Failure is quite an acceptable option.

NEWSFLASH! I did not finish my novel this summer, nor will I.

 But, I made a lot of progress on it! I even know how I am going to finish it, finally. I did a lot of editing and re-plotting and made some interesting discoveries along the way-- isn't it funny how these stories find a way of writing themselves, taking you down paths you never knew you would walk? I will finish it eventually, and it was not from lack of wanting to finish or writer's block.

The real reason I did not finish my novel is simple: I got a teaching job.

When I first decided I was going to finish and epublish my novel I was in a dark place. My job was winding down and the pressure of unemployment was weighing heavily. I was not going to fall into another bout of clinical depression though-- I was going to take all that trauma and turn it into something positive. I was not going to twist myself into the emotional wreck that was so characteristically me. I was going to tread this sea of uncertainty with grace and dignity. Joblessness seemed like an unavoidable obstacle, and applying to teaching jobs seemed more like a duty and a formality. I sent out packets to schools in every direction, and for months I heard nothing. Resigning myself to the fact I would just have to find something to fill time, and more importantly my checking account, in the fall, I instead saw this an a wonderful opportunity to focus on rediscovering my creative, imaginative self. If I did not have a teaching job I find some temporary, bullshit job, and just focus on writing, right? At least if I had a terrible job, for the first time, it would not feel like it might be my fate forever. I had options now-- I was educated and certified, and icing on the cake, slightly experienced. And, it would not be a terrible job compounded by full time schooling. That was almost a new experience for me to think that even if I spent all day at a crappy, thankless job, I could at least come home an decompress instead of annotating the readings and typing papers. The whole plan seemed brilliant!

For so very long, I had denied what is clearly an inherent side of myself. I am always writing, whether the words actually hit paper or blink into existence on a Word document, or not. Not a single day goes by that I don't catalog a name, a place, an experience, a color, an event, a word, a song, a feeling into my head for later use. What I believe makes me a writer, prevents me from not being a writer, is my incessant observation. I take in everything, and for the most part I remember it. I love words, and I love forming them into feelings and expressions. It makes me whole. It's how I dissect and comprehend the world-- by breaking into down into digestible pieces and explaining my impression of it through words. The fact that it can be interpreted and appreciated by any other sentient being is extraordinary to me, because it almost feels like I am the only person for whom I am writing.

So, I got serious about writing. I have been studying and honing this craft for so long, now I was going to actualize it. I made a weekly schedule and I stuck to it. I wrote in shifts every single day. I fixed old, junky, terrible passages and I wrote new, astonishing pieces. I woke up early, stayed up late. I found inspiration in unknown places. I went once a week to my favorite coffee shop, pressing pen to paper, sipping coffee and tea, and people watching.

It was a glorious month. And, it would have continued, and I might even have finished my book if something happened that I had convinced myself was an impossibility.

After months of silence, I got a phone call about an interview.

Then, I got two more.

Three interviews in five days totally through off my schedule.

Then, I got another phone call offering me a job.

Suddenly, the objectives of my entire summer shifted. Now I had to think about planning for classes, preparing my room, buying supplies, and most importantly, expanding my teacher wardrobe! How would these new kids understand my spunky, quirky nerdliness if I did not express it through adorable plaid dresses with tights and polka dot cardigans! There was no time!

Next week starts my tenure at Beardstown which I hope will be both long and satisfying. I don't even feel like a failure about not finishing, because I feel like I am just trading one delayed success for another. Either way, one of my dreams would have been deferred-- whether it was furthering my teaching career or starting my writing career.

I know that eventually I will accomplish both-- I am to stubborn not too.

And, just when I wasn't looking, back in the dark slithered.

Right now, I am low.

I am dark and fragile and anxious... and low.

How did this happen? I had a remarkable day going on an adventure with my dad. Something it has been far too long since I did. I came home from our motorcycle road trip excited and happy. But, somewhere around nine o'clock, it hit like I broke inside.

I burst out into tears over the silliest thing, and even why I was sobbing I was asking myself why am I doing this? How did I get to this point? Where did my happy from earlier scatter?

Then I opened my work email for the first time in a week-- I am on break, I am entitled to check out. An angry parent letter just set me off, and I haven't been able to keep it together since.

Something broke, and I don't know why or how.

