ASK, RECEIVE, CREATE, GIVE
An entire novel had flowed through my fingertips and onto the page with no thought about character or plot (see previous blog post). And it was GOOD.
OK, it was not the quality of Faulkner or Michener or Joyce. But for genre fiction, it was as good as or better than most of the contemporary works out there.
What had I tapped into that would allow this to happen? Had I really channeled a dead author? Or was it my subconscious mind that had written the book? Supposedly, we use only ten percent of our brain's capacity. Had I somehow accessed the other ninety percent?
These questions would have faded into the background of thought if not for one fact: I was in love. Fiction writing had become my new joy, and I would not be satisfied until it became a constant companion—a daily vocation.
It was obvious that whoever wrote the first book (Dante, my subconscious, a muse?) had another book in the offing, because near the end of The Transition Witness, one of the secondary characters received a gift for future use and a prophecy about her rapid rise to power. I really wanted to know how her future would turn out, and the only way to find out would be to write about it.
But would I be able to?
That question haunted me for a year as I finished the rewrites of The Transition Witness and kept myself busy with my day job. But as publication time neared, the question had to be answered. How would The Transition Witness be billed, as a one-shot wonder or a series? I needed the answer.
And so I sat down one day at my iPad, cleared my mind, and asked for help. My fingers began to type (SPOILER ALERT):
Gemini Stockton's left eyelid felt the soft edge of the contact lens as it closed for a blink. In its
clear concave surface, she could see Director Malick's potential heart attack. Her lens-less
right eye saw a healthy man of forty. She held the Consolidate's senior director steady in her
gaze. If she was to join him permanently here at the directors' table, she must demonstrate her
internal power with every movement, even one as tiny as a blink.
"Your mother's resurrection will proceed on the day that DC-1128 dies." Director Malick's
control was so precise, that only his lips and tongue had motion. It was as if a stone had been
given voice.
Well, there it was, a storyline inventing itself as it went. Or, as I've begun to call it, "a plot without thought."
What is this process that allows for a talent to present itself with no training? I had listened to Burt Goldman's Quantum Jumping course, which describes how to access any talent. But I had not used that process. I had simply asked for help, and then remained still and waited.
I have come to believe that there is a universal mind that we can tap into. Some might call it "God," others, "the collective unconscious." It has all knowledge. It possesses all talents. And it can be accessed through a stilled mind and open heart.
Whatever creative endeavor you love most, try this: Say a silent prayer asking for help, and then empty your mind of thought. Feel the love in your heart. Sit there in a state of trust, and just wait for it. It will come. Whether a line of text, the stroke of a paintbrush or a guitar riff, the first one will come.
Delight in it. Observe it, but don't try to control it. Wait for the next, and the next, and the next.
I believe we are living in a time during which we all must express our gifts. They're called gifts not only because we have received them, but because they're meant to be given. Ask. Receive. Create. Give. And you will fall in love with life.
OK, it was not the quality of Faulkner or Michener or Joyce. But for genre fiction, it was as good as or better than most of the contemporary works out there.
What had I tapped into that would allow this to happen? Had I really channeled a dead author? Or was it my subconscious mind that had written the book? Supposedly, we use only ten percent of our brain's capacity. Had I somehow accessed the other ninety percent?
These questions would have faded into the background of thought if not for one fact: I was in love. Fiction writing had become my new joy, and I would not be satisfied until it became a constant companion—a daily vocation.
It was obvious that whoever wrote the first book (Dante, my subconscious, a muse?) had another book in the offing, because near the end of The Transition Witness, one of the secondary characters received a gift for future use and a prophecy about her rapid rise to power. I really wanted to know how her future would turn out, and the only way to find out would be to write about it.
But would I be able to?
That question haunted me for a year as I finished the rewrites of The Transition Witness and kept myself busy with my day job. But as publication time neared, the question had to be answered. How would The Transition Witness be billed, as a one-shot wonder or a series? I needed the answer.
And so I sat down one day at my iPad, cleared my mind, and asked for help. My fingers began to type (SPOILER ALERT):
Gemini Stockton's left eyelid felt the soft edge of the contact lens as it closed for a blink. In its
clear concave surface, she could see Director Malick's potential heart attack. Her lens-less
right eye saw a healthy man of forty. She held the Consolidate's senior director steady in her
gaze. If she was to join him permanently here at the directors' table, she must demonstrate her
internal power with every movement, even one as tiny as a blink.
"Your mother's resurrection will proceed on the day that DC-1128 dies." Director Malick's
control was so precise, that only his lips and tongue had motion. It was as if a stone had been
given voice.
Well, there it was, a storyline inventing itself as it went. Or, as I've begun to call it, "a plot without thought."
What is this process that allows for a talent to present itself with no training? I had listened to Burt Goldman's Quantum Jumping course, which describes how to access any talent. But I had not used that process. I had simply asked for help, and then remained still and waited.
I have come to believe that there is a universal mind that we can tap into. Some might call it "God," others, "the collective unconscious." It has all knowledge. It possesses all talents. And it can be accessed through a stilled mind and open heart.
Whatever creative endeavor you love most, try this: Say a silent prayer asking for help, and then empty your mind of thought. Feel the love in your heart. Sit there in a state of trust, and just wait for it. It will come. Whether a line of text, the stroke of a paintbrush or a guitar riff, the first one will come.
Delight in it. Observe it, but don't try to control it. Wait for the next, and the next, and the next.
I believe we are living in a time during which we all must express our gifts. They're called gifts not only because we have received them, but because they're meant to be given. Ask. Receive. Create. Give. And you will fall in love with life.
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