Something a bit different...
Lately, all my posts have been about my new novel's release... My first novel.
Naturally, I'm very excited about it. And have moved to Vietnam (and later to Canada) to finish the sequel, which is coming along well. Don't worry, mum, I'll be home soon. :)
But today I thought I'd share with you something a little different. Here is the second part of my animated film 'Amoretta'.
It's an astral traveling, suspenseful musical in a faraway land.
Hope you enjoy!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m2O_N7OYqYA
Sunday, 15 April 2012
Wednesday, 11 April 2012
The Early Ascension of the 23rd King of Shambhala - Chapter One of 'TheLast King of Shambhala' - SAMPLE
Click here for the Prologue
CHAPTER ONE: The Early Ascension of the 23rd King of Shambhala
CHAPTER ONE: The Early Ascension of the 23rd King of Shambhala
In a Standard Twelve 4-Door Saloon on a gravelly road from Scotland to England. Midgard, the land of the humans. August, 1941.
Raymond fidgeted nervously with the radio dial in the dark, keeping his eyes on the road.
“Where’s the pickup point?” yawned Cyan in the passenger seat, scratching the stubble on his chin, before brushing a hand casually through his curly blond hair.
Raymond flicked a glance to the rear vision mirror, then back to the road. Then back to the mirror.
“See that car behind us?” whispered Raymond, readjusting his mirror.
Cyan swivelled in his seat.
Two hundred metres back, just coming down the hill behind them, was a set of headlights.
“We’re being followed,” Raymond muttered, grabbing Cyan's shoulder and jerking him around to face forwards.
Cyan opened the glove box and pulled out a brown paper bag. From the bag, he pulled a shiny silver pistol. He wiped it down with a cloth.
“Are you sure?” asked Cyan. “I thought it only turned on to this road half a mile back.”
“That’s the thing,” started Raymond as he turned the headlights off and pulled up beside a farm fence.
“What’s the thing?” Cyan persisted.
“We’ve had a car following us since we left Duncansby Head. And every ten miles or so, they turn off and another turns on to the road where they left off. And the cars keep getting closer and closer...”
Quietly, Cyan and Raymond slid out of their car, and hid behind it.
“What are you doing?” Raymond asked, his sharp features now accentuated in the eerie moonlight.
Cyan was screwing a silencer piece to the end of his gun.
“Taking precautions,” said Cyan, with a crooked smile.
Before Raymond could ask more questions, there was a ‘ping’ and he dropped neatly onto the gravelly road.
“I’m sorry, Raymond,” Cyan whispered to Raymond’s body. “May God take care of you now, good friend.”
Suddenly, Cyan clasped at his own chest, and gasped for air. He quickly unbuttoned his shirt, muttering swear words and suppressing a string of coughs.
Underneath his shirt was a rusty brass key on the end of a golden rope necklace. On one end of the key there was a carved crow’s head. And where the crow’s eye should be, was a sparkling blue Iolite stone. On the other end were jagged teeth.
Curiously, there was a recent burn mark where the key had rested on his chest.
Cyan held the key up to the moonlight, and as he did, swirls of purple began to envelope the stone. He then hid it once more, quickly buttoning his shirt.
The tyres of the car behind came to a stop on the road beside Raymond’s car. The doors edged opened and gently closed.
Four men stood on the other side of the car Cyan hid behind. Three with rifles. All wearing trench coats and whispering in German.
Cyan bit his lip and scanned the underneath of the car. Droplets of petrol formed a pool on the road.
He then searched Raymond’s body and found a packet of cigarettes and matches.
Cyan flicked a match against the side of the matchbox and into the petrol puddle.
Nothing. The Germans were now pressing their faces against the window with cupped hands, peering into the car.
Cyan calmly flicked another match at the puddle.
This time there was a spark and the puddle caught alight. The flame leapt up onto the underside of the car.
Cyan rolled away as the car began to be eaten by the flames.
Keeping low, he ducked under the fence and raced across the field to a barn on the far side of the farm. Behind him, a fireball leapt into the sky with a thunderous noise.
Suddenly one of the Germans yelled something. A gunshot resounded across the field, and flashlights circled like frenzied sharks looking for prey.
Cyan’s heart beat fast, but at a steady and controlled pace. He drew in deep measured breaths, regulating his intake and filling his lungs with a good supply of oxygen.
As he skulked into the barn he tossed a small, black, leather-bound book into the long grass.
The dull purple glow under his shirt turned into a radiant red light.
Cyan’s head swung smoothly, looking around in the barn, while his rough hands enfolded the beaming light projecting from the crow’s eye. Suddenly, he heard a rustle above him and rolled behind a bale of hay.
A mouse scurried about on the level above.
His eyes drifted across the barn, stopping on a set of winding steps leading down to a bomb shelter. The hatch to the shelter was open. He scampered down the steps, as softly as he could, closing the lid behind him.
The shelter was small and dark with a musty, abandoned smell. There wasn’t much in there except rusty farm equipment parts and a large upright boulder in the centre of the room.
“The next rune stone,” Cyan whispered. He looked at the red light burning against his panting chest.
Approaching the boulder, the key beneath his shirt began to hum quietly. Simultaneously, strange rune markings on the boulder began to glow.
Bang!
Cyan’s body flung around as a bullet went straight through his left shoulder. He fell to the sawdust floor. As he did, the rune markings disappeared and the hum of the key stopped.
Cyan rolled over and scowled at the person who’d shot him. The bullet wound rapidly began to heal.
There stood a blonde woman, with a pistol in one gloved hand and a lantern in the other. The light from the lantern danced on her soft golden face.
“Give me key,” she said in a Russian accent, pointing her gun at Cyan.
He pointed to his shoulder. It was already almost completely mended, and he swung his arm vigorously to demonstrate that fact. “Looks like you’ll have to use your imagination, then… you won’t have much luck killing me with that pistol,” he mocked.
Cyan squinted in the dim light at her.
“You again? You just won’t leave me alone, will you? You follow me around so much I’m starting to think you like me.”
He baited her further. “Do I excite you? Make you feel dangerous? Like a schoolgirl chasing the neighbourhood bad boy? Do you write my name all over your pencil case and ruler? Shall we sit next to each other at lunch?”
The Russian woman raised her eyebrows and cocked her head to the side. “Give me key and live. Do not give me, and I kill you. Or worse, Nazis take it.”
“You know, I can’t just give it to the first pretty girl who asks me for it. I’m a gentleman, after all.”
“My orders say shoot to kill. Retrieve key at all costs.” She straightened her back. “How do you say? I am not hesitate in killing you this time, Cyan.”
Cyan responded with a leer. “Do we have to talk business straight away, comrade? You know, I was really starting to miss your china doll face … those exotic eyes and luscious round lips. And don’t get me started on your ear lobes.”
