Nathaniel Sewell's Blog, page 28

The Artist – Try, Try, Try, and Try

I was asked, “how do you react to negative reviews?”

My best answer is I don’t react to reviews at all, regardless if they are positive or negative. I think if you allow your artistic instincts to emerge and you share them with the general public, you have to expect and realize some people will not like your creation.

Think about it this way, consider you are a stand-up comedian, now think about standing in those socks. You are all alone, center stage, and it is just you and the audience. Your job is to cause that audience to laugh. And you the comedian get an instant review, either the audience laughs or they don’t. If I’m in the audience, and the comedian bombs, I get a sick feeling, and I want to give the artist a hug and say, “let it go, keep trying.” I think everybody needs words of encouragement. I think those are the inflection points where our true ‘faith’ steps forward. A kind, compassionate word can literally alter a life.

I think it take immense courage to at least ‘try’, to try anything, to be an actor, comedian, painter, whatever artistic bent you have and then choose to share it. I respect anyone who tries and fails at any career or life choice. At that point, when you are down on your knees begging for mercy, my best thought is, give them a hug, and say, ‘get up, keep trying’. However, if you are a heckler, if you bully someone who is down on their luck, I think you are a coward.

I knew before I published Fishing for Light, and for that fact my first novel, Bobby’s Socks that they would not be for everyone. If you want to share art for the masses for money, and fame, go be my guest. But be careful what you wish for - as the saying goes – because in this modern age of social media, faceless, thoughtless people do bully, and do write nasty remarks without having to add their real name. I think legitimate criticism is fair game, and I think an artist can learn from those responses how to better craft their message.

The reason I went down this path today, I continue to read about human beings that take their lives after being bullied. If you have read Bobby’s Socks, you would realize that the trauma marks a persons genetic instructions, it attacks, and weakens their ‘stress genes’.

I know what if feels like to be abused, I know what if feels like to grow up with a bully, and to think about taking my life.  And that is the reason I write, and share my thoughts. I hope my writing and sharing will encourage someone else to simply, try. I think every human being on this planet should be treated with respect, and kindness even though we may not understand their life choices. I promise if you at least try something that others might think a risk, it will be the instant you will feel – alive.

NS

 

 

An Interview

http://towelscornbread.wordpress.com/2014/02/21/guest-posting-by-nathaniel-sewell/

Well, the attached link is from an interview and ultimate guest blog post. It provides some detail as to the why, and the inspirations behind the novel, Fishing for Light. I guess I should grow a really, really cool mustache? Well, maybe not …

NS

And If I – A Poem

Today I decided to share a poem I wrote after the sudden death of a friend. In part, it was how I created the character, Eddie Wilcox in Fishing for Light. But what I want to express is I think my writing improves from creating poems based on hearing the poems cadence. If I can always remember to write simply, and with a gentle flow, I think the reader has a better reading experience.

And if I,

Breathe my last breath before my sun sets,
Take the risk to swim within great depths,
Walk in another man’s shoes,
Face the reality that I might lose,
And if I,
Stare into the mortal sun,
Accept blindness for not gazing down,
Stand my ground to certain death,
Live life without regrets,
And if I,
Bask in the sun’s orange glow,
Turn my skin brown, before I go,
Hope that gravity will leave me alone,
Fight the oceans’ under tow,
And if I,
Reach to touch the surface of the sun,
Burn my hand, cry in pain,
Love another, lose, and not complain,
Feel the source of an eternal flame,
Then I will,
Take time as an adventure,
Run forward into the never,
Use up all that I might endeavor,
Perhaps, then I’ll be remembered.

NS

My Mister Middle-Aged Birthday Wish – For You!

Come play with me today, this is my middle-aged birthday wish. I would climb a towering, ancient Oak, seeking out a well-chosen jagged limb, one that would appear thick enough, for my middle-aged behind. And yes, my legs would tremble, my palms would sweat – BUT – I’d be careful, as I crept, no, scooted horsey style, along, a barnacled branch. Below, my golden furred, doggie friend – Pink, would hide under her paws, and grumble, and wonder, if I should take a tumble that there would be trouble, because she wanted to be fed.

