station, fuck the door, slid into the room, all of them screaming for whatever it is they scream for, chaos, and Mandy and Brianna and I were standing right outside the room.

Mandy's knees gave out. I remember that because it was like someone had slugged her. She took Bri with her and they huddled outside the door wailing, mostly one long, Nooooo, interrupted by little chirping No-no-no. They were about six feet and seven thousand miles away from me. I was frozen, watching through that doorway. You know those dreams, right? Not a dream this time. I was paralyzed, and someone dragged away Amanda and Brianna, took them to the waiting room, and nurses were scrambling in there and yelling for stuff and I was at the nurse's station looking into the room, watching and recording.

They were doing CPR on him. They use two fingers for someone that little, with one hand on top of the other pressing down. They took turns every five minutes or so. Another nurse was pumping air from the top, squeezing that bag thing. They got him stabilized, but they needed to insert a breathing tube because he wasn't breathing on his own. Turns out, we'd already seen his last breath but didn't know it at the time.

He turned blue. You hear about that, but unless you've seen it in real-life, you don't fully appreciate it. His face and chest looked like a blue marble countertop. His veins popped out, and the charge nurse was standing beside me, and I looked at her and said, You know what we're seeing, right? Don't you? You know what's happening?

She just nodded.

His heart got going, bleep-bleep, but it flat-lined again when they inserted the tube. They were ready this time with curses and tools. I heard lots of cursing that night. They wanted that baby to live. We all did. He turned blue again, more two-finger heart pumps, but now at least he had a breathing tube. Stabilized. Red cheeks. He looked like a normal baby boy, healthy, no scrapes, no cuts, no bruises, just a tube in his nose with a full belly. Down for the night as usual.

After they transported him to Children's, to the big hospital, we cycled through a couple of nurses, but one of them really stuck with me. Her name was Heather. I thought that was funny, because the midwife who brought Daz into the world was named Heather, and the dear friend who watched his brother as an infant was named Heather. I think there are probably a lot of angels with that name.

Now comes that stretch of time in-between, where you wait, you pray, you cling to hope, and you eventually realize what's happening. We all had our moments. Mine was after they did one of the brain-dead tests. They swabbed his eye with a Q-tip, looked for dilation, some sort of response, among other tests that we probably should not have watched. But I am a watcher, and I wanted to see. His left eye was huge. His right eye was normal. That meant a pinched optical nerve, which meant a swelling brain, which meant things I didn't want to admit. I curled up after that in this empty room next door, under a hospital blanket, and I wailed. I knew my family needed me, but I'm not the hero I thought I was. This broke me. It humbled me. All those fantasies we as men and we as humans have of flying in with our cape flapping, armor shining, strong, bold, wise and brilliant, those were all dashed against the floor under that blanket. I was none of those things because I couldn't even stand. Hell, I could barely breathe.

Brianna said it best: He's just a baby.

Bri kept saying that over and over. It was hard to make it click, because he looked just fine, and he'd been fine a few days before, no blood, no nothing, just a little shaking and some buggy-eyes, then his heart stops a couple of times and he turns blue. But he gets his color back. No big deal.

Con was quiet. He said he'd never felt anything this painful. He's said that a few times over these past two years, and at the Children's Hospital memorial ceremony (which they host for all those who lost children), Con cried at the table.

Mandy was like me, in shock, trying to make decisions with a used-up brain, nothing but mashed potatoes.

She and I were synchronous in those moments. You see in the movies where one of the spouses, usually the wife, breaks down and attacks the husband, blames him, makes a scene and all that jazz. That never happened. Mandy was beside me beside her beside Connor and Brianna beside all our friends and family. There was a unity, because that's what this boy seemed to be made of. That was his stuff, the fluff inside the teddy bear. He's a glue that bonds people.

There was no discussion about whether to donate his organs. She and I made mention of it, almost casually, something you never think of or speak of.

We should donate his organs. That was one of us. A statement and not a question because there was no question.

Yeah, we should. That was the other. Let me get the nurse.

It was that simple. We got the nurse and we signed the papers, and on May 21, 2012, they took over Dastan's care and hospital bills. He was no longer ours, but we were welcome to stay.

