Adam Holt's Blog, page 9

COVER ART REVEAL, TEASER, AND KICKSTARTER - CHECK IT OUT!

My friend was kidnapped in the Florida Everglades. That's what we told the world, but it was a lie. Now I must find the real kidnappers - the Ascendant - before they return for us all. To do that, I'm going to need a lot of help. And another spaceship. This time it's not for me. It's for the one that I left behind. - Tully Harper in...
Take a good look at this cover. There are about five huge clues to the story hidden in plain sight. 
Voilà!

It took two all-nighters and more coffee than I can remember brewing, but my second novel is now out of my hands and in layout mode. That gives me a chance to promote, which I do not mind doing at all. Neither does Tully. He is a danger to the Earth, and the Earth has become a dangerous place for him. 

Like to know more?

Check out my Kickstarter campaign. It's gone amazingly well thus far, and if you don't mind spending $25 for the novel, it's a great way to get your hands on a signed copy. You will also help me generate media attention for the series, too. Your support would mean so much, and I hope you enjoy the story. You'll find a sample on the Kickstarter page.

Then there's the Kickstarter video, shot by comedian/actor/other things Danny Seckel. We stayed up all night making ninja movies together in high school, so it only made sense that he should shoot the Kickstarter video. You're the man, Danny. P-Kaw!

Yours truly,
A

Finally. Something. The Rathmore Chaos Prologue.

Finally. Something. Not the cover art. Maybe better. The Prologue to The Rathmore Chaos.In the novel, Tully Harper must find and rescue a lost friend.  This journey takes him to a very real place in our solar system. The Ascendant have made it their home, in secret, for ages. What will he find when he uncovers its location? Will he discover the secrets to his own powers? You'll know soon enough. Pre-orders on the book will begin this month, and the release date is March 2015. If you haven't read The Conspiracy Game, read reviews and grab a copy  here.Yours Truly, Adam
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The black canyon stretched in front of me, two hundred yards from one frozen side to the other, a jaw ready to swallow me whole. The old me--the one that lived on Earth and tried to avoid homework—would never have dreamed of jumping this divide. The new me—the one that sneaks into space—could handle bigger problems, like leaping canyons. Also, the new me weighed 15 pounds on this alien world. Nothing beats low gravity. As long as I hit my first step, I would leap the canyon with no problem, which I did, and waited on the other side for the rest of our team. The stars above me winked their approval.If it had not been for the Ascendant, we would never have made it this far. Their lies made the Earth so dangerous that I had to leave. I should probably thank the Ascendant for that. I had never been closer to finding my long lost friend than I was at that moment, watching the others leap the canyon on the way to our destination.The Rathmore Chaos.  My oxygen levels read 90%--nice—so I took a deep breath and watched several moons and planets bobbing across the horizon. I rubbed the backs of my scarred hands, which were supposedly my greatest weapon, but lately hadn’t been reliable. I caught my reflection in my helmet visor--who was I really, this new me, this boy in a battle with a hostile alien race? One jumper then another landed nearby, and as our final team member sailed across the canyon, a tremor knocked us to the ground. In the middle of the canyon a geyser erupted, spewing liquid water hundreds of feet into the air. The water transformed into chunks of ice in the frigid air. Oh, no. Up went the geyser and with it went my friend. She flailed wildly, trying to stop from spinning as she sailed high into the alien sky. The rest of us jumped to our feet and bounded after her, and I hoped like mad for one thing—that my powers would return before she landed in this land of ice as sharp as knives.The phrase, Houston, we have a problem, comes to mind. In fact, Houston, we have about a thousand problems, but we’re millions of miles from you now. I can't explain this geyser disaster--or the ones that came after it--unless I back up a few weeks. You know, when the world still thought I was a teen runaway, not a dangerous space traveler. Let me pick up this story in a news studio, right after my first trip into space, and fill you in from there. We’ll work our way back to this canyon eventually, and then we’ll travel well beyond it to where I am now, in the Rathmore Chaos.
Happy New Year,Tully Harper

