Shadow & Soul For Your Demonic Pleasures

My new book, Shadow & Soul is available to buy now on Amazon! 

But you may be asking yourself, why would I buy some stranger’s book about demons and other carnivalistic things? 

Well I’m glad you asked… 

A monster was born out of a family massacre in 1886. Flash forward to modern times, this monster has set its eyes on a teenage girl, but for a reason that remains to be seen. 

Do you like Insidious, The Conjuring, or Sinister? Wouldn’t you like to read a book that plays on the fear of your own imagination? It’s not what’s in the details, it’s what’s left to your mind’s wandering imagination. 

Yes it’s a sequel to Infernous, but you don’t need to read the first one to understand this one, although it might not be a bad idea to pick that up as well. 

Thanks for reading! 

Shadow & Soul Out Now! 

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Name of the Wind – Review

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The Name of the Wind by Patrick Rothfuss
5/5

I sincerely wish I would have found this book right about now instead of 4 or 5 years ago.
Any Rothfuss fan knows the pain of waiting for book 3.
However, onto the review:
Without trying to sound like a total and complete fanboy, this is the best book I have ever laid eyes on. I have never read a book with richer characters as well as solid and definable character development.
Many readers main complain of the book is that the lead man Kvothe is the stereotypical flawless character that’s ridden over all of the fantasy genre. This is a very misplaced complaint given the fact that Kvothe is one of the most flawed characters in literature. Through the 2 current books out now, he continuously makes mistakes that put him compromising positions. He’s smart, cunning and has a temper as red as his hair.
The side characters Wil and Sim provide a decent support to Kvothe while I do wish there was a little more detail, history and involvement from them. However these stories are ultimately about Kvothe. The love