Do families stay? That was what we asked them.

Some do. That was their response. Some don't.

We stayed. He'd lost his ability to regulate his body temperature by then, and they had these balloon-bags around him filled with warm air. His brain had completely ceased to function, even though he looked just fine, a little pale maybe, with Band-Aids on his heels where they'd been sticking him, on his arms and legs and tape on his chest and cheeks and this tube in his throat. But other than that, he looked ~fine~. The nurses even combed his hair, that red hair, and made him look like a little boy having a bad day and nothing worse.

Mandy and I slept on the bed that night, curled like a couple of cats. She'd been sleeping with him already, but this was my first and only night to stay in the bed. I was waiting for him to come home, I guess, and sleep in our bed. Sleeping up there with him seemed like I was admitting some sort of defeat. I had his feet, Amanda had his head, a little doll-boy whose blood was being pumped into one arm and out the other, literally, because they had to draw so much for the transplant tests.

I got a pinched nerve that night, from the way I slept, because I didn't move. It took about six months to heal.

On May 22, 2012, they came to wheel him away.

You can walk down with us, one of them said. They said that because Mandy and I were stuck to his bedside.

So we walked him out. We rode the elevator down or up or wherever it went. We got out. We went through some doors, and all the doctors and nurses were in their operating gear. We came to a set of double doors.

This is it, one of them said.

They gave us a minute, but not too many minutes. Time was not ours anymore, because there was a beautiful baby bird on the other side of those doors, barely two-and-a-half months old, waiting on Dastan's heart. There was a sixty-nine-year-old woman waiting on his kidneys. Someone else was waiting on his liver.

Okay, one of them said.

Then they wheeled him through the doors and turned to the right. The doors closed, and we were standing in a hallway that was nothing more than a hospital hallway, like any one of a thousand hallways.

I sat for a little while outside those doors. Honestly, I wasn't sure I'd be able to dislodge myself. I knew Mandy needed me because she was breaking down, too, and I knew the kids needed me, but I had nothing left. So I sat.

At some point I got up, and God bless my wife because she showed strength I do not possess. You wonder of the two of us who is stronger. It is Mandy. Hands-down she proved it.

She spoke at the funeral, spoke about organ donation, how important it is even for children. She spoke to the media, to anyone who would listen, and I stood behind her mute. After she delivered Dastan's eulogy, she moved aside and I stepped up to the microphone, looked out at the room full of people, standing-room only, full of family I'd forgotten I had. I nodded. I was silent. After a while I moved with Mandy back to our seat, and afterward, after it was finished and we were alone in the sanctuary, Mandy and Brianna and Connor and I stood over Dastan, and we admired how perfect he still looked, how well they'd dressed him, all the stuffed animals and flowers around him. We closed the casket and opened a new and magical door on our lives.

He's still with us. I feel him poke me at night sometimes. So does Mandy. Those first few weeks were full of dreams that defy reality, more real than reality, all of them wondrous and hopeful and beautiful. Vivid. I feel him and so do we all.

I feel him most when I see Aubrie, the little girl with his heart. I think how old he would be, and how he would fit into this family, and I see Aubrie and know he's exactly where he wanted to be, where he was meant to be.

He was that little streaking star. Someone made a wish, and he made the wish come true, because that was the stuff he was made of.

Happy Angelversary, Dastan. Happy Heart Birthday, Aubrie.

Aubrie

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Dastan

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- Eric

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Eric W. Trant is a published author of several short stories and the novels Out of the Great Black Nothing and Wink from WiDo Publishing, out now! See more of Eric's work here: Publications, or order directly from Amazon, or wherever books are sold.

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They don't know anything

Nobody in this industry knows anything. They all tell you they're experts in this or that, they know what works, what doesn't work, what will be a hit and what won't, but they're all just living their own movie. Once you realize nobody knows anything, you can focus on your art and maybe make a difference.

That is a horribly paraphrased quote from Matt Nathanson, a singer-songwriter, that I heard on the radio yesterday and got to thinking, Yeah, that's what writing is like, too.