The woman glared at Cyan. “The key,” she said after a moment’s pause. “No games, Mr. Cyan.”
“That’s King Cyan to you.” He smirked and tapped his index finger on the side of his nose. “What makes you think that your government is more deserving of such power, anyway, Aleksandra?” He began scanning the room once more. “You humans already do such a good job killing each other without the key, do you really, seriously need more wood to burn this world to hell?”
Cyan grinned as he moved closer to her. “Admit that you have feelings for me so we can stop playing this cat and mouse game.”
“I only love for Mother Russia and my people,” said Aleksandra, as she steadily edged towards Cyan, keeping her gun on him. “The key only safe with powerful Allies, Cyan. Gone are days when could be hidden safely away in Shambhala, protected by might of Kalki King of Shambhala.
“I see you not agree, and so I kill you, if must. The plight of whole greater than individual. Greater than you.” She leant in to whisper in his ear. “I admit I enjoyed banter, but things come to end, Cyan. This will be last lesson you to learn.”
“Very well, Aleksandra. I’ll take a raincheck on the revealing our deep and eternal feelings bit,” he replied.
“When goat eat wolf,” Aleksandra said, her finger twitching on the trigger. “Perhaps then we reveal, mudak.”
Cyan suddenly flung himself on top of her. Her gun fired a shot into the ceiling of the bunker, and both the lantern and the gun flew out of her hands. The lantern smashed against one of the stone walls and extinguished, leaving them engulfed in total darkness.
Bits of the ceiling and shards of lantern glass rained down on top of the two as they wrestled on the floor. Cyan grabbed Aleksandra’s wrists and pinned them against the floor, but she broke one arm free and smacked him in the face with a tight fist.
“You…” Cyan growled before being clobbered once more with the back of her fist, “…really are not very lady-like, are you?”
She clobbered him again and tried to spit in his eye.
Suddenly they stopped, panting hard, but otherwise silent and still. Soft footsteps could be heard coming down the stairs.
“There four of them,” she whispered. “You hide. I deal.”
Cyan rolled off the woman, and as he did she gave him one last crack over the head. He swore at her under his breath, and hid behind some old farm equipment.
Casually, the Russian straightened her outfit and picked up her gun.
As she did so, three young Nazi soldiers holding rifles and a bald Nazi officer with a hooked nose stooped their heads under the entrance and entered the chamber.
“Hello lovely, nice to see you again, hope your day is going well,” beamed the Nazi officer as he sniffed at the room’s musty air. He towered over the woman. “It seems we are both here for the same thing. But one of us is outnumbered.”
“Major Jurgen Adler,” said Aleksandra with a smile, recognising the officer. “If you come for key, you missed the Cyan. I shot him, but he got away through portal.”
Jurgen walked about the bomb shelter with a half-smile and a puffed-up chest. He got down on his haunches and inspected the blood and glass on the ground with his torch. “I do not believe you. Ask me why.”
“Why? Why should I humour a Nazi pig before he orders me dead?”
“Because the more we talk, my darling Soviet,” grinned the old soldier, pulling a pistol from his trench coat and flashing a mixture of gold and cigar-stained teeth, “the longer you live. I know Russians don’t value life above Stalin’s Soviet, ‘workers of the world, unite’ and all that communist propaganda, but…” he paused to smirk, “I am very good at getting to the bottom of things, even with stubborn Soviet witches. This is why the Führer always gives me very important jobs to finish.”
Jurgen chuckled to himself as he slowly circled the room again. “So go on, humour me. Make the flash in a pan that is your pretty little life a little longer. Ask me why I don't believe you. It shall be fun to play this game before I paint the wall behind you with your brain matter. Do you not like to play fun games?”
“Go to hell, Jurgen!” she rasped, before pointing her pistol at the Nazi's head. “I’d rather put bullet in your head for mother Russia, than play your silly games.”
“I’ll tell you why I don’t believe you, you disrespectful cow,” said Jurgen. “I don’t believe in all this hocus pocus. It’s all nonsense: portals, pixies and potions. The wild imagination of fools and children. Foolishness is a weakness I despise and do not tolerate. Children I do not care much for either.”
“Then there is no need for you to be here,” Aleksandra said pointedly, as a smile crept over her face. “What is any of this worth to someone as sensible as you?”
“Oh, but I do need to be here, you filthy rat. I have had orders from the top, the absolute top, to get this key and this rune stone I have fortuitously been led to. It appears my good wine buddy Himmler does believe in such hocus pocus. And he has some interest in this article.”
The back and forth stopped. Jurgen paused as if straining to hear something.
He nodded quietly at two of the young soldiers and they looked over to where Cyan was hiding. Each raised their guns at the mechanical farm parts and edged towards him.
Before either could react, Cyan pounced, pulling one of the soldiers to the ground. Pressing a knife against his windpipe, Cyan had a human shield.
“Such clinical precision, young man,” applauded Jurgen with an amused clap. “You would make a very good soldier of the Third Reich.”
Cyan squinted at Jurgen. “Major Jurgen Adler?” he said with a growing smile. “How nice to get a personal visit from one of the twelve knights.” His smile quickly turned to a grimace. “Move and your man dies.”
“Okay. He dies,” Jurgen replied.
Bang!
The Nazi shot the young soldier dead without hesitation – right through the forehead. The bloody remains of the soldier’s head rested on Cyan’s shoulder.
“Well, there goes that bargaining chip,” said Cyan wryly.
“There’s no bargaining,” said Jurgen. “Bargaining is for the weak. For those who cannot dominate their enemy. The python does not bargain with the mouse.”
Cyan pushed the body off him and flung himself on to his feet. He immediately kicked Jurgen’s gun out of his hand and into the air. And, with the same leg, round-house kicked Jurgen in the head.
The Nazi Major staggered – spun – collapsed – into a bale of hay with fluttering eyelids and a mouthful of blood.
Cyan spun around and latched on to the rifle of one of the remaining two soldiers. He violently wrenched away the rifle, and thrust the butt of it into the surprised face of the first soldier. Blood gushed down the soldier’s shaven head and prominent ears.
In wild retaliation, the soldier threw a hook punch, which Cyan easily avoided. He countered with a reverse sweeping kick, and the soldier crashed to the floor with a smack, a groan and a crunch.
The remaining soldier, jaw clenched and edging backwards, aimed his rifle at Cyan.
Cyan charged at him, but at the last second, diverted his run. As the trembling soldier pulled the trigger, Cyan launched himself at the wall and flipped onto his enemy’s shoulders. The soldier’s bullet imbedded itself into the crusty wall opposite them – part of the wall crumbled to the ground.
With the soldier’s head now firmly between his legs, Cyan twisted his body and killed the man with an audible snap.