I would remember too, “Don’t look down … CRAP! I looked down.” As I would stare down at death – BUT – I’d suck in a deep breath as I’d grappled over the wobbly, bouncy branch. I would carelessly swing upside down, APE style as translucent sweat drops would rain down toward the innocent unforgiving ground, off my pasty white forehead.

I’d yell, “Hey kids – LOOK, NO HANDS!”

“Dude, be careful, you’re like old,” one might say back. They’d all shrug collectively, shake their heads in pity, as they petted Pink on the head, just before they strolled away from my middle-aged dare devilish display, I suspected they left to play reality video games inside.

Undaunted, I would run back home, with a relieved, inward and outward, Pinky love, in dangled doggie-tow. There I would devour a huge bowl of brown beans; Pink would sniff at them, then backup and groan. Then I would gestate for an hour or so, maybe more, some people’s colons work slower, you know. But eventually, I’d FART! An audacious, odorous series of farts, and shake my clenched fists in the air, I’d SCREAM… “YES! YES I CAN!!!” And to my amazement, I’d point to the far corner of the garage, “Look, Pink, I exterminated a cockroach, without even using my jazz hands!”

Pink would sniff at my posterior, her brown eyes would start to drip tears, as she wobbled away, to seek clear, clean fresh air. Then, AS IF I’M SKIPPING SCHOOL, (Whisper this part with me …)

I’d prance naked about our empty house, as if a land locked Manatee spouse. And I would wiggle, giggle, swivel, and, scare away a trapped fly who had accidentally buzzed accidentally inside as my odorous scent would cause it to cease to fly.

After, I’d charge upstairs and investigate our bathroom closets, and gaze at the wonderment, at all her smelly stuff? EUREKA! I’d borrow (steal) some of my wife’s, flowery scented bathtub soaps. It is a large inventory, she would never notice.  I would, yes, I really would, fill the tub to the brim, with wispy, frothy, sudsy clouds, and ignite one of her expensive candles. Why you ask? Just because I could! And I would, I really, really, really would, because I could!

My doggie friend Pink, would haunch back and stare over at me, and wonder what had happened to me, curious if she could survive all day … alone with, just middle-aged me. Ha! “Be not afraid canine friend!”

I’d Immerse myself like an Alligator, within a luxurious, steamy, nuclear reactor hot, hot-water wasting bath. And then, POP a cork, and guzzle down a bottle … of my wife’s favorite Champagne. From the bottle, she’d had stashed. “What better occasion, than my birthday?” Then harkin’ back to our honeymoon, as tiny, fragrant, sparkled bubbles bloomed from within one of our fancy, flooted lead crystal glasses. And just about then, I would imagine, my hands-free brown bean trick would come full-circle as my personal bubbly versions would escape! From the crack of my bulbous … middle-aged southern – exit only please- address! YES! And then I’d CACKLE like I’m a thirteen year-old boy, as I’d hop out of my aquatic hole, dripping wet, basking in my naked glory! Then wrap a towel around my head, New Delhi style, Because – TODAY! – is my one day. The day, I  can try to act, COOL. I’d sing an off-key Jimmy B tune, In a loud annoying voice, which prompted Pink, to go hide in his dark den, unsure what had happened to the – HIM.

I would then guzzle several pints more of my favorite brew, BELCH and BURP as if a Bulbous Bullfrog, asleep on the bottom of a pale green algae infested pond.  And then I’d, FART again, and then FART to the extreme.  And scream, “YES! SEE, I DID IT AGAIN! FARTS TO THE WIND!”

Pink would stare up at me from within the safety of her dark den, thinking, “Woof, you won’t trick me again, woof!”