You have all these publishers, and agents, and writers and bloggers and experts, all of them telling you what does and does not work. Yet I find exception after exception to every last one of these assumptions.

I look at my own process and apply this to myself. I don't know anything. Make that statement about your process and see what happens. Try it with your diet, your job, your writing, your marriage, and see what happens.

Good things, I bet. Good advice. Thanks, Matt!



- Eric

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Eric W. Trant is a published author of several short stories and the novels Out of the Great Black Nothing and Wink from WiDo Publishing, out now! See more of Eric's work here: Publications, or order directly from Amazon, or wherever books are sold.

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Things that sound dirty, but aren't

Just for fun, you know how some things sound dirty but aren't? Well, here are some examples.

Kum & Go. It's a gas station. (from their website)

Here's a picture of a tall skinny blonde with room for cream, to go. Who doesn't want one of these! (from their website)

How about a sea cucumber. I think this one's played out, but it's still worth mentioning. I couldn't find any youtube vids that were appropriate, so feel free to look it up yourself.

You ever thought about the term Hump Day? Meatball? Blow pop? Beef jerky?

I can think of at lease one good reason not to put a Sit-n-Spin in my rear-entry.

How'd you like to be a coxswain? (from Wiki)

What if you caught a homo erectus in your bathroom jiggling his ballcock. You might say to him, Be gentle! You'll break it!

He might jiggle it so hard he falls and breaks his coccyx.

Let's imagine the guy is an animal lover, and he has for pets a titmouse and a shih tzu.


- Eric

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Eric W. Trant is a published author of several short stories and the novels Out of the Great Black Nothing and Wink from WiDo Publishing, out now! See more of Eric's work here: Publications, or order directly from Amazon, or wherever books are sold.

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A Celebration of Life

So we're at this funeral. Not just ~a~ funeral, but one for a close friend. We haven't been friends for hundreds of years, but we've been dear friends, we've been near friends, we've been there-for-you-friends.

Anyway, it's a big funeral, lots of folks and oddly enough, not a lot of tears. I mean, there were tears, but it wasn't a sob-fest like you might be used to. I saw tons of smiles, shaking hands, hugs, heard laughter and chuckles, and maybe some of that was because we brought our baby boy Finn with us. He's six weeks old. Little guy. He was hard to hold because everyone wanted to hold him. Finn was good, too. He didn't cry.

You see, not even the baby cried.

Now, it wasn't for lack of sorrow that this was not the usual sob-fest. It was because of who we were celebrating. And there's a word I want you to remember -- ~celebration~.

This was less of a funeral and more of a celebration. There was no need for anyone to spin it that way, nor did he have to insist people remember him fondly or with a smile. It was a simple extension of his personality, a gentle man, a wise man, a man of mistakes who learned from those mistakes and blamed only himself when he faulted, all the while crediting his success to those around him.

So the Father, or Preacher, or Reverend, I'm not sure what you call him -- he's Episcopalian and I'm lucky to spell that word without the spell-checker (a minor miracle I spelled it correctly!), and anyway I don't know what they call the church leader. I'll just call him the Father, for sake of argument, and because I like the sound of it.

Anyway, the Father gets up and he knows the man, and he says some nice words about him, and then four people line up for the eulogy.

Yep, you read that right. Four people. Have you ever been to a funeral -- nay sayeth I, a ~celebration~ of life -- that required four people to speak? First a childhood friend. Then a son. Then a granddaughter. Then another granddaughter. All of them shared joyous moments, and it's a credit to the man that his children and his children's children spoke so eloquently, so plainly, so heartfeltedly and magnificently that you cannot help but see his influence on their hearts.

The friend goes first, and she relates his childhood, and apparently he never quite grew up. Of course we already knew that, but it was nice to have validation.

Then the son. Now his son is an atheist. The man himself was a staunch Christian, albeit a Christian scientist and engineer, a nuclear physicist for all intents and purposes. So his son apologizes for not being a man of faith, or a believer I think is how he put it. He gets up and says, and I paraphrase, horribly, so please excuse me, he says, I'm not a believer, but I'll do my best.

