how i write book

windy letter

dear friends,

I walk down the windy path that spirals and twists. Writing the book has been the most fun, fulfilling, yet devastatingly tragic endeavor I have taken on.

How do you write a book?

How do you write a story?

The book to come will be a more “coherent” story than these fragmented incoherent live life letters. I cannot give it to you all too cleanly or you wouldn’t buy the book!

Some days I feel on top of the world, feeling the winds of the summit, amazed at the view, full of pride of how far I've come. While on other days, the winded path takes me down to my most inner depths that continue to barrage me at my most weakest points, my greatest vices and the thoughts I unconsciously try to repress. I live for the rush, but a rushed man is not a mindful man.

What's the rush in life, why do I haste?

I continue to wonder how these live life letters will unfold. It has been a great form of expression for me that is quite healing through the seasons. Slow down, I tell myself as the seasons change in the speed up of time. There's beauty in the moment. I can't help but feel the resurgence of waves moving within me, a slight cusp of tears surfacing in my eyes.

For those that have kept on along on these high winds, I thank you and Happy Mother's Day.

I dedicate this book to my Mother whom has graciously given me a second wind in life all those years ago, when my Mind was lost to the thunderous clouds above. Thank you for not giving up on me even when the skies turned grey. You are my Sunshine.

I love you Mom <3

I’ve been given a second chance at life, I cannot waste it! I write to save myself, to save my soul. This is the winded path I must take, I have decided. This winded fate of mine.

fragmented winds

The seasonal winds smell distinctly different, they carry a different tune.

I am a lazy and slackful motherfucker, I tell you. Excuse my strong language, but the flying fickle fingers of fate continue to flick me off. I will do my best to get over my own frustrations for the sake of time, but it seems at every moment I catch a strong tailwind of writing the story itself, I get hit with an immense block around each bend I find. What a fun joke you play on me, self of mind.

I often stare at these fragments of my mind and grow easily disheartened by the overwhelm and incoherencies. I blame my own negligence, yet I feel I have been tending them very closely, these fragile flowers within this crazy garden of mine.

While I process these emotions that are in motion. Enjoy this story I made with friends during our trek in Chicago. From then, I will attempt to show you how I have been writing the book and the lite blooprint ahead.

three little bot frogs and the devious lick

[bunson]: down the windy path, it all was an overwhelm. day in and day out the clock spirals within time. “you don’t have much time, you don’t have much time,” they continue to hasten you. what are you pursuing? what are you running from?

[bloo]: take a chance and diverge from the windy path, but the twists and turns still persist and remain unnavigable. there’s no end in sight, despite searching for some kind of closure. there was autonomy in the choice itself, but the smoke clears and you see that you actually have no control over anything. pushed and pulled by the wind, an invisible force prevents any forward progress. the clock keeps ticking.

[ziggy]: the threads of time unravel — a herculean golden spindle. how twisted the fates are. are you the puppet or the master? there was a freedom in running. but what choice do you have now?

PLOP ~ LOUDLY BIG RIVETING [ribbiting] FART NOIZE ~ PLOOP DALOOP

[bunson]: the frog decides it all with one encroaching croak that made your heart jump. the smell eroded your nostrils, you couldn’t handle the wind that rose within you. “You have no choice but to smell the roses, this is your fate, stuffing your noses!” with a maniacal laugh, the great toaded sage grimaced, his worts shimmering from the moonlit sky. you run, you run, you run, then trip on the cracks of the Chicagoan blocks. “Leave me, I cannot be saved, you cried out to your friends!” as the swarm of frogs fell from the clouds above, winding down.

[bloo]: reptilian, rapture, ruckus. this is so clearly the universe laughing in your face. it takes an act of god, or in this case a toad sage, to snap you out of your head with as something so blasphemous. maybe nothing is that serious at all. you stay on the ground, watching the frogs freely frolic and fall.

[ziggy]: what is real? perhaps licking the toad was not a good idea — fiend.

how to write a real book

Can we just take a moment to smell the story above?

Now, here's the boring part that some of you might find interesting. My ultimate, secret, beautiful framework that boosts your ability to write by 6.9x in any place of the worlld, anytime, wherever you are in life. It doesn't matter who you are. As long as you have this framework, you hold the key to your own very soul that will allow you to unleash every ounce of flow and productivity from your own innards no matter what. You will be capable of construing an ungodly divine sequence of words at a moments notice.

Oh shit, that's not the right framework. Don't mind that, it's just some nonsense that slipped out from the inner. You can gloss over it, it doesn't really add much to the plot anyways so just skip on and leap over it. It's all nonsensical, you could just replace GOD with DOG and these are just words on a screen after all.