Kindle Countdown for Christmas

Dear Friends,
  The Conspiracy Game is currently on sale for the Kindle. It's $.99 for another 2 hours, and after that it creeps back up to its regular price. If you'd like to grab a digital copy or gift one to someone you love, go for it and merry Christmas! Click the link here: http://tinyurl.com/tullykindledeal

"Some people you follow not because of where they are headed, but because of who they are." - Tully Harper in the Rathmore Chaos, set for release in 2015 

  The Rathmore Chaos work continues. There have been some delays. I served as the program head for Kinkaid boys volleyball this year, which monopolized my time for a few months. But, at long last, the cover art is nearing completion and the story is almost told as I want it. Traveling into space was one thing. Traveling to an alien civilization was another job all together. I've enjoyed writing this as much as anything I have ever written and look forward to sharing it with you in 2015, which is right around the corner. Happiest of New Years to you all!

-Adam

Kindle Countdown - 2 hours left!

If you'd like to pick up a copy of the book for $.99, visit http://tinyurl.com/tullykindledeal - Merry Christmas!
-A

There is a thing in the heart buried

There is a thing in the heart buried
There is a thing in the heart buried between the beat and the flow furrowed in the mind between synpases and snow –
“I think; therefore, I am.”No, something else got there firstthat couldn’t form itself into wordsyet had an energy to exert,a lifeforce that moved without lettersover the face of the open heart.It was there before you conceived a thought.It gave the thought its hidden start. 
Thought before thought, shifting mosaic, something unhellenic, unalgabreic, working itself out between letter and numberand every thought you have bursts forth from it,this deep chasm of thoughtlessness that shapes a life and instructs a soul. What of it this thing buried in the heart, in the snow?
What of it? Everything!This thought but not thought,that the light of day cannot illuminate though it’s there resting in the shade nestled in the nooks of your open journal speaking “I love you” long before the pen touches paper or the mouth forms the words or the words form thought or the thought scraps its way into the very consciousness that this thing in your heartwrought.
Dark matter thought thought beyond thought: we can guess its weight but not as well as we ought. Unsearchable, unfillable by law or human hands, there is a thing in the heart buried that builds us as best it can.
Then again, now that I think of it,another thing I am starting to understand:there is a thing in the heart resurrected between the beat and the flow interjectedthat rebuilds me into a new, impossible man.It will always be just as it is an unquanitified univisited unplace but I can see what’s flowing out of itfrom the path of its resplendent wake. 
Luke 24: 32
They asked each other, “Were not our hearts burning within us while he talked with us on the road and opened the Scriptures to us?”

Wonderfully Intricate Complementary Orbits

"You can't write sci-fi and be my volleyball coach, too!"

Today my first customer at the school book fair was a middle school volleyball player. He said this last fall on the bus back from a game. I'm pretty sure we were talking about LaGrangian Points, and he just couldn't wrap his mind around why his volleyball coach would know anything about something so far away from the 1800 square feet of a volleyball court.



Well, as of today he has a signed copy of my novel. We stood on the court where I coach volleyball and posed for a photo with him, and him with his copy of my novel in hand. It's a great big universe full of strange and wonderfully intricate complementary orbits, my friends. I'm thankful to God when I see them intersect for a moment.

Candy, Poker, Faith, Hope, and Love - September 11th, My Grandmother's Birthday

On September 11th I celebrate my grandmother's birthday, as do many others. She had nothing but unconditional love and patience for her grandkids, as well as a jar full of Butterfinger's, and a willingness to stay up until the wee hours of the night watching wrestling and playing poker for pennies with her squirmy grandson. She had a great sense of humor that she used sparingly, a blind dog aptly named Radar, and a respect (but absolutely no fear) of hurricanes. I couldn't convince her to leave town during Hurricane Ike. "Don't you worry about old grandma," she told me. "I might get sucked out a window, but whatever will be will be."

She was the best, and her birth, on September 11 of all days, reminds me how to live.