He then goes on about particles and the Cosmos, and he wraps it up by saying, I'm not a believer, but I really like this quote, so let me read it to you.

Recognize that the very molecules that make up your body, the atoms that construct the molecules, are traceable to the crucibles that were once the centers of high mass stars that exploded their chemically rich guts into the galaxy, enriching pristine gas clouds with the chemistry of life. So that we are all connected to each other biologically, to the earth chemically and to the rest of the universe atomically. That’s kinda cool! That makes me smile and I actually feel quite large at the end of that. It’s not that we are better than the universe, we are part of the universe. We are in the universe and the universe is in us.

― Neil deGrasse Tyson

Holy crap, right! What a perfect quote for a Christian scientist.

And if that doesn't sound like God at work I don't know what to tell you. We are all connected, and we are in God and God is in us. I bastardize the poor guy's quote for my own purposes because that's how I roll.

Now the first granddaughter gets up and she goes on about how her Cap -- that's what they call him, Cap, because he was a Navy Captain -- always went on about how important math and science are. You see why that Tyson quote was so perfect, yes?

The second granddaughter shuts down the room with her speech. It was so moving and perfect that you felt the room swell with her words. She's young, barely a teenager, but those words were steeped in wisdom and understanding beyond what most people achieve in a lifetime. Everyone in the room thought the same thing I thought -- she gets it from him. He was like that, too.

She sits down and the other granddaughter and the son and the friend sit down, and the Father comes back to the front, claps his hands, smiles, and says, paraphrased horribly, I want to thank you for those words. And for the atheist, I personally believe this church was built to be filled with atheists.

We all laugh. Laughter at a funeral. You see what I mean? A celebration of life.

The whole day was like that, as was his life, as will be his afterlife and the lingering lives he touched, all of them filled with a little more laughter and a bigger smile and wiser words and maybe a little extra math and science, all of which I believe we could use a bit more of.

He will be missed and remembered fondly, and above all he will be celebrated.

Celebrate in Peace, John Marshall.

- Eric

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Eric W. Trant is a published author of several short stories and the novels Out of the Great Black Nothing and Wink from WiDo Publishing, out now! See more of Eric's work here: Publications, or order directly from Amazon, or wherever books are sold.

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Who (author) would you meet, if you could?

So I had this great interview today on Words by Webb: http://jodiwebb.com/interviews/5ws-with-eric-trant/, in which Jodi asked me her 5Ws.

Here is the first:

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WHO
If you could meet any author, who would you like to meet? Why them and what would you say?

I would meet Ray Bradbury. We would meet not in life but in some other dimension on the planet Mars, in his bionical and maniacal House of Usher II remix with the robots serving us and the great ape destroying our guests while everyone laughs. Something Wicked would Come our Way, and we would ponder how the Martians used to look and whether the Earth would blow up and if anyone would even notice, and if they did notice, would they care. I would walk with him on the wettest, driest, farthest planets, and we would launch into space while we Sang the Body Electric and drew the Illustrated Man on the inside of our visors. I cannot claim to have read or even discovered all of his works, but we would discuss every one, and he might ask me about mine and not laugh.

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Just wanted to share that, in case anyone was wondering. WHO WOULD YOU MEET? If it's Vonnegut or Heinlein or Azimov or Clarke or one of similar status, let me know so I can go with you.


- Eric

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Eric W. Trant is a published author of several short stories and the novels Out of the Great Black Nothing and Wink from WiDo Publishing, out now! See more of Eric's work here: Publications, or order directly from Amazon, or wherever books are sold.

** BE A SUPER-HERO! BE AN ORGAN DONOR! **

Some of my other blog stops

So I really have been busy a-blogging lately, just not around here. Look below for some articles I wrote thanks to WoW (Women on Writing), email: blogtour@wow-womenonwriting.com.