This is the first time since I got my dream job that I have even felt remotely depressed. That is the ultimate happy I have ever experienced. At the moment I got my first teaching job, at a school with all the perks I could ever hope for and a class schedule that was my ideal, I was positively jubilant. Things shouldn't be like this anymore, at least not without provocation.

In the back of my head, I think I felt this building. Break was approaching and I felt the burn just like every other teacher and every student, so I know that it is not just work stress. Last week, when I said I check out, I meant that literally. I just stayed in my house and did nothing. Mostly, because I couldn't find the motivation to do much more than get up out of bed to move to the couch or to the computer.  Then I had a burst mid-week and cleaned the ENTIRE house. Then, I lost all motivation, period. I have taken three days to grade one set of tests when I was knocking out assignments to be graded in pairs daily.

The urge to create struck, and I wanted to write so badly! I got two pages of writing on my novel done, and I was extremely happy with them, and then... it was gone again. Nothing was there! I don't even have writers block-- I know exactly what I want to write. I know the next thing I need to do, and where to go from there. I just can't physically accomplish the task of getting the words onto paper. It's like my imagination has been kidnapped and held for ransom.

Why did this have to happen now?

I guess, at least I still have the majority of the week to find whatever I need to fix this funk. But, I have got to get my ass in gear because I have evals on the 22nd.

Right now though, my little world feels small and bleak, and I fucking hate this shit. If achieving the paramount of my ambition is not enough to suffocate and wither the darkness, where can I possibly go from here?

Fuck you, Stephanie Meyer. This is all your fault.

I have been going to my writer's group on Saturday mornings for about a month now. I look froward to it every week. When a few of the group members flake, it disappoints me because I take this seriously. I'm a hobbyist when it comes to writing. I have no published works. What gives me the right of honoring myself with the title of writer? What have I done to deserve it? Going to group makes me feel like I'm working towards being a writer-- a serious writer, with goals and ambition, who wants to hone the craft and not just slap words down on paper and proclaim it's a novel.

In my opinion, I consider my book a Science Fiction book, because I try and bring elements of actual science into it. People aren't immortal because of magic or supernatural reasons. There are no undead, no curses, no people who morph into animals. I try to explain immortality through a scientific means, with present day scientific theories. Things I have read about and learned from documentaries on aging and longevity for humans. But, because it has to do with immortality, it's going to be lumped into the dreaded genre of "Supernatural", and eventually, be lumped with every other bandwagon jumping teen novel.

Today, one of the members, who I respect the opinions of because they work as a professor of this craft, was critiquing my exercise for this week. I knew it was going to be severe. He does this as a career-- it's his job to dissect a piece of writing down to the bones and scatter the entrails across the paper for inspection. He pointed out all the mechanical failings, but nothing really about the imagery, or characters, or a lot of the literary elements that make a story compelling. I guess that is what I am looking for from the group. Mechanics can always be tweaked-- otherwise, Editors would be unemployed. I want to know whether I can write something worth reading? Does it capture humanities best and worst qualities? Is it allegorical? Does it have literary themes like redemption, perseverance in the face of great adversity, finding a family to call your own, revenge, or a journey of discovery and mystery? Will it make you question things like morality, or what is truly right and truly wrong, or what vindicates blurring those lines?

To me, without those things, the best mechanical writer in the world would write a shitty story. Sure, they may have great language and grammar, but is that story worth reading? I want my story to be about consequences. About how we as humans treat each other. About the lines that divide us. But, it seems like all people see when they read it is word choice and contraction usage, or [insert any mechanical problem here].

Anyway, after it was thoroughly murdered with read lines and notes, I defended what I could. He was right. I will give him that. He's a COM teacher, and I'm not saying I can't improve mechanics... but that is not what really upset me. I asked him later about going to the Thursday night Writer's Workshop at the Pharmacy. I told him I was hesitant because of my genre. I don't want people to think it is some supernatural, flash in the pan novel...

His response, "Well, that's kind of what it is."

Ouch. Excuse me a second while I pull your fiery, literary sword from my heart, professor. Really? Is that all people are going to see? Why can't anyone read between the lines anymore?