Then, I would SCAMPER into the cold backyard, whip out my sleeping, flaccid forgotten friend, as I’d spell my name, using an age old artistic medium, streaming in a sort of cursive with a moist, day-glow sputtering flow. I would create instant environmental artistic hazard, after, I’d step back to admire the letters I wrote. Then Pink would stare up at me, sniff at my work, and then lift her hind leg, to add what she thought.

And then life would get BETTER! I’d DEVOUR a thick, juicy (Medium rare – “thank you”), artery-clogging steak, slide a few morsels over to Pink, who had pawed a thank you at my leg. I’d swig another pint of my favorite brew, chomp down a HUGE baked potato, slathered in butter and sour cream, and any other evil, forbidden, cholesterol inducing goodness I could find!!

But from within the unguarded refrigerator, I’d SNEER, as I would instantly flick away, noisy neighbor steamed vegetables, perched inside a cold plastic container. They would STARE at me, acting all ‘health-a-lee’ superior,  But, “Nay,” I would say, “NAY, NOT TODAY!”

“Who do they think they are?” I’d stare down to ask Pink. And just for meanness, I’d chuckle, and threaten to feed them to my golden haired co-conspirator, “Woof! Woof!” “Indeed, Pink, indeed,” I’d say as I slammed closed the refrigerator door.

And thanks to the vacuum hose my Doctor fished up my behind, my impromptu feast, slithered down my overworked, cancer free colon, and the goodness disappeared into my vast bowel of nothingness. I would then enjoy a reflective nap with my fur covered friend,  as I’d need energy for what comes next, from off my most precious, unedited, dreamed up menu, of,  HOPED for birthday treats and wishes.

(So carry along with us, in Mister Elmer J. Fudd esquire, speak … seriously, come along)

Whisp-pa, wit me now, I’d berry, coolie, care-foolie,  twack down my ‘1-and-only, ba-ride’, because I’m not from You-taw, (ha, ha, ha, ha … ) because I only hab, dis temporary stiff mainsail, from a limited time offer, thanks to a super-secret pill box with a four-hour warranty window. (Otherwise, I’d have to go to the hos-spital … because Mister Happiness would not go down.)

I’d woe-mantic-ali, give her a single wed-wove,  I’d kiss her hand, I’d whis-purr in her ear,”I wuv you – my dear,” AND THEN! After I locked away my golden fur covered friend inside her den, so she would not be traumatized by what happened next, we would wrestle naked until we scrambled our ba-rains. (Let me tell you, THE BEST … almost, but not quite – 2 minutes of the day!)

BUT Alas, that is what I would DO … IF, it were MY birthday, today. BUT I’M NOT YOU!

So, today might be YOUR birthday, today, my faceless middle-aged friends. I care not your skin pigmentation, or who you have affection for, or, the faith you adore.

My simple hope for you, on your birthday, is GO OUTSIDE, AND SEEK YOUR INNER CHILD! MISBEHAVE! DO SOMETHING CRAZY or GO WILD, DO WHATEVER YOUR HEART CRAVES, JUST PROMISE ME, BE BRAVE!  Because … oh well, truth be told. It can all end, a snap of my fingers, the blink of a child’s eyes, a nano second being unaware, or, simply, being genetically unlucky. BUT! I would not despair, because, It’s not MY birthday today, so, I’ll just go to work, and tonight I’ll sit in a dark room, and I’ll pet my needy golden-haired friend, Pink. And I’ll be quiet, just do as I’m told, and try to behave. And try not to get caught releasing a silent, foggy fart, BUT LATER TONIGHT, AS I CLOSE MY EYES, I’LL DREAM, I’LL WHISPER IN MY MIND, YES, YES I CAN!

You see, I have a birthday, too, the one day, every year, until I disappear, the one day, MY day, to be ME! The day I can act weirder than usual, and set the wacky – free. So, if it’s your day, today, please, please, go play! Because time and health are not for sale, and you will never get a moment back. If we all die with a smile on our faces, I know we all fought to the last!