The two fell to the floor.
Cyan raised his eyebrows.
“No chest pain?” he thought aloud, and instinctively felt about his chest area. “Damn it! The key.” His eyes darted about the room, adding, “and she’s gone. That little thief… Something tells me she didn’t just take it so she could see me again.”
Cyan scrambled to his feet and briskly walked towards the stairs, momentarily stopping to check his pocket watch.
Bang!
Just as Cyan got to the bottom of the stairs a bullet flew through his back and out his chest. The soldier with the face bloodied by the rifle butt stood behind Cyan, poised for another shot. He watched Cyan arch his back with impact, and then slip to the floor in his own blood.
A half-smile crept over the soldier’s battered face. He wiped away blood trickling down from the corner of his grin with a sleeve.
Jurgen gingerly got to his feet and walked over to Cyan. He flipped Cyan over, peering down at the eyes staring blankly back at him.
Jurgen felt for Cyan’s pulse.
“Is he dead?” the young soldier asked, almost nervously.
“Dead, unless this thing can stop its pulse too,” responded the older Nazi in a deadpan manner. “But the V-Agent,” said Jurgen, pausing to inspect Cyan's body more closely, “the Valkyrie Agent got the key.”
“Was he the...?” the younger Nazi pressed.
Jurgen rolled up Cyan’s sleeves and looked at his pale wrists. On Cyan’s left wrist was a tattoo of a skull with a key in its mouth. As Jurgen inspected the tattoo, it faded away.
“He was... but now he is one of us.” Jurgen put a hand on Cyan's forehead, closed Cyan's eyes, and began muttering a strange chant.
“He’s what? ... What are you doing?” asked the young soldier behind him. But Jurgen did not answer. He just kept chanting.
And before the soldier could ask again, Cyan’s dead body began coughing up green puffs of smoke and making screeching, moaning and snarling noises. The young soldier backed away from the body and his commander.
A smirk flashed upon Jurgen’s broad face as Cyan’s eyes flickered open once more.
Saturday, 7 April 2012
Wednesday, 4 April 2012
Part Two: The Last King of Shambhala Preview
The below is part two of a preview of my latest book 'The Last King of Shambhala'. Click here for part one.
“I have never been here before,” I said, pausing briefly to listen to the echoing of my voice. “Well, I don’t think I have. I have no memory of a life before.”
“I am Vibhishana, the Protector of Lanka,” the being responded, now talking with perfect articulation in a language I could understand. “Welcome back.”
“Sri Lanka?” I asked.
Amisha used to sit me down with a map and ask if any countries looked familiar. Or if I felt a connection in my heart to any. To her disappointment, none looked familiar to me, nor incited any special feelings, but the practice did improve my geography.
The being shook his head, and a smile formed on his pussycat lips. “What you call Sri Lanka is a sacred place of beauty, but it is not Lanka. This is Lanka, although very different to how Lanka once was. But it is still surrounded by the Trikuta Mountains,” he said, pointing a paw to the surrounding mountains out the windows. “Still an inland island. A fortress of secrecy.” He paused. “And still, only through Lanka, can one find Shambhala. However, the door to Shambhala is not found within the temple walls, but found within.”
“Within Lanka?” I asked.
Vibhishana leaned forward and placed a stubby index finger on my forehead. “Within,” he said.
After an initial static shock that emanated from his finger, my vision blurred and filled with vibrant colours, some outside the spectrum of human perception. My eyes adjusted and the colours faded.
The temple was as it was before – but Vibhishana was no longer to be seen.
Suddenly, an apparition of a monk clasping a chicken to his chest floated past. His image was smoky, semi-transparent and bathed in a warm light.
As quickly as the figure had appeared, it disappeared.
Then another two appeared. Women dressed in bright saris, one red and one blue, with gold trimmings and vivid patterns. They danced, and as they did, their long brown hair swished and sparkles flew from their saris and glistening eyes.
As they passed, my vision blurred again, and I marvelled once more at the kaleidoscope before me. But as the colours faded this time, the chamber appeared completely different.
It looked brand new and was filled with people dancing, drumming, laughing and singing. There seemed to be representatives from every culture in the world on the shimmering floor. There also seemed to be creatures that were humanoid, but not quite human, and cows and goats intermingling.
In the middle of the hall was an ancient-looking, sandy obelisk. Coming from the top of the obelisk were ropes with fluttering flags attached to them.
I approached the obelisk and noticed people praying around it. When I put my hand on the structure, symbols on it lit up and glowed with an ethereal light.
My eyes drifted upwards. Where the ceiling should have been was a white light emitting heat and a thin veil of smoke.
My eyes scanned the room again. Occasionally, as my eyes zoned out, I caught glimpses of the crumbling temple I’d left behind. I must admit this made me wonder whether I really had left the temple, or was merely having a hallucination of some kind.
“They are celebrating your return,” came a voice beside me. It was Vibhishana.
“None of them have noticed me,” I muttered, turning to him.
“They cannot see you yet,” he answered simply.
“Then why are they celebrating my return?”
“Because they trust in the process of life, and they do not need to see you for them to celebrate you being here. They understand when you feel the essence of something, and celebrate it, it will come.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
I peered at Vibhishana’s curling cat lips.
“Who am I?” I asked. “That is why I am here, isn’t it? I am here to find out who I am.”
“This question evades most on your plane of existence. You are not the only one who has forgotten who you truly are. Perhaps only the newborns that cannot yet talk know the truth of their being.”
“Do you know who I am?” I pressed. “Because if you do, can you just tell me? None of this is really making any sense at all, and I’d prefer it did.”
“Here, it is the search, not the answer, that we cherish. For even the most revered mandate is not fixed, but constantly explored.” He paused to gaze into my eyes.
His large round eyes were rather hypnotic. When I looked into them, I became lost in an endless ocean of nothingness. A feeling very hard to describe, but akin perhaps to a vivid daydream you cannot remember once it has finished.
“Amisha told me I could read the Akashic Records, and that would enlighten me to who I am,” I said, still in a half-daze. “Of course, you could just tell me and save me the trouble.”
“Amisha knew who you were, but she did not tell you because she knew the value in the search.”
“I take it I can still read the Akashic Records then?”
“Come,” said Vibhishana.
He led me out of the hall and into the night air, under a sky speckled with stars. We walked among towering ash trees with little star-like lights in their branches. The trees grew by a sparkling lake that reflected the starry sky, and the mountains were inky and jagged in the distance.
We then trekked up a grassy hill towards a hut.
Upon reaching the doorway, Vibhishana gestured for me to enter. “Inside you shall find Sangoma. He is always happy to meet those at the crossroads of dimensions.”
I ducked my head inside and sat at a pine chair opposite Sangoma.