On Wednesday I watched a documentary called Trek Nation about Eugene Roddenberry, Jr., and his quest to understand the life and work of his father. In the show, there was this quote:

"Science fiction, today, is one of the last places a philosopher can operate." -Gene Roddenberry

I really put a lot of thought into this universe. The entire reason I even began writing this story was to take and idea I had living in my brain for years, and prove that Stephanie Meyer was a fucking hack. And, now, because of her, I'm typecast and stereotyped. Like Randall Graves, I'm taking this genre back. My story isn't supposed to be something everybody wants to read, but I aim to make it something everybody should read. It isn't just a bunch of shallow, white, privileged teenagers running around dealing with like, this totally hard life stuff ,plus superpowers. My characters are all adults. Hell, half of them have been adults for around a century. There is one teenage kid in the whole damn story, and she is there solely as a person for Max to mentor. A way of showing that she has grown as a character, and has life lessons to offer now that she has finally gotten over herself. In fact, Dare, my teenage character is based on some of the students I have met at observation. She's supposed to represent a lost generation underprivileged kids people overlook and dismiss based solely from first impression. She's struggling to overcome the limitations life is trying to set for her. Drew, on top of dealing with family betrayal, is gay. While not the main issue his character is dealing with, he has to deal with the prejudices that come along with being an outed man. Violetta is my Lizzie Bennett archetype- the educated woman when woman should not be clever, they should be pretty and quiet. She's my feminist who questions society and her place as a woman. Max's dad, Gabe, was imprisoned on a deserted island for almost twenty years, and must deal with merging into a digital, fast paced, unfamiliar world. The entire group lives off the grid to avoid detection-- a lifestyle that makes you question our dependence on convenience shopping, electronics, and a myriad of other things that we take for granted as comforts we have come to expect. Not to mention all the atheist propaganda I not so subtly throw in there. And questions that arise from the motivations of the characters. Are their horrible acts justified when you understand their true motivation? The entire idea that death is a limitation that can be overcome with enough money puts the whole idea of Capitalism into perspective.

It's dark, and scary, and meant to put our world in perspective. It's not written for teenage girls to read, and make T-Shirt marked "Team Finn" or "Team Ridley". It's for adults, or in rare cases, though few and far between despite the fact I know these kids exist, teenagers mature enough to get it. It is supposed to make you feel a little unnerved. Make you rethink the way you look at things. These characters are extremely flawed. Nothing happens to them because they are popular, or pretty, or smart. They're fates are the result of a genetic lottery. You're either normal and you die, born without a soul which will allow you to live forever, or born with a soul and, Surprise!, a super power and immortality thanks to a genetic mutation. But, superpowers and immortality aren't all great. Being an empath turns Max into a selfish, alcoholic. Having the power to remove a person's soul turns Finn into a smug assassin who doesn't question the ability to choose who lives forever and who dies. Being immortal turns Dethridge into a psychopath with delusions of grandeur, stemming from his desire to make his human wife wife immortal. Which brings me to the greatest question of all-- if you don't die, does that even make you a human being anymore, or something greater, more evolved? Is a life that never ends worth living?

Granted, I am making a big fucking deal over one guy who read one excerpt of my story. Who knows how he would feel about the big picture? I can't say. But after some bitching to Craig, who I thank for letting me vent, I realized that I'm losing my own perspective. Who am I writing this for, really? Is this my manifesto of sorts? Is writing a novel my own way of combining three of my loves-- science fiction, history, and social commentary? Is it a window into the world I grew up, and the world I live in now? Or is it about pleasing people? I will never write a novel every person in the world loves. I have no illusions about that. But, if I ever get published and walk into Barnes and Nobles, and see my book sitting the recently created "Teen Paranormal" shelf, I may swallow a bottle of pills.

I'm not claiming to be some undiscovered, unappreciated Mark Twain or anything. It just pisses me off how quickly people are prepared to put everything in neat, labeled boxes. Sure, my story is about people who are immortal and have super powers. But, Star Trek was about a group of space travelers. Did that make it any less noteworthy? The network cancelled it. They didn't want a show that made you think, they wanted a show with explosions, creatures of the week, and fist fights. It was referred to as a western in space. But, the fans got the message. They read between the lines. They related to characters, some even found reasons to live in this silly little science fiction show. And, now Gene Roddenberry is a science fiction titan. He used that genre to open people's eyes to the world around them-- expose prejudice, injustice, and ignorance. That is all I want to do. Leave some impression on this planet that proved I existed, that I had a mind and a voice, and a story I thought was worth telling. Maybe it was about silly things like super powers and love and revenge, but fuck, can't it be more than that? Can't that just be the vehicle I use to paint a bigger picture?