NS

Can childhood trauma change DNA?

The answer to this question is no longer lost within a science fiction novel. It has become part of modern science, in particular, Behavioral Epigenetics. I first read from a Science Daily article about the harm from childhood sexual trauma, and a so called, ‘suicide gene’. I added the original link to the end of this article because after I read the article, well, it was as if someone had smacked me in the face with a baseball bat.

Let me set the scene, I am middle-aged, sitting behind my office desk; I had discovered the article as I researched for medical malpractice underwriting information. I literally took my hand off the computer mouse like it was radiation hot. Because I immediately understood what it ‘felt’ like, and to learn about the hard effort from scientists who had found the biomarkers within our genetic code. Simply written, it influenced me, a hardened business person who had never told anyone about his childhood, except his loving wife, to write the novel, Bobby’s Socks. And then I wrote the novel, Fishing for Light. The main character, Eddie, just like the character, Bobby, had an early life trauma that switched on the wrong gene instructions.  I guess reading that article switched on a life passion.

If you think about DNA, and the interwoven helical shape, it sort of reminded me of the yarn strands that a weaver uses to create colorful, warm socks. So, the answer is not the DNA strand, or a single gene, but the genetic instructions, and how childhood trauma ‘marks’, or better, causes biochemical mutations along the DNA strands. From what I have learned, our brain does not fully develop until we reach the age of 25 years. So in a way, if you are a child and you slip on a pair of your grandfather’s socks, you might note a few imperfections, minor flaws that have developed from age, or he might have stood to close to a raging fire. That burn mark carries forward into your brand new socks, and then the frozen moments from childhood that you learned what is was like to touch a hot stove. I think we all have those moments, and if we put ourselves in context, we can in a way transport back to the exact moment and see the trauma in our minds eye. That is not just a thought, but a real biochemical reaction. At your base essence, you just do not “get over it”; it is written on your genetic code.

My hope is that as a society we continue to support the scientists shining light on those sun burn marks hidden in our genetic code, and then therapies to help sooth away the hurt beneath our skin.

http://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2008/05/080507084001.htm

NS

3rd Leading Cause of Death, Ages 10 to 24?

I tend to be rather reserved, hey, I even wear bowties. In the epilogue from my first novel, Bobby’s Socks, the character, Bobby said, “I’m easy to talk to, but difficult to know.” I wrote that line for a specific reason. And if you take a look at the book cover, I think it tells the story. http://www.bobbyssocks.com/  Actually, I think the book cover editor and publisher did too good of a job. It is a tough book to read, because it is based on real science and that nasty booger, reality. And in part, the reason I use a pen name.

The screenplay that I drafted is a bit tougher, but I think it more revealing to help viewers deal with the issue. The point is to figure out a simple method to pull off the duct tape, and talk. I think the idea is to get people connected with a character, a profile, not a person. I think memoirs have a purpose, but I don’t think a 15 year old would pay much attention. But I do think they would pay attention to cool socks!

If you can simply invite them into the abstract world, and they learn that trauma from abuse, bullying has extremely dangerous consequences. Perhaps one of those children will say, “that’s how I felt.” And that is all the opening a trained professional needs to help save a life. Because that is point, Bobby’s Socks was about child sex abuse and the epigenetic link to suicide.

As I wrote previously, the goal is to build a sock company, the socks are intended to trigger a conversation, as in, “Hey dude, what’s up with the socks?” I view this from the standpoint of a business person.  We will not build a foundation, we will build a self sustaining business, with a big-tent mission and vision. I think providing a quality product, a pair of colorful warm socks, allows anyone to get involved. And we do not go looking for donations or grants. And the socks will be a panoply of different colors, shapes, and patterns because every persons genetic code is different.  (Unless you are a twin, but we’ll leave those facts aside.)