Sangoma had dark wrinkly skin, with long, intricately beaded hair raining down from under a faded bowler hat. His suit and gold alligator-headed cane gave the impression of a distinguished gentleman, but his unkempt bushy black and silver beard, bare feet and assortment of jingling bracelets and anklets told a different story.
A scrawny dog came from outside and lay by his feet.
“Namaste,” I said to him, and bowed my head. “I am called Damon. And you must be Sangoma?”
“I am not interested in labels,” sniped the elderly man, as he emptied a sack of shells onto the floor and inspected where they fell.
“You are in search of the Akashic Records,” he said, glancing up at me.
“I am in search of the truth; if the Akashic Records is the label you give it, then yes, that is what I am after,” I said, grinning.
“Your quest is a noble one,” he said, expressionless, save for the blinking of his eyes.
“I’d like to know who I am,” I said. “It has been about 12 months now, and I am no closer to learning who I am, or rather, was.”
“Who do you want to know?” Sangoma asked. “The dream character or the one who is dreaming?”
“Neither,” I grumbled. “I think something has been lost in translation. I want to know who I am in real, physical life.”
Sangoma stood up and hobbled over to a bookcase at the back of the hut. His finger traced along the spines of the heavy, leather-bound books on the shelf. He stopped at one with a maroon cover and pulled it out.
As he placed it on my lap, I read the title embossed in gold on the cover:
The Last King of Shambhala, Akashic Records.
I paused.
“Is this the story of my life?”
“This is the first book I give everyone who comes here wanting to know who they are,” he replied. “This book belongs to the final King of Shambhala, but the story within the leather cover changes depending on the reader.”
I flicked through the pages. “The pages are blank,” I said, scratching my cheek. “How can I learn who I am when the pages are blank?”
Sangoma’s face crinkled into the beginnings of a smile. “Trust that the words will come, just before you need to read them.”
With this, he stood up, twirled his alligator-topped cane, and left the hut.
I focused on the first page and tried forcing words. Nothing happened.
After a few minutes of effort, I took a deep breath, relaxed my eyes and gazed back down. I spoke aloud. “Who am I?”
As I spoke, the words began to appear...
The Last King of Shambhala
Chapter One to follow. (The above is a preview of my new book 'The Last King of Shambhala', available on all good online book stores including Amazon Kindle.)
“I have never been here before,” I said, pausing briefly to listen to the echoing of my voice. “Well, I don’t think I have. I have no memory of a life before.”
“I am Vibhishana, the Protector of Lanka,” the being responded, now talking with perfect articulation in a language I could understand. “Welcome back.”
“Sri Lanka?” I asked.
Amisha used to sit me down with a map and ask if any countries looked familiar. Or if I felt a connection in my heart to any. To her disappointment, none looked familiar to me, nor incited any special feelings, but the practice did improve my geography.
The being shook his head, and a smile formed on his pussycat lips. “What you call Sri Lanka is a sacred place of beauty, but it is not Lanka. This is Lanka, although very different to how Lanka once was. But it is still surrounded by the Trikuta Mountains,” he said, pointing a paw to the surrounding mountains out the windows. “Still an inland island. A fortress of secrecy.” He paused. “And still, only through Lanka, can one find Shambhala. However, the door to Shambhala is not found within the temple walls, but found within.”
“Within Lanka?” I asked.
Vibhishana leaned forward and placed a stubby index finger on my forehead. “Within,” he said.
After an initial static shock that emanated from his finger, my vision blurred and filled with vibrant colours, some outside the spectrum of human perception. My eyes adjusted and the colours faded.
The temple was as it was before – but Vibhishana was no longer to be seen.
Suddenly, an apparition of a monk clasping a chicken to his chest floated past. His image was smoky, semi-transparent and bathed in a warm light.
As quickly as the figure had appeared, it disappeared.
Then another two appeared. Women dressed in bright saris, one red and one blue, with gold trimmings and vivid patterns. They danced, and as they did, their long brown hair swished and sparkles flew from their saris and glistening eyes.
As they passed, my vision blurred again, and I marvelled once more at the kaleidoscope before me. But as the colours faded this time, the chamber appeared completely different.
It looked brand new and was filled with people dancing, drumming, laughing and singing. There seemed to be representatives from every culture in the world on the shimmering floor. There also seemed to be creatures that were humanoid, but not quite human, and cows and goats intermingling.
In the middle of the hall was an ancient-looking, sandy obelisk. Coming from the top of the obelisk were ropes with fluttering flags attached to them.
I approached the obelisk and noticed people praying around it. When I put my hand on the structure, symbols on it lit up and glowed with an ethereal light.
My eyes drifted upwards. Where the ceiling should have been was a white light emitting heat and a thin veil of smoke.
My eyes scanned the room again. Occasionally, as my eyes zoned out, I caught glimpses of the crumbling temple I’d left behind. I must admit this made me wonder whether I really had left the temple, or was merely having a hallucination of some kind.
“They are celebrating your return,” came a voice beside me. It was Vibhishana.
“None of them have noticed me,” I muttered, turning to him.
“They cannot see you yet,” he answered simply.
“Then why are they celebrating my return?”
“Because they trust in the process of life, and they do not need to see you for them to celebrate you being here. They understand when you feel the essence of something, and celebrate it, it will come.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
I peered at Vibhishana’s curling cat lips.
“Who am I?” I asked. “That is why I am here, isn’t it? I am here to find out who I am.”
“This question evades most on your plane of existence. You are not the only one who has forgotten who you truly are. Perhaps only the newborns that cannot yet talk know the truth of their being.”
“Do you know who I am?” I pressed. “Because if you do, can you just tell me? None of this is really making any sense at all, and I’d prefer it did.”
“Here, it is the search, not the answer, that we cherish. For even the most revered mandate is not fixed, but constantly explored.” He paused to gaze into my eyes.
His large round eyes were rather hypnotic. When I looked into them, I became lost in an endless ocean of nothingness. A feeling very hard to describe, but akin perhaps to a vivid daydream you cannot remember once it has finished.
“Amisha told me I could read the Akashic Records, and that would enlighten me to who I am,” I said, still in a half-daze. “Of course, you could just tell me and save me the trouble.”
“Amisha knew who you were, but she did not tell you because she knew the value in the search.”
“I take it I can still read the Akashic Records then?”
“Come,” said Vibhishana.
He led me out of the hall and into the night air, under a sky speckled with stars. We walked among towering ash trees with little star-like lights in their branches. The trees grew by a sparkling lake that reflected the starry sky, and the mountains were inky and jagged in the distance.
We then trekked up a grassy hill towards a hut.
Upon reaching the doorway, Vibhishana gestured for me to enter. “Inside you shall find Sangoma. He is always happy to meet those at the crossroads of dimensions.”