People are going to hate this story. Others are going to love it. The majority of people aren't going to bother to even read it. Most people won't even get it. To them, it's going to be face value for them. But, somewhere, someone on the planet may pick it up, and appreciate the effort I put into it. And, it may change their mind about something hey thought they were sure about. If a story I write can do that, it is all worth it. Of course, that is all if I can even get someone to publish the damn thing.

In the end, I have to remember, I am the one devoting my life and time and money and energy into this endeavor. I am the only person that needs to matter. Everyone else can join me, or they can go to hell.

In which I'm pretty much over it.

Simultaneously, I love and hate this time of year, or rather, since I am stuck in a perpetual carousel of never ending classes, this time of the semester. This is the transition period that moves me from the over-zealous optimistic student who was ready and willing to finish assignments and readings early, to this dark, cynical, pessimistic student who is ready to start committing to the minimum.

And, this semester, I really feel like a bitch about it, because I actually really like both of my teachers this fall. Both my social studies methods and quantitative reasoning teachers are awesome. They are both a credit to their profession, and I enjoy going to class. Both are very dedicated to our classes, and find lots of interesting and fun things for us to do. I'm not really bored with either of the subjects, it's just that this is what happens in the last stretch, when I start counting down the days until Thanksgiving Break and calculating how long I can effectively put something off before it's procrastinating.

The worst part about this problem is that for some unknown reason, that should really have no bearing on this but remains oddly attached, whenever I slink into this pit of educational loathing I seem to find my creative zenith. I can't seem to force myself to sit down and knock out a writing assignment, but I can spend nearly whole day plot lining and drafting rough scenes. This makes absolutely no sense. But, the fact remains that this week I have been more inspired and flirting with the muse than I have been in a long time-- which if I could measure would probably come out to about this time last semester...

So, as in usual procrastinator's fashion, I spent the majority of my day validating that if I was going to put off my homework, I didn't have to feel bad about it if I did two things:

1) If I did PART of my homework (a.k.a. the reading necessary for making my online post), it wasn't really procrastination, it was moderation.

And, as the wise Aristotle once said, "Seek moderation in all things." In this line of thinking, after reading my chapter and taking note as a preliminary outline, taking the next step to actually type it up and post it was just overkill.

2)As long as I was doing SOMETHING productive, I didn't have to feel bad about not doing something else.

Now, this reasoning comes from the fact that the last couple of days I have made major movement along the plot line of my novel. After yet another inevitable creative dry spell following a sudden inspirational assault on my imagination, I hadn't managed to make a lot of linear progress. After three years, I've discovered my process best works by taking advantage of these massive blocks of inspiration to work on Singularity, what I deem as "Part I" and which I have been writing as linear as possible. It never lasts long though. Inevitably, I find myself at a point where I feel like I barely have enough talent and momentum to write a complete sentence. In these periods where I need to write something, anything, I find myself free writing scenes about later parts of the story-- ones that might come in the later books ( Infinity and Relativity), about characters that I haven't introduced in the linear story yet or incidents that have not occurred, but have been set in motion, or scenes that explain the causes of the events that have been addressed.

It's mid-semester now though, so I'm not trying to squeeze my imagination like a dried out sponge in the meager hope of a little idea I can spin into something substantial. I'm so fucking full of ideas I can't leave the house without taking a notebook or go to bed without one on my nightstand. All I want to do is read, read, read, and I'm searching for new books like a dehydrated man in the desert looking for water. But, I can barely make it through a chapter of my methods book or find a valid reason to work on my math homework, after all, the test isn't for another week.

Which is why my storyboard went from this--



-- to this --



Hey, it doesn't look like much, but I added five new scenes. And, even more exciting is that as a result of this recent surge I have drafted seven written scenes from ideas previously posted on the board to be written. Considering I've just completed forty hours of observation which I put a lot of energy into, and outputting a medium level concerted effort towards my classes, not to mention combating executive level incompetence on the part of my University in trying to complete my application for student teaching... I'm pretty damn proud of this level of progress.

The only problem now is that I don't have the energy to type up the stack of drafts I have completed-- ten all together since I had three previously in the cooker, waiting in a binder marked "draft notes" where all my hand-written notes go until I can use them.



Here they are-- ten stacks of paper, just waiting to be typed up... as well as my Moe-dog, who sits suspiciously eying them, sniffing them until they reveal their secrets. Inside my brain is that little voice encouraging me, saying "Just get them typed up and add them to "Part I", and then do a happy little dance when you see the total number of words and pages that will result. Hell, it might even push you well over 50,000 words!". But, then I say, "What they hell Little Voice? Why can't you ever get that excited when I have a writing assignment?" And, at that point all hope of getting anything done gets thrown out because that little voice goes to the room inside my brain where she lives, to pout.