I am not a parent, by choice. But if I were a parent I would want to know the 3rd leading cause of death for ages 10 to 24 is suicide.

http://www.cdc.gov/violenceprevention/pub/youth_suicide.html

In part, the noted statistic tells another story, because if my sources are correct, the human brain does not fully develop until we reach the age of 25 years.

With social media I marvel at modern technology that allows for free and open communication. Yet, I continue to read articles from newspapers about teenagers taking their lives. I read about another one today from the NY Post. I got a sick feeling at the pit of my stomach, I wish I could have given her a pair of colorful, warm socks.

NS

Eddie’s Life Trauma

From my previous blog post, I wrote about the goal, to create a sock company, The Bobby’s Socks Company. The fact that my novels are connected by my interest in Epi genetics and life trauma, trauma that can literally alter our gene instructions. My other professional career was in the medical malpractice insurance business. I loved the business. I got to meet an amazing array of really, really bright people, and to see with my own eyes raw human suffering. In part, I know things that I really wish I did not know. But then again, I can write entertaining novels that inform. I think literature should be about issues that our bigger than us, to create characters that the reader can connect with and in their own mind say, “that’s how I felt”. In part, I use a pen name to create a space between me and the character, Bobby, from Bobby’s Socks. The book is fiction, but in part, there are elements that I felt as a teenager and young adult. In Fishing for Light, I created Eddie Wilcox. And Eddie experienced a life trauma that changed him.

My first novel, Bobby’s Socks, was a tough ride. It is not an easy book to read. The book is well written, but the story is raw, and straight forward. I was not sure I would even publish the book, but from my wife’s encouragement, I went for it. It was the most amazing moment of my life, I let all the negative feelings, go away. I was not afraid any more. I highly recommend to anyone reading this blog post, to let all that ‘whatever’ go away. Believe it or not, I tend to be rather shy, and reserved. It is easy to build a business, because you can hide. But art is a different matter, if you allow your thoughts to be expressed on the page, they can never be taken back. So, I decided to share a key excerpt from Fishing for Light, it is the moment that Eddie’s life changed. The book is a satire, and it is intended to be a bit wacky. But underneath the story, there is real science, and real human suffering that we all experience.

——————————————————————————————————–

Wednesday, December 28, without any warning, Edward’s oceans powerful cellular currents pushing him to become special became dead breathless.

#

It was after nine o’clock, the emergency room waiting area was crowded with colorful tattooed Gun & Knife Club members. A few illegal human aliens were being monitored nearby by bored radio squawking law enforcement. No one watched the mindless television spew unreality reruns, a few flicked through well-worn magazines. Every four minutes, Bobby Humperdinck and his crazed chimp tempted fate with another used car commercial. A few honest souls cried, or prayed for mercy as they changed their social networking status from married to single. Eddie and his mother hurriedly scooted past them and up to the ER night desk. A night nurse immediately ushered them past the swinging double doors and behind a pale blue curtained off area. She sat them down, and offered them water.

The nurse immediately guided Dr. Noah over to them. He was a long-limbed man with an angular face, he wore surgical greens and a staff coat with his name stenciled in powder blue above the hospital emblem. He sat down and pulled the curtain behind him as he fumbled with the patient chart.

“Mrs. Wilcox, I suspect,” Dr. Noah said. He glanced up at Eddie who stood behind his mother gripping her shoulders. Eddie thought he had a face that was no longer curious about life.

“He’s our son,” Sophia said.

“I think your husband had a significant athermanous plaque build-up, my instinct tells me a genetic defect, it occluded his coronary arteries,” Dr. Noah said. He paused as he continued to fumble with the patient chart. Eddie noticed his father’s name written in the panel in black block letters.

Next door, Eddie saw his father’s pure white cotton dress shirt, red club tie and wing tip dress shoes stuffed inside a plastic storage container. Atop a metal gurney, he thought he saw one of his father’s motionless naked feet peeking out from underneath a stark white hospital sheet. He must be tired or heavily drugged, Eddie thought.