You little frog, don't get bogged down.

Here's the Spiral Framework, I jest at you, the FOOL framework!

1. Feel good, eat good, consume well

2. Observe deeply of what the Universe is and is not through your eyes and the eyes of others.

3. Oscillate between dreams, delusions, reality, and your own fictitious land.

4. Live and let the story unfold

Simply write, I tell you. Writing the story is a messy spiral. Righting the story is a messy spiral. A spider web at best, don’t Peter out!

I will perhaps go deeper into this framework later on in future newsletters so I can tease you, pull your strings, and persuade you to keep coming back in the following weeks so that I could also influence you to buy the book. What a jester, I am!

Or maybe I should put it behind a paywall like in the digital renaissance where you will have closer access to how the book is unfolding, a small tight-knit community of cool creatives, among other things. Just know, this will not make you an overnight success. A fancy shovel does not dig itself.

But alas, I am just a writer writing digitally into this void we call the Internet, the gold rush of crises, where danger and opportunity all converge as it did in the Gold Rush out West. Content Creation is the new American Dream!

I don't mean to be so cynical because it really is an awesome human development to be able to share our creations with one another so slippingly and freely with no friction. Yet, some days, I cannot help but feel like that little algorithmic bot is toying at me to create more for the benefit of the greater overlords of this digital mine we find ourselves in.

We must remain smart and clever in how we navigate this New World, not everyone survives through these digital gates. Sacrifice is necessary. What are you willing to sacrifice?

I digress, the wind knocked out of me.

note to self

Save yourself, my friend.

People are responsible for their own lives. Help yourself. Watching someone self-destruct is heart wrenching for the soul. I do not wish that upon anyone, that feeling of helplessness. Yet, you are not helpless, my friend. You must help yourself.

You needed that “chemical imbalance” to live onward. We speak of a Heaven and Hell in the Afterlife. But there are crossroads within this lifetime, the living Heavens and Hells of this Earth. The give and take in those crucible moments. Your fate rests heavy on these pivotal splits.

This is a choice.

Know that you are not in control of the whole, the whole Universe. But you control that, the hole that widens and close. You control this. This sphere of influence.

Share your experience for yourself to express; it could help guide somebody, perhaps. But remember…

You are no savior, you are no GOD.

Peter, that old Saint, dangles the spiraled keys in front of me. Can you grab them?

what is meta-fiction?

BoomBot Arborus, grace me with your knowledge, I am feeling lazy today.

I love breaking the fourth wall and blurring the lin-

the windy story

Every nerve within you spoke in screams, screeching for you to make it all stop. Yet, you had no idea on how to make it stop, this mass hysteria of panic within you. Each nerve had a mind of its own, belittling you and blaming you for this chaos that ensued. It’s all your fault, you worthless little boy. You are a hopeless, clueless, idiotic fool, a chicken with its head chopped off. You lack a sense for it all, isn’t it obvious? Use your intuition, just breathe, do something, anything you dumbass donkey. It’s your fault, so clean up this mess, you schitz-

windy riddles

You are all these characters, don’t you see. Well, maybe except the Devil, but that dickhead lives in us all within our shadows.

The Sage spoke everyone’s language. He understood you down to the soul. But at what cost?

His sanity?

The jester is a riddlemeister. Good riddance, I tell ya’ dancing on the tight rope of humor. You can bleed with jokes, appearing unscathed. Perception is a fickle fool.

…

Can you trust yourself Jake?

Some days, I cannot.

Why?

Because some days I cannot trust my mind fully.

What happens then?

I’m not sure, but my intuition tells me there’s a way back to finding your mind. The mind can be mapped! And we can map onto each other, just gaze and use those reference points of yours. The stars above?

Where is your mind?

You tell me. Who knows?

You think you know?

Me?

Yes you.

Who are you talking to?

Schrodibferwd cat.

The murmurs were clear, only to me. What a joke. Quit mumbling mumbo dumbo.

I sit there in Charlie's Garden.

…

Astra warns of driver fatigue, pilot fatigue. Mimi is frustrated that you don’t listen. Listen to the wise shapeshifter, you idiot! She does so much for you.

I drive under the full moon. I fly under the full moon.

Ship of Theseus to Astra. Where’s the heart of the ship? What is the essence?

The symbol of self? We have changed so many parts, is it the same ego, Ship?

What a labyrinth…

We have crossed the River Styx of Space, the point of no return. Do you enter?

Charlie's Garden is on the Moon. Inscribed in the rocks, you find a poem.

Time's up.