When I grow up, I want to be a writer...

Most of you, who would bother coming here, have heard me at some point make reference to “My Novel”. Be it over Facebook status, a conversation, an arbitrary comment, what have you-- you have probably heard me mention this mystery novel and some of you have even asked, “What’s it about?”.

This is the part where I stare back at you in silence for a moment while my brain tries to compile the enormity of the last three years of world building, character development, plot lining, twist turning, cliff hangers, and all the other things that make these eventual books—Singularity, Infinity, and Relativity—(at least their names for now, although I’ve gotten kind of attached to them, and the physics names are all kind of an underlying science theme I am aiming for….blah, blah, blah) into a cohesive description that you, the lay person with no insight into my vivid, whirlwind imagination, could possibly understand as to what exactly I am trying to create without an in-depth, hour long, confusing and constantly back tracking explanation… which will follow.

I’m not insulting your intelligence in assuming so pompously that you, said lay person devoid of a window into the head of a head case, could not possibly understand what the hell I am talking about. Nor, am I trying to insinuate that I’m writing an intensely deep, complicated novel that will rival the collective works of Austen, Twain, Fitzgerald, Vonnegut, King, Rowling, and Meyer… Hahaha. Okay that last name was hard to type because I was laughing so hard I was snorting. I am definitely not trying to insinuate that my book will rival Stephanie Meyer—because no matter how horrendous of a writer I turn out to be, my novels will exceed, outclass, and make a complete mockery of the series that Meyer and her coven of hormonal tweens—and their pathetic sisters and mothers—consider a literary masterpiece of epic romance. Once again, that last part of the sentence was complicated with the laughing and the snorting.

If I had break it down to its most basic components, I guess I would have to say it is about souls—those who have them and those that do not, and all the scientific reasons why. DISCLOSURE: THIS STORY HAS ABSLUTELY NOTHING TO DO WITH VAMPIRES OR WEREWOLVES. So, if you don’t tend to stray any further down the literary rabbithole than those two topics, and you know who you are, and I’ve probably criticized you at length, than you’re probably not going to be interested. Sorry. Like, I know it’s totally the popular thing to the right now, and like, every person that thinks they are a writer is totally doing that – but, that’s exactly why I am writing about nothing that has to do with Vampires or Werewolves. Meyer bashing aside, the whole idea boils down to what are souls, really? In my world, they are an electromagnetic based organism, a parasite that feeds off the energy of humans, and this is the reason we die. But, through the wonder of evolution, some humans have adapted to fend off these parasites, and thus they have no soul (Vapids) and because of their sans-soulness, are immortal. Others have adapted to have a symbiotic relationship with souls allowing an increased mental capacity, superpowers in other words (Abstracts), and are also immortal. Now, this immortality has its limits. While they stop aging around the early thirties, being an Abstract or a Vapid doesn’t mean you cannot die. They are still susceptible to disease and trauma, but they will never die because of old age.

That’s pretty bare bones, I know, and even a little bit more farfetched, but if you have ever watched Star Trek, it probably seems a little less hard to wrap your brain bones around.

Okay, so where am I going with all this? Well, if you are actually under the illusion I am going to finish this someday, and think you might ever read this STOP NOW, because in the words of River Song, SPOILERS!:

Here’s the best way to explain the beginning of the plot—

A man named Elias Dethridge—my antagonist… (or is he? Could he possibly also be a protagonist? Who knows? Read the book in a decade when I finally finish it, and find out for yourself.) – This is the part where you roll your eyes at me, stop trying to follow my impossible train of thought and say, “Fuck, she is long winded!”—anyway, Elias Dethridge, antagonist, protagonist, whatever, is a vapid. He falls for a normal human lady, Violetta, who will eventually die, and decides he can’t be with her until he finds a way to make her immortal like him. Flash forward through years of traveling, talking to wise men and shamans and other general conveyers of mysticism, and soul-searching – pun absolutely intended—and he finds a way to make her immortal by removing her soul. Enter Magnus Finnegan, or better known as Finn. He is an abstract, and his power is… you ready for this, electromagnetic manipulation, or in other words, he can extract Violetta’s parasite, a.k.a soul, and make her immortal right? Makes sense. Absolutely logical. Anyone without a soul is immortal.