Friday, July 26 @ All Things Audry

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Don’t miss today’s win/win stop for Eric Trant and his new thriller Wink (#WINK)! Not only is it your chance to win your own copy of Wink, but join Eric to find out “How Writing Heals”.
http://allthingsaudry.blogspot.com/

Tuesday, July 30 @ A Writer’s Life

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Talk about interesting! Join Eric Trant as he discusses “How Small Town Living Made Me a More Interesting Writer” and Win a copy of Eric’s new thriller, Wink (#WINK)!
http://carolineclemmons.blogspot.com/

Thursday, August 1 @ Writing is Easy

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Find out why Eric says caution should be taken when branding yourself, and win your own copy of his fabulous new thriller Wink (#WINK).
http://c-c-hall.com/

Friday August 2 @ CMash Reads

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Eric Trant talks about being your authentic self with today's guest post "Why You Should Be Yourself in Writing and Marketing" stop by CMash Reads for this exciting discussion and your chance to win a copy of Wink (#WINK) Print-US/Canada residents OR EBook-open to all.
www.cmashlovestoread.com

Saturday, August 3 @ Book Worm

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Today is your chance to win a copy of Wink by Eric Trant (#WINK) and read his fascinating guest post: "Can a Faith-Based Person Write Supernatural Fantasy?"
http://bookworm66.wordpress.com/

Monday, August 5 @ Books I Think You Should Read

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Don't miss your chance to win a copy of this great thriller and read Elizabeth Parker's review of Wink (#WINK) by Eric W. Trant.
http://booksithinkyoushouldread.blogspot.com/

Tuesday, August 6 @ Renee's Pages

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Win a copy of the new thriller, Wink (#WINK) by Eric Trant and hear his thoughts on “Author Intrusion: Good or Bad?”
http://www.reneespages.blogspot.com

Wednesday, August 7 @ World of My Imagination

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Win your very own copy of Wink (#WINK) by Eric W. Trant and see what Nicole thought after reading this fabulous thriller set in a rural Gulf Coast town.
http://theworldofmyimagination.blogspot.com/



- Eric

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Eric W. Trant is a published author of several short stories and the novels Out of the Great Black Nothing and Wink from WiDo Publishing, out now! See more of Eric's work here: Publications, or order directly from Amazon, or wherever books are sold.

** BE A SUPER-HERO! BE AN ORGAN DONOR! **

Breaking the Mold for Men and Women in Writing

So the blog tour kicked off Wednesday with an interview at The Muffin. Thursday I head over to Book Flame to discuss breaking the molds for men and women in literature.

Wednesday, July 24 @ The Muffin

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Don’t miss the exciting thriller Wink by Eric W. Trant. Wink’s WOW! Blog Tour begins with an author interview and a give-away!
http://muffin.wow-womenonwriting.com/

Thursday, July 25 @ Book Flame

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Break the mold and win with today’s stop at Book Flame where you’ll have a chance to win a copy of the new thriller, Wink (#WINK) and hear from Eric Trant with his guest post: “Breaking the Molds for Men and Women in Literature”.
http://bookflame.blogspot.com/


- Eric

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Eric W. Trant is a published author of several short stories and the novels Out of the Great Black Nothing and Wink from WiDo Publishing, out now! See more of Eric's work here: Publications, or order directly from Amazon, or wherever books are sold.

** BE A SUPER-HERO! BE AN ORGAN DONOR! **

WoW! Women on Writing Blog Tour

Thanks to Crystal Otto over at WoW! Women on Writing for putting together a blog tour for me.

WINK WoW! Tour

If you need someone to help organize an online book tour, ask Crystal!




- Eric

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Eric W. Trant is a published author of several short stories and the novels Out of the Great Black Nothing and Wink from WiDo Publishing, out now! See more of Eric's work here: Publications, or order directly from Amazon, or wherever books are sold.

** BE A SUPER-HERO! BE AN ORGAN DONOR! **

The Milky Way, Einstein, Two Tweener-Teens, an Old Man, Aristotle, and Other Meanderings

The Milky Way is still up there. I have visual confirmation, along with second-hand verification from several other people. Good to know it's still there, because I haven't seen it in quite some time.

I went to Garner this past week with my family. That's Garner State Park in the Texas Hill Country outside of San Antonio. The nights were so clear I could see all the way to the edge of the universe like I did when I was a kid in East Texas. There were the stars, the constellations, and for a while I thought it was a cloud bank way up high and clear.