I ducked my head inside and sat at a pine chair opposite Sangoma.
Sangoma had dark wrinkly skin, with long, intricately beaded hair raining down from under a faded bowler hat. His suit and gold alligator-headed cane gave the impression of a distinguished gentleman, but his unkempt bushy black and silver beard, bare feet and assortment of jingling bracelets and anklets told a different story.
A scrawny dog came from outside and lay by his feet.
“Namaste,” I said to him, and bowed my head. “I am called Damon. And you must be Sangoma?”
“I am not interested in labels,” sniped the elderly man, as he emptied a sack of shells onto the floor and inspected where they fell.
“You are in search of the Akashic Records,” he said, glancing up at me.
“I am in search of the truth; if the Akashic Records is the label you give it, then yes, that is what I am after,” I said, grinning.
“Your quest is a noble one,” he said, expressionless, save for the blinking of his eyes.
“I’d like to know who I am,” I said. “It has been about 12 months now, and I am no closer to learning who I am, or rather, was.”
“Who do you want to know?” Sangoma asked. “The dream character or the one who is dreaming?”
“Neither,” I grumbled. “I think something has been lost in translation. I want to know who I am in real, physical life.”
Sangoma stood up and hobbled over to a bookcase at the back of the hut. His finger traced along the spines of the heavy, leather-bound books on the shelf. He stopped at one with a maroon cover and pulled it out.
As he placed it on my lap, I read the title embossed in gold on the cover:
The Last King of Shambhala, Akashic Records.
I paused.
“Is this the story of my life?”
“This is the first book I give everyone who comes here wanting to know who they are,” he replied. “This book belongs to the final King of Shambhala, but the story within the leather cover changes depending on the reader.”
I flicked through the pages. “The pages are blank,” I said, scratching my cheek. “How can I learn who I am when the pages are blank?”
Sangoma’s face crinkled into the beginnings of a smile. “Trust that the words will come, just before you need to read them.”
With this, he stood up, twirled his alligator-topped cane, and left the hut.
I focused on the first page and tried forcing words. Nothing happened.
After a few minutes of effort, I took a deep breath, relaxed my eyes and gazed back down. I spoke aloud. “Who am I?”
As I spoke, the words began to appear...
The Last King of Shambhala
Chapter One to follow. (The above is a preview of my new book 'The Last King of Shambhala', available on all good online book stores including Amazon Kindle.)
Sunday, 1 April 2012
The Last King of Shambhala Preview
The below is a preview of my new book 'The Last King of Shambhala', available on all good online book stores including Amazon Kindle.
“At the centre of your being, you have the answer. You know who you are, and you know what you want.”
- Lao Tzu
It’s a peculiar thing, having no memory.
Not knowing your name or who you are. Not knowing what you were doing mere minutes ago. Not even having one hazy, distant memory of a life before.
It’s as if you were born again, seeing the world for the very first time. At least, that’s how I felt when the two Nepalese herdsmen unearthed me.
I remember hearing spiked shoes cutting the ice, muffled voices, the shovels slicing through layers of snow, and finally my limp body being pulled through a hole a little wider than my head.
As far as I am concerned, that was my second birth.
They carried me down the mountain to their village, and looked for somewhere to accommodate me while I recovered. The herdsmen’s sister, Amisha, put me up in her home.
I was to stay for at least three weeks, insisted Amisha, using a calendar to communicate this to me. Three weeks turned into a few months, which turned into a year.
Amisha nursed me back to health and helped me get back on my feet – literally. And as she did, I became one of her family.
I learnt to communicate with Amisha’s family: charades at first, then single words, then stumbling sentences, and finally I could speak Nepalese fluently. (In fact, at the speed I picked it up, I wondered whether I had had a basic grasp of it in my ‘previous life’.)
I ate with them, cooked with them, worked in their shop, celebrated birthdays with them, and joined in their customs. I also helped Amisha as best as I could with the jobs her husband used to do before he passed away, five years ago.
Naturally I got a lot of attention from the local villagers when I went to the markets with Amisha. Each day I’d be accosted by another villager; what was I doing up in the mountains, who was I, where did I come from? The explanation became routine, and I learnt to recite an acceptable story without much thought.
“All I remember,” I would say, “was the feeling of finally letting go as the snowstorm tackled me to the ground and disabled my body. The last memory I had was staring blankly at the snow covering my body, and waiting for a tunnel with a bright light at the end to appear.”
At that moment, death didn’t frighten me. Not the way it does now. It was more a curiosity.
Will my life rush before my eyes? Will I understand life, the universe and creation in a jolt of enlightenment? Will I be greeted by an angel or a man with a white beard?
Or will dead family members or close friends greet me?
Will the people who greet me be people I like, people I don’t like, or merely a handful of random folk who crossed my path in life, who have some sort of cosmic obligation to give me the keys to the pearly gates?
And importantly, will I know that I am dead? That’s assuming, of course, that there is some kind of afterlife. If there wasn’t, I guess my wondering could have ceased forever more.
But death didn’t happen. Two quick-thinking herdsmen defied the Grim Reaper, though not before he took the part that made me who I am – or who I was. My past was wiped from my conscious recollection.
And although at first I enjoyed the freedom of a life without years of baggage, a part of me challenged my spirit’s gleeful, aimless meanderings. In the recesses of my mind, questions about my past began creeping in, until finally my dominant thought was: Who am I, and what am I doing here?
It was then that Amisha took me aside. We had been celebrating the New Year, and I’d estimate it was an hour or so after the midnight firecrackers had been dragged through the streets to every kid’s delight and every cautious mother’s fright.
We sat down at the square table squished in the corner of the dirt floor kitchen. She held my hands and smiled at me in the same way she smiled at her own children.
“Damon,” said Amisha, her eyebrows rising and her smile fading.
Damon was the name a villager had given me, in reference to an actor called Matt Damon who, I’m told, once portrayed a character found in the ocean with amnesia. Most of the villagers did not see movies often, but after it had been explained to them, this quickly became what I was affectionately known as.
“Damon,” she repeated, “there is something I want to reveal to you. Something none of the other villagers know. A secret kept within our family’s bloodline.”
I did not know what to say. It came as an honour, but also, a surprise. This very unassuming family did not look like they kept a secret, and it seemed curious they would reveal it to me, despite the close relationships I had fostered with Amisha, her two herdsmen brothers and her children.
“The secrecy keeps it alive and intact,” whispered Amisha, producing a tattered scroll. “It keeps it from getting into the wrong hands, so that when someone comes along with the right hands, they can hold it. In the wrong hands the secret would fall through their fingers like sand, and be gone forever.”
“Why are you telling me this?” I asked, not quite understanding her vague right and wrong hand explanation.