“Sorry to say, we know he bit into an apple, then he likely felt like a thunderbolt smacked him from inside his chest. It was likely an extremely quick, flood like sensation,” Dr. Noah said. He closed the metal patient chart. He leaned his elbows on his knees. He talked slow and methodical as he stared directly into Sophia’s eyes.

“No,” Sophia whispered. She shook her head. She stared down at the cold tile floor. “This can’t be-”

Dr. Noah reached over to grasp Sophia’s shaking hands.

“We worked on him for several hours, I did everything I could, I did everything my training has taught me. I’m sorry, he’s past away.” He shifted on the hard plastic seat. He clenched his jaw. “I wish I had better news.”

“No, no, he’s not even forty,” Sophia said. She whispered as her lower lip trembled. “We were supposed to grow old together.”

Sophia took in a deep, exaggerated breath. For Eddie, his mother’s wisdom disappeared that night into another world, a world of her own. The spark in her eyes dimmed, as she retreated into a fantasyland of cotton candy and bunny rabbits where no one ever faced reality.

As Edward’s face flushed scarlet he stumbled away from his mother, sensing he floated alone in a silent blurred surreal space. He pushed past the curtain, he stumbled forward, but an angelic nurse gently gripped his waste; she hugged him and guided him to a cushioned chair. As he blankly stared down at the floor tiles, his mind was traumatized that exact moment, as if a nuclear weapon detonated within his brain causing thermal radiation to incinerate all the positive particles within Eddie’s soul. All the magical epigenetic dust Professor Quan had lovingly formulated that Captain Lovins had sprinkled across Eddie’s newborn lips tragically altered. His DNA had biochemically switched on the wrong protein instructions.

#

Eddie’s jalopy coasted in front of a gas pump at a dingy mini mart. He was not like most people; he was quite aware his internal engine lacked a spark as if a brand new high-performance engine hidden away inside a silent burley tobacco barn. He thought it a curse that he was self-aware that he was a loser. The humid night air lathered his face, he dabbed dry his faint tears. The terse odor of gasoline tingled inside his nose. After a redneck teenager driving a chrome-infested four-wheeler, gunned his souped-up engine. Eddie danced back into reality to dodge drips of gas falling toward the bottom of his khaki pants leg.

“Come on,” Eddie said, “get your shit together.” He slipped his debit card into the payment slot. He got back into his car.

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NS

The Goal – The Bobby’s Socks Company

The above picture is from our original test marketed socks, inspired by my first novel, Bobby’s Socks. Our collective goal is to create a hybrid not-for-profit sock company. From the novel, the character, Bobby, was calmed down from his thoughts to harm himself by the physician’s colorful, warm socks, she gave him several pairs to put on if he was feeling negative. It was a simple therapeutic solution. And the idea generated from real Epi genetic science. Unfortunately, I know what the character was thinking, when I was a young adult I would never tell anyone. So, I have an idea … to trigger someone to – talk, get an abuse victim to talk.

If you carry the metaphor forward, in a way, the interwoven strands represent the strands of DNA that form our bodies. But the harm from abuse, trauma, will alter our gene instructions and unfortunately, sometimes that leads to suicide. Simply written, I don’t want some faceless teenager to feel like I did.

My current novel, Fishing for Light, is a satire. So it is intended to be a bit wacky. The main character, Eddie Wilcox, experienced a trauma, the death of his father that altered his magical DNA structure that Professor Quan had lovingly altered. But if you lack passion, a drive, I don’t care how smart you are, and then add in a life trauma, then you are lost.

Life trauma and how it alters our destiny is the ‘what’ that drives my writing. I will share this question, and scene that would trigger me to smile and know I did something good. What if I were sitting at a high school basketball game next to the school’s guidance counselor, a teenager walked over and asked the counselor, “Hey dude, what’s up with the weird socks?” The reason I would smile is because that is an opening for the professional to talk about the issue. If you get a child to talk, it will save a life. And so, now you know why I wrote Bobby’s Socks, and why we hope to create a sock company.

NS

 

 

Is there a magic success gene?

Seriously, I think there IS a magic success code hidden within our helical shaped DNA strands. Let me be specific, there are those among us who are gold medal winners at the mercurial DNA Olympics. Personally, I would be content with being a bronze medalist, think about it; at least I got on the podium stand, right?

But that is not true, I am highly competitive. I would get bummed if I busted my guts out, and did not win the gold. And then the Olympic committee did not play my countries fight song, and I did not get to cry tears of joy for the worldwide network television cameras. And god forbid if another American won! I would hate the fact I was standing there like a cutout character direct from central casting trapped watching that other humanoid, queue the fake smile/ ‘I am so happy for them’, and thinking they would be getting the entire future endorsement drachma, loot, dinero, and getting their happy mug shot on a box of cereal, gettin’ paid – Cha-Ching! It would suck.

But wait, I was a success, at least relative to ‘other people’, right? So, let me get this straight for the slow kid, that would be me, my DNA code was one-tenth slower than addle brained Paris’, who is the hot, blonde babe, over there at a made for TV awards show, shaking her perfect god given behind for the camera, living in a mansion, and I get stuck on the short-buss to school, right?

The answer is, WRONG!

From my novel, Fishing for Light, a big part of the entire premise comes from my own observations about those ‘lucky people, you know, those DNA Olympic champions’. If you have a slightly cynical, twisted brain like mine, consider, the next time you are stuck standing in line at the grocery store. I recommend you take a good, hard look at the colorful celebrity magazines, conveniently placed next to the check-out line. Clearly those lucky few have the ‘success genetic code’ splattered up and down their DNA strands.

In Fishing for Light, I even had the character, Professor Quan create a Wish List of famous people he wanted to collect a DNA sample from. I mean, Elvis had to have magic DNA. Of course, I jumbled the names, but I think the reader can figure out the ‘who-who’ I have fictionalized to make a point. I enjoyed jumbling the names, because in reality we are all a DNA jumble of ancestry, environment and life choices. I even answered this articles question, within the books description –‘is there ‘a magic code for success?’

“When Professor Quan realized the government used his genetic starter to create Ms. Prosperina, he devoted his life to eradicating her by spreading the universal bond within humanity’s genetic code, pure love.”

From the story, the main character, Eddie Wilcox, lacked the key hidden gene instruction for success within his DNA structure. It is the single base thought, feeling, verb that separates the masses. At the risk of writing something, sappy, dime store novel like, the answer of course, is ‘pure love’.  Eddie lost the light behind his eyes after his father’s sudden death. And the point to the story is how he got his spark back, groove back, and all that jazz to then have the goods to fight evil, Ms. Prosperina.

I think we all have the capacity to love unconditionally. Notice, I wrote, to ‘love unconditionally’, and not ‘to be’ loved. I think that is the sucker’s bet and why ‘Reality Stars’ even exist. They are not successful in my view; in fact, I think most of them are rather, sad creatures. I think they simply play to the Roman mob, which would be as Jim Bob might say, “this here peoples, United States of America”.

If we start to look at the world from the inside out, and not the easy, safe, voyeuristic view, I think we will feel a sense of our own success. If you seek love through other people, you have already failed. I think the answer to this riddle is hidden deep within each of us, pure love – to love without condition. Success is not defined based on money, fame or prestige. To this author, success within our DNA structure means to have the genetic instruction within our soul to love ourselves, unconditionally.

NS

Zigzag Timeline Interview

I want to thank Mary Fan at Zigzag Timeline for interviewing me. It is a wonderful site for emerging author’s … I have attached the interview below.

http://zigzagtl.blogspot.com/2014/02/author-interview-nathaniel-sewell.html

NS