September 11th broke her heart. Ever a patriot, the wife of a WWII veteran, she chose to honor the national tragedy and celebrate her birthday earlier in the week for the rest of her life. It was the sort of thing she always chose to do: to put the needs of others before herself, whether it was her grandson's interest in cards and candy or her nation's need to honor the fallen.

May our national tragedy and the memory of our loved ones inspire us to love our families, our neighbors, even our enemies. This is the best defense of freedom: to use it, to shun self-interest and strive to love others in the way that we love ourselves. It is a high calling, a duty to God, a respect for country, and a reflection of the best of what we have lost. But it's not about loss. It's about rebuilding.  Whatever was broken, let's rebuild it in the image of all the soldiers that bought freedom abroad and at home, and in the image of the upright grandparents who shower their grandkids with candy, poker, faith, hope, and love.

Costa Rica Snapshot #4: TITWA

We settle into dilapidated plastic chairs at a bar on the beach under the shelter of palm trees and watch the sailboats swaying in the Pacific against the orange and gold sunset. From there, my friend Deepwater shares one of his theories on surfing. TITWA.

TITWA. "Time in the water," Deepwater says. "You have to have time in the water. It looks a little different for everyone, but you know when a guy's done his time."

We talk about King Dreadlock and his epic ride. Obviously he had TITWA, but so did the graying longboarder who caught five waves and called it a day. He's probably caught five thousand in his lifetime. Deepwater continues, "You can see who's got TITWA. It looks a little different for everybody, but you can always tell who has done their time in the water. Now we are doing ours."

TITWA. I like this idea and its application to living an intentional, focused, passionate life. Not that TITWA is easy. You have to feel like a waterlogged hamster before you can surf like a demi-god. In fact, every stroke between castaway and demi-god is so incremental that half those strokes often feel futile and counterproductive in the moment. That does not matter. Just seeking TITWA makes you into what you can become. You can make it into a hokey phrase if you want to, but that won't matter much once you have done your time in the water and attained to perfection. Whether you reach it or not, you'll be that many strokes ahead of someone who never tries. So you do your TITWA, paddle out and keep digging for waves, and when someone yells, “Go! Go! Go!” you listen and obey and are the better for it. Pura vida.

Costa Rica Snapshot #3: King Dreadlock/"Amen. Amen. Amen."

http://www.costaricatraveladvisors.net
He is probably thirty years old, heavy dreadlocks full of sun and saltwater, a short, wiry, tan amphibian of a man who claws through the water--at one with the shortboard beneath him. (By comparison, I look like a waterlogged hamster floating on driftwood). There are plenty of fine surfers around him, but he's the most focused: he paddles intently as the mound of water starts to take shape, still aiming his board offshore, until the mound becomes a hill becomes a looming wall edged with white spray. This is his wave.

He's efficient. He reaches the impact zone before any other surfer. A few are behind him. Maybe they could have caught the wave if they'd paddled harder--the spray is flying off the top of the wave now, creating rainbows against the dark ocean's body--but they respect his position, and the dreadlocked king, with a few swift pumps of his arm and an agile pop-up, is down the face of the wave in an instant. I'm thirty yards behind him now as he disappears behind the crest of the wave--it's bigger than I thought--but then I see the tip of his board upon the top of the wave and next come the dreadlocks, followed by broad, tan shoulders, then the tail of his board, and finally the whipping water near his leash, and all of these intricate moving parts ticking like the mad hands of an alien watch keeping alien time against the face of Tamarindo and the trees inland. King Dreadlock disappears down the wave again and then flies into the picture all at once, this time not tail-whipping but sensing the end of his ride and launching himself off the wave and away from his surfboard, howling in ecstasy at his best ride of the day before he plunges below the surface.