Then it hit me. That's the Milky Way! Holy crap it's been a while since I saw that thing. See, I've been in the city since I was twelve years old. I moved to a small town, but it was outside of Houston toward Beaumont, and all those refinery lights bled out the Milky Way. You can see the stars, but not that cluster-cloud so deep in space that you can feel it tugging at you.

I saw it and stared at it for a while, and then I called the kids over and we all looked up at it. Funny what happened next. There was this long moment of silence after I explained what it was, and then my daughter, 13, says, So I wonder if we can see Dastan's star.

I said, Nope. His star is not visible with the naked eye.

Silence. Then she said, I bet if all the stars were visible, the whole sky would be one big star.

Probably.

Then she explained how right and left were relative to the way you were standing, and she turned and showed me the MW was now on her left, turned, now on her right, but it was always in front of me and to the right of her brother.

I said, Now you understand Einstein's Theory of Relativity. Same thing, only he uses a lot more math to make that simple point.

I wasn't trying to be smart, she said.

You don't have to. This is what happens when you get outside the city and de-hypnotize yourself from all the advertising and consumerism and look up and see the universe. You feel it, don't you.

It's like there are strings everywhere. That was my son who said that.

What do you mean?

I mean it's like you can feel the stars tugging at you. Like there are strings.

That's what scientists used to think. They thought there was this thing called Aether that everything flows through. It wasn't until Einstein chunked that theory and developed relativity that they abandoned the Aether. Even so, Einstein and his contemporaries believed the Aether would probably come back into play later, after we evolved better theories. That's the string you're talking about.

Hmm. I wasn't trying to be smart, he said.

It's the Milky Way. It does that to you.

So we talked about Dastan, and who else we wanted to see when we died, and that got us onto the subject of God, and at that point we had to sit. So the three of us sat on a parking curb-stop and kept looking up. I saw a shooting star but they missed it. They missed the other one I saw later, too. Maybe I was seeing things.

Why don't some people believe in God? my daughter asked.

There are only two types of people in this world. It has nothing to do with belief. There are only those who realize God, and those who do not. It's like discussing whether a fire is hot or cold, but you never touch it.

Like with a tub of water, she said. Like if you never get in, you never know if it's hot or cold.

Like that. You have to experience God. You feel him, don't you?

Yeah, she said.

Yeah, my son said.

But why don't people believe when you tell them? my daughter said.

Well, it's like explaining a rainbow to a clam. They don't get it.

You think every planet has its own God? That was my son again.

What do you mean?

Like, we have our God here, but way out there is another God, and we all see something different. Like different rainbows. Like, do they see the same red we see?

That's actually a common philosophical argument. They wonder if your red is my yellow, and her blue is your green, and so on. We don't even know if we see each other the same, like does my human look like your dog, and so on. Some people believe there is either one universal consciousness, or maybe patches of consciousness in the universe. That we all seem to see the same red when we see red implies a common consciousness.

So we all have the same God.

Right. And if there is other life, which there is bound to be, we may not even be able to see each other. We'd pass by and never even know we'd passed.

Like one is a clam and the other is a rainbow. We'd have no common God and would never see each other.

Right. You know we have five senses. You know there is only one that is common to every known living creature.

Sight? My son said. Then he thought about the clams and ran through his senses with his sister. They touched their noses, tongues, ears, eyes, and finally my son said, TOUCH!

It was a eureka moment for him, and I said, Aristotle reached that same conclusion.

I wasn't trying to be smart.

It's not you. It's the Milky Way. Keep looking up. Even trees have touch. They feel gravity and the sunlight and know when it's cold and time to drop their leaves.

They like water, my daughter said.

Yep. Touch is the common link between life. Feeling. What you feel right now looking up is life. Can you feel the Milky Way?

Well. Can you?


- Eric

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Eric W. Trant is a published author of several short stories and the novels Out of the Great Black Nothing and Wink from WiDo Publishing, out now! See more of Eric's work here: Publications, or order directly from Amazon, or wherever books are sold.

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