WRONG!

Taking out the soul of normal human does such irreparable, traumatic damage to their body and psyche, it essentially drives them insane (think Drusilla from Buffy). What is poor Elias to do? Find a way to fix her. Okay, get ready because here comes the rubber science—

A soul implants after birth –haha, fuck you anti-abortionists, not in my book!—and bonds with the body physically. Remove it and it will kill the person, but when they die it just simply moves on to another host. Revive that person and the soul is no longer bonded to the body of that person, and they’ll be immortal. Unfortunately, one unintended side effect is they lack that sanity thing that most people—myself excluded—enjoy and take for granted on a regular basis. The soul becomes such a interconnected part of the body, it’s like the worst form of phantom limb you can experience, thus the crazy. If you can put it back in though, all your problems are solved! The best part? Since the soul has bonded to a new body, it doesn’t recognize the host, but the body recognizes the soul and is relived of all of the stress derived from extraction. It’s like trying to put a round peg in a square hole—it still fits, but not quite. But, hey, sanity restored.
Easy peasy lemon squeezy, right?

WRONG!

Did you not pick up on the part where the soul bonded to another person? That means you have to kill the new host. And, it’s not like there is an Iphone app for finding displaced souls. It can take years for repossessors and seers to find the soul and it’s new host. So, what is Elias Dethridge to do while he tries to restore his wife? While he waits patiently for decades to once again have Violetta back? What else? Build a black market empire on this amazing new power he knows how to wield.
So, Dethridge becomes a rich, entrepreneur of supernatural services, and eventually becomes one of the most powerful men on the planet. Then, suddenly, it happens! They find Violetta’s soul! Finn is sent to recover it—except, aww, isn’t that always the way? Finn completely falls in love with the girl he is suppose to kill and steal the soul from… what is a man totally indebted to another man for a life of wealth, luxury, and power to do in this situation? Easy. Kill someone else, send the fake soul back, and run away with the girl. Duh. Which would have been very romantic and all, except Dethridge isn’t going to let that fly! He has become a vicious, soul stealing, murder through vicarious acts of his repossessors, madman insane with power. He gets another repossessor , they kill the girl and take the soul, nearly killing Finn and leaving him for nearly dead. His true love slain by the hands of the only father figure Finn’s ever known, there is really only one thing to do, isn’t there? Start a fucking revolution to bring down an empire, stop Dethridge’s tyranny, and seek the ultimate form of vengeance—he has to kill Violetta Dethridge. The plot builds, stuff happens, characters get introduced, more stuff happens, and eventually that is exactly what Finn does. He frees the soul of the woman he loved in the hopes that when it comes back-- and here’s hoping it comes back into another woman, because otherwise, that’s awkward—she will learn to love him again. He’ll be around right? He’s immortal. He’ll just wait. How romantic. Everybody swoons and awes, and eventually they live happily ever after, right?

WRONG!

The soul attaches to a girl, luckily for Finn, but in the ironic way that writers work, it attaches to an abstract, a girl with empath abilities. Oh, did I totally forget to mention that DETHRIDGE KILLS ALL EMPATHS BECAUSE THEY ARE A THREAT TO HIM!? Oh, curse you dramatic irony! What is Finn to do? Save her of course. He’ll just keep her hidden, keep a distant eye on her, keep her safe until she grows up and he can explain everything and she’ll fall madly in love with him and they will run off together into the sunset, right?

Do I really need to say it? I mean, you have got to be getting the picture here, picking up on some kind of pattern.

WRONG!

Enter the protagonist (Maybe? Plot thickens…) Max, who is an out of work artist, beaten down by life’s unfair blows, driven to the point of insanity by the voices in her head, and a full-fledged alcoholic.

And, here, despite all that immense and detailed back-story, is where the novel really starts. Max is exposed to Dethridge, he sends a hit out on her, but Finn gets her out, tagged along by her best friend, loyal side kick, and all around ‘Ducky’, Ridley. From here is the adventure I call “Singularity”.
Yeah, now that you read all this, sound pretty awesome, doesn’t it? And now you are all like, “Damn! I spoiled everything.” Rest assured, there are many more twists and surprises to come. I mean, I obviously have to come up with tons more bull shit to put into the other two books…

Now you know. One a scale of 1-10, how fucking confused are you right now? =)