It's performance art. Call it art or performance, but call it a living, too: Jackson Pollack slashes his way through a canvas; Jack Kerouac tapes the scroll of his novel together in the basement; Bruce Lee rips a penny out of your hand before you can close it; the attorney turns the tide in a trial with the sentient question; the student's eyes shine because the teachers explains with passion and clarity; yes, all these things require that same spark of passion and enthusiasm that flew as spray from the young surfer's board the second that he saw a wave that he knew how to ride better than anyone else in the water. What higher calling is there than to inspire others with your best effort, worked out over a lifetime or whipped up in some rare, wise moment? That we should all have such a moment to lay at the feet of God someday. Let it be. Amen. Amen. Amen.

Costa Rica Snapshot #2: Pura Vida and the Lineup

Snapshot Two: Pura Vida and King Dreadlock
For the most part the Ticos leave enough room for tourist paddle-standers in their lineup. "Pure vida," the Costa Ricans say, which translates "pure life" but means that sounds more like a slogan than a way of life, and they live out pura vida quite well. When I finally recover from my paddle out and start digging for waves, one of the Ticos notices. I'm not in great position to catch my fifth wave. He has better position but pulls up short and yells something. At first I think he's calling me off his wave, and by the time I realize that he is yelling "Go! Go! Go!," encouraging me to catch my fifth wave, I've missed my chance. At least I understand pura vida now.

Tamarindo clearly has a friendlier lineup than Southern California's shorebreaks, where locals cut you out of waves if they feel like you don't deserve them. Surfers fight tooth and nail for California waves just as they do for SoCal real estate. It is SoCal real estate. You can't blame them for being territorial. Territory is everything there. Unlike their northern neighbors, the Costa Ricans are more accomodating, but I stay out of the lineup. My confidence isn't there yet. I don't want a wave badly enough to push myself in or to test how "pura" their "vida" really is.

But this is all context without setting: it isn't an accurate picture of what's happening around me. When I look back to shore, a line of rocks juts into the ocean on my right, where the waves seem to be breaking best at low tide. Why do the best waves break right into the rocks? There's always that critical element to the ocean: fun has its risks. Near the rocks the shoulder-high waves hold their shape particularly well with this onshore wind, which creates the kind of deep, hollow barrels that surfers live to ride, and one Costa Rican surfer is doing that as I sit on my board just beyond the impact point and watch him ride. Let's call him King Dreadlock.

He is probably thirty years old, heavy dreadlocks full of sun and saltwater, a short, wiry, tan amphibian of a man who claws through the water--at one with the shortboard beneath him. (By comparison, I look like a waterlogged hamster floating on driftwood). There are plenty of fine surfers around him, but he's the most aggressive: he paddles intently as the mound of water starts to take shape, still aiming his board offshore, until the mound begins to build into a looming wall edged with white spray. He's efficient. He reaches the impact zone before any other surfer. A few are behind him. Maybe they could have caught the wave if they'd paddled harder--the spray is flying off the top of the wave now, creating rainbows against the dark ocean's body--but they respect his position, and the dreadlocked wonder, with a few swift pumps of his arm and an agile pop-up, is down the face of the wave in an instant. I'm thirty yards behind him now as he disappears behind the crest of the wave--it's bigger than I thought--but then I see the tip of his board upon the top of the wave and next come the dreadlocks, followed by broad, tan shoulders, then the tail of his board, and finally the whipping water near his leash, and all of these intricate moving parts ticking like the mad hands of an alien keeping alien time against the face of Tamarindo and the trees inland. King Dreadlock disappears down the wave again and then flies into the picture all at once, this time not tail-whipping but sensing the end of his ride and launching himself off the wave and away from his surfboard, howling in ecstasy at his best ride of the day before he plunges below the surface.

It's performance art. Call it art or performance, but call it a living, too: Jackson Pollack slashes his way through a canvas; Jack Kerouac tapes the scroll of his novel together in the basement; Bruce Lee rips a penny out of your hand before you can close it; the attorney turns the tide in a trial with the sentient question; the student's eyes shine because the teachers explains with passion and clarity; yes, all these things require that same spark of passion and enthusiasm that flew as spray from the young surfer's board the second that he saw a wave that he knew how to ride better than anyone else in the water. Amen. Amen. Amen.