“Because you are the one our family has been waiting for. Your hands are the right hands. I needed to be very sure you were indeed the one my family waited for before I made the decision to reveal this to you. So do not take my words lightly when I say you are the one, for it is the result of much mental deliberation.” Well, those weren’t her exact words. I’m translating and paraphrasing.
She then handed me the scroll. It was very brittle, so I opened it with care and flattened it out on the table. It read: Vibhishana. And below this word – which meant nothing to me – was a map.
“This is the real name of what people call the Yeti or Meh-Teh.” She paused for a beat to let me take in what she had just said. “A sacred name we have kept in the family but not spoken.
“If you trek to the ‘Temple of the Blessed’ hidden deep in the forest,” she said, pointing to a spot on the map, “and call his real name three times,” she held up three fingers, “he will come to you, and show you to the gates of Shambhala. You call him, and you wait.”
I sat in silence. After spending so much time with Amisha’s family I had learned quickly to just accept their superstitions and go along with them, but this wasn’t the usual crazy talk.
This was something more ‘out there’ than refraining from whistling in the home, or throwing three rocks ahead of you before making a journey, or celebrating when a crow builds a nest on your roof because you have now been blessed with good luck.
Actually, thinking about it now, I had learnt that last one – about the crow bringing good luck – the morning before Amisha revealed her secret to me. We had noticed the bristly nest built into the corner of her rooftop, with a pair of black eyes and a sharp beak turned towards us inquisitively. Amisha had thrown her hands up in joy, and explained the superstition to me. In hindsight, that might explain why she decided it was the right time to confide in me.
I had so many questions, but didn’t know which one to start with. “Why do I need to see this Vibhishana?” I murmured.
“Because he is going to take you to Shambhala. In Shambhala, you will be given the Akashic Records, and you will discover who you are. Who I already know you to be. Only then, may you return, should you wish to.”
Her left eye twitched. After spending much time by her side, I knew this meant she was hiding her emotions. What emotions, I do not know.
(I had also learnt from one of Amisha’s equally superstitious brothers that when a woman’s left eye twitched, you could expect good luck. I found myself getting a lot of good luck from Amisha these days.)
After all Amisha had done for me, and because of the loving bond that had grown between us, I found it impossible to refuse her. I knew that, though heartbreaking, it would be less difficult to say farewell to her and her kin – the only family I had ever known – than to refuse such an earnest request.
I packed a satchel, and left three days later. To avoid questioning, I left before sunrise and told no one outside my adopted family of my departure.
It took two days, sleeping on trains and buses, before I arrived at a remote village on the edge of the forest. Then, another two days crossing wild rivers, trekking through endless stretches of waist-high grass, and up and down mountainous ranges, before I arrived at the temple.
At one point, towards the end of the second day, I found myself lost in thick forest. Two crows flew overhead and I imagined Amisha’s voice in my head:
The great Garuda, King of the Birds, and Yama, Lord of the Afterlife, have sent them to guide you through the jungle thicket to the temple.
After spending so much time with Amisha and her children, it was strange how these beliefs and superstitions infiltrated my mind, even at a subconscious level. I do not remember hearing about Garuda or Yama, and perhaps they were the result of a highly active imagination, but I decided to follow the birds anyway. It was as good as any other direction, I justified to my sceptical self.
After following the birds for perhaps half an hour, I caught a glimpse of the temple. It was hidden by an overgrowth of vines, practically invisible if you did not know what you were looking for. I entered the temple through a hole in the side, negotiating spider webs and clouds of dust that rolled like ocean waves at my feet.
Inside, the walls were covered in a magnificent crumbling mosaic that seemed to depict many stories.
The temple was silent, but in my head I swore I could hear monks chanting a deep mantra accompanied by windpipes, chimes and the whistle of bronze cylindrical tubes twirling. I was soon to discover that the temple was bustling with monks, albeit on a different vibrational dimension. So, though I didn’t realise it at the time, what I heard so clearly in my head was not my whimsical imagination, rather, a result of extra-sensory perception.
I emptied the contents of my satchel on to the cracked marble floor, and my quivering hands flattened out the scroll. I unconsciously began picking at the bristles on my chin.
“Vibhishana,” I called. My voice bounced off the walls. I called his name twice more, as Amisha had instructed. And then I waited, sitting cross-legged, for it seemed the most appropriate thing to do in a temple.
Time moved slowly. And by that, I am not meaning my perception of time, but actual time. It appeared that inside the temple I was in a curious time dilation field that ran at a much slower rate than the outside world. There was no rational explanation for this phenomenon, and so I had no choice but to accept something mystical might be taking place.
I first noticed this when I looked out the window in search of the approaching Yeti. The trees did not sway lazily with the wind, but rather pulsed at the rate of my heart. And comparatively, movements inside the temple appeared to float like movements in a dream.
I decided to calculate the time difference while waiting for the Yeti. I estimated that as two hours passed on the fob watch Amisha had given me for my ‘birthday’ (the anniversary of when I was found in the snow), the mid-morning sun had crossed the sky, set, and made way for the rising moon.
And so, although it felt like only four hours had passed before the Yeti… Vibhishana… arrived, I surmised that it had taken him a little under a day of travelling to get to the temple.
Vibhishana, the figure from all the Yeti stories and sightings, arrived just as my head began nodding off to sleep. I had heard footsteps in the temple and my eyes snapped open. I instantly became very alert.
A cool breeze whistled through the temple, disturbing the dust clinging to the walls. I sat silently.
A tall figure approached me, and the closer he got, the clearer his features became. Finally, he sat down, cross-legged, before me.
He was humanoid, though clearly not human. He had hairy cream skin stretched across a thickset, muscle-bound body. The hair on his head and square jaw was particularly long and thick. He had a snout like a cat, and eyes that projected wisdom, peace and contentment.
Despite his animalistic appearance, his mannerisms were very human-like, and he was adorned with gold jewellery and dressed in garments of intricately patterned silk.
The being began making noises. A measured sequence of grunts, whistles, whimpers and clicks, that seemed to have an order to it that suggested a language, alas, one that I could not understand.
“Namaste,” I said, placing the palms of my hands together and bowing my head.
The being mimicked my gesture and continued his attempt to communicate.
As I focused on these sounds however, they began to form words I could understand. “So you have finally returned,” I eventually heard him say, much to my amazement.
Continue reading? Click here for part two. (The above is a preview of my new book 'The Last King of Shambhala', available on all good online book stores including Amazon Kindle.)
“At the centre of your being, you have the answer. You know who you are, and you know what you want.”
- Lao Tzu
It’s a peculiar thing, having no memory.
Not knowing your name or who you are. Not knowing what you were doing mere minutes ago. Not even having one hazy, distant memory of a life before.
It’s as if you were born again, seeing the world for the very first time. At least, that’s how I felt when the two Nepalese herdsmen unearthed me.
I remember hearing spiked shoes cutting the ice, muffled voices, the shovels slicing through layers of snow, and finally my limp body being pulled through a hole a little wider than my head.
As far as I am concerned, that was my second birth.
I was to stay for at least three weeks, insisted Amisha, using a calendar to communicate this to me. Three weeks turned into a few months, which turned into a year.
Amisha nursed me back to health and helped me get back on my feet – literally. And as she did, I became one of her family.
I learnt to communicate with Amisha’s family: charades at first, then single words, then stumbling sentences, and finally I could speak Nepalese fluently. (In fact, at the speed I picked it up, I wondered whether I had had a basic grasp of it in my ‘previous life’.)
I ate with them, cooked with them, worked in their shop, celebrated birthdays with them, and joined in their customs. I also helped Amisha as best as I could with the jobs her husband used to do before he passed away, five years ago.
“All I remember,” I would say, “was the feeling of finally letting go as the snowstorm tackled me to the ground and disabled my body. The last memory I had was staring blankly at the snow covering my body, and waiting for a tunnel with a bright light at the end to appear.”
At that moment, death didn’t frighten me. Not the way it does now. It was more a curiosity.
Will my life rush before my eyes? Will I understand life, the universe and creation in a jolt of enlightenment? Will I be greeted by an angel or a man with a white beard?
Or will dead family members or close friends greet me?
Will the people who greet me be people I like, people I don’t like, or merely a handful of random folk who crossed my path in life, who have some sort of cosmic obligation to give me the keys to the pearly gates?
And importantly, will I know that I am dead? That’s assuming, of course, that there is some kind of afterlife. If there wasn’t, I guess my wondering could have ceased forever more.
But death didn’t happen. Two quick-thinking herdsmen defied the Grim Reaper, though not before he took the part that made me who I am – or who I was. My past was wiped from my conscious recollection.
And although at first I enjoyed the freedom of a life without years of baggage, a part of me challenged my spirit’s gleeful, aimless meanderings. In the recesses of my mind, questions about my past began creeping in, until finally my dominant thought was: Who am I, and what am I doing here?
It was then that Amisha took me aside. We had been celebrating the New Year, and I’d estimate it was an hour or so after the midnight firecrackers had been dragged through the streets to every kid’s delight and every cautious mother’s fright.
We sat down at the square table squished in the corner of the dirt floor kitchen. She held my hands and smiled at me in the same way she smiled at her own children.
“Damon,” said Amisha, her eyebrows rising and her smile fading.
Damon was the name a villager had given me, in reference to an actor called Matt Damon who, I’m told, once portrayed a character found in the ocean with amnesia. Most of the villagers did not see movies often, but after it had been explained to them, this quickly became what I was affectionately known as.
“Damon,” she repeated, “there is something I want to reveal to you. Something none of the other villagers know. A secret kept within our family’s bloodline.”
I did not know what to say. It came as an honour, but also, a surprise. This very unassuming family did not look like they kept a secret, and it seemed curious they would reveal it to me, despite the close relationships I had fostered with Amisha, her two herdsmen brothers and her children.
“The secrecy keeps it alive and intact,” whispered Amisha, producing a tattered scroll. “It keeps it from getting into the wrong hands, so that when someone comes along with the right hands, they can hold it. In the wrong hands the secret would fall through their fingers like sand, and be gone forever.”
“Why are you telling me this?” I asked, not quite understanding her vague right and wrong hand explanation.
“Because you are the one our family has been waiting for. Your hands are the right hands. I needed to be very sure you were indeed the one my family waited for before I made the decision to reveal this to you. So do not take my words lightly when I say you are the one, for it is the result of much mental deliberation.” Well, those weren’t her exact words. I’m translating and paraphrasing.
She then handed me the scroll. It was very brittle, so I opened it with care and flattened it out on the table. It read: Vibhishana. And below this word – which meant nothing to me – was a map.
“This is the real name of what people call the Yeti or Meh-Teh.” She paused for a beat to let me take in what she had just said. “A sacred name we have kept in the family but not spoken.
I sat in silence. After spending so much time with Amisha’s family I had learned quickly to just accept their superstitions and go along with them, but this wasn’t the usual crazy talk.
This was something more ‘out there’ than refraining from whistling in the home, or throwing three rocks ahead of you before making a journey, or celebrating when a crow builds a nest on your roof because you have now been blessed with good luck.
Actually, thinking about it now, I had learnt that last one – about the crow bringing good luck – the morning before Amisha revealed her secret to me. We had noticed the bristly nest built into the corner of her rooftop, with a pair of black eyes and a sharp beak turned towards us inquisitively. Amisha had thrown her hands up in joy, and explained the superstition to me. In hindsight, that might explain why she decided it was the right time to confide in me.
I had so many questions, but didn’t know which one to start with. “Why do I need to see this Vibhishana?” I murmured.
“Because he is going to take you to Shambhala. In Shambhala, you will be given the Akashic Records, and you will discover who you are. Who I already know you to be. Only then, may you return, should you wish to.”
Her left eye twitched. After spending much time by her side, I knew this meant she was hiding her emotions. What emotions, I do not know.
(I had also learnt from one of Amisha’s equally superstitious brothers that when a woman’s left eye twitched, you could expect good luck. I found myself getting a lot of good luck from Amisha these days.)
After all Amisha had done for me, and because of the loving bond that had grown between us, I found it impossible to refuse her. I knew that, though heartbreaking, it would be less difficult to say farewell to her and her kin – the only family I had ever known – than to refuse such an earnest request.
I packed a satchel, and left three days later. To avoid questioning, I left before sunrise and told no one outside my adopted family of my departure.
It took two days, sleeping on trains and buses, before I arrived at a remote village on the edge of the forest. Then, another two days crossing wild rivers, trekking through endless stretches of waist-high grass, and up and down mountainous ranges, before I arrived at the temple.
The great Garuda, King of the Birds, and Yama, Lord of the Afterlife, have sent them to guide you through the jungle thicket to the temple.
After spending so much time with Amisha and her children, it was strange how these beliefs and superstitions infiltrated my mind, even at a subconscious level. I do not remember hearing about Garuda or Yama, and perhaps they were the result of a highly active imagination, but I decided to follow the birds anyway. It was as good as any other direction, I justified to my sceptical self.
Inside, the walls were covered in a magnificent crumbling mosaic that seemed to depict many stories.
The temple was silent, but in my head I swore I could hear monks chanting a deep mantra accompanied by windpipes, chimes and the whistle of bronze cylindrical tubes twirling. I was soon to discover that the temple was bustling with monks, albeit on a different vibrational dimension. So, though I didn’t realise it at the time, what I heard so clearly in my head was not my whimsical imagination, rather, a result of extra-sensory perception.
I emptied the contents of my satchel on to the cracked marble floor, and my quivering hands flattened out the scroll. I unconsciously began picking at the bristles on my chin.
“Vibhishana,” I called. My voice bounced off the walls. I called his name twice more, as Amisha had instructed. And then I waited, sitting cross-legged, for it seemed the most appropriate thing to do in a temple.
Time moved slowly. And by that, I am not meaning my perception of time, but actual time. It appeared that inside the temple I was in a curious time dilation field that ran at a much slower rate than the outside world. There was no rational explanation for this phenomenon, and so I had no choice but to accept something mystical might be taking place.
I first noticed this when I looked out the window in search of the approaching Yeti. The trees did not sway lazily with the wind, but rather pulsed at the rate of my heart. And comparatively, movements inside the temple appeared to float like movements in a dream.
I decided to calculate the time difference while waiting for the Yeti. I estimated that as two hours passed on the fob watch Amisha had given me for my ‘birthday’ (the anniversary of when I was found in the snow), the mid-morning sun had crossed the sky, set, and made way for the rising moon.
And so, although it felt like only four hours had passed before the Yeti… Vibhishana… arrived, I surmised that it had taken him a little under a day of travelling to get to the temple.
A cool breeze whistled through the temple, disturbing the dust clinging to the walls. I sat silently.
A tall figure approached me, and the closer he got, the clearer his features became. Finally, he sat down, cross-legged, before me.
He was humanoid, though clearly not human. He had hairy cream skin stretched across a thickset, muscle-bound body. The hair on his head and square jaw was particularly long and thick. He had a snout like a cat, and eyes that projected wisdom, peace and contentment.
Despite his animalistic appearance, his mannerisms were very human-like, and he was adorned with gold jewellery and dressed in garments of intricately patterned silk.
The being began making noises. A measured sequence of grunts, whistles, whimpers and clicks, that seemed to have an order to it that suggested a language, alas, one that I could not understand.
“Namaste,” I said, placing the palms of my hands together and bowing my head.
The being mimicked my gesture and continued his attempt to communicate.
As I focused on these sounds however, they began to form words I could understand. “So you have finally returned,” I eventually heard him say, much to my amazement.
Continue reading? Click here for part two. (The above is a preview of my new book 'The Last King of Shambhala', available on all good online book stores including Amazon Kindle.)
Friday, 30 March 2012
The Last King of Shambhala arrives...
Hi there. It's time to spend your pocket money and be taken into the fantastical realm of your imagination. It is official, The Last King of Shambhala has arrived.
Check out the trailer below, or go to any good online bookstore. Or do both.
(And if you're not sure whether it is the best book you'll ever read, which it is, I'll be posting a preview in my next post!!!)
So without more typing, here is the newest trailer. Enjoy!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1wvHON03k0E&list=UUCek_J1HFW1hGAvd8FtBnzA&index=1&feature=plcp
P.S. I am writing this from my iPad in a cafe in Vietnam, so I apologise for the messy format and quick post.
Check out the trailer below, or go to any good online bookstore. Or do both.
(And if you're not sure whether it is the best book you'll ever read, which it is, I'll be posting a preview in my next post!!!)
So without more typing, here is the newest trailer. Enjoy!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1wvHON03k0E&list=UUCek_J1HFW1hGAvd8FtBnzA&index=1&feature=plcp
P.S. I am writing this from my iPad in a cafe in Vietnam, so I apologise for the messy format and quick post.
Thursday, 22 March 2012
The "Next Thriller" Film Clip? Michael Jackson, Akon, a ukulele, and something a little unexpected...
 |
| Michael Jackson + Akon = Jackon (the above is a visual representation, the below is the audio representation) |
Hey again. Do you want to see something a little... hmm... surprising?
Well, Anabel and Colin did a really great cover of Michael Jackson and Akon's song 'Hold My Hand' with a ukulele and a guitar and their voices ... and I was given creative license to do whatever I want with the video.
Check it out here (could this be the "next Thriller" film clip??? Hahaha.):
Monday, 27 February 2012
The Publishing Iceberg ... Never Trust a Creative with a Timeline
"So when can we buy your book?"
March 2012
My book is finally ready for online publishing, my dear and patient friends.
Despite a number of false starts, and a book trailer that has been watched by 885 people (as of today) that states it will be ready for purchase eight months ago.
And of course, when I say finally ready, I mean it will be available to purchase in the next 14 days ... it has been written, has had numerous edits (by myself and others), has a cover (as seen above), has a theme song, and has even more book trailers... something tells me I just like making book trailers.
Naturally, now I have to think about such things like a website, a Facebook page, and how to take it from one in a million books, to THE one in a million book. I came up with that just as I write. Thanks. I know. Brilliant, right?
So when I said last week this is when my journey starts, what I REALLY meant to say is THIS is where my journey starts.
 |
| Publishing Iceberg. |
But I guess the lesson here is that it takes much, much longer than you expect to get a project off the ground like this - ESPECIALLY when you're taking the world on yourself, and not got a whole paid publishing and marketing team behind you. There are just so many things to do in the unseen (FYI self-publishers).
My publishing team is me. And my marketing team is my readers who are obsessed with
(And creatives are, well, creative with expected timelines, too. That's why publishers set the release dates and not authors, I guess.)
Anyway, I am just so so so excited about the release, I thought I'd drop you a line.
Oh, and by the way, if you like my book cover above, check out the graphic designing team that created it and their 'off-the-chart' creativity at: www.neverlandstudio.com.au
Sunday, 12 February 2012
I'm breaking out of the 9-5 cubicle and burning my monkey suit... it's time to follow my dream!
Yes. It is exciting, and frightening, and everything in between. I have finally broken free of the rat race, and am ready to take on the brave new world of big dreams.
My dream is to be a full-time storyteller. That is a novelist, script writer, animator, etc. And today I took the biggest step of all... I quit my safety blanket job. What's more, I've bought tickets to go overseas - I need to get out of my comfort zone a little to grow and keep my writing inspired.
There is no going back. This is it. If you'd like to hear how I go, follow my blog, because I plan to keep you, my friend, in the loop on all things "Project Dreaming". I'll let you know of every little success, and every little embarrassing failure.
Peace. Yours truly. Live long and prosper.
Daniel
Sunday, 22 January 2012
Empty Savanna - A Portrait of Humanity - Poem by Daniel Grant Newton
Empty Savanna - A Portrait of Humanity
By Daniel Grant Newton
Bars up and down.
Crowds up and down.
Gawking. Pointing. Gasping. Walking.
At night, I pine for Savanna.
Empty up and down.
Ghosts of gazelles abound.
And distant hyena howls.
By day, savanna roars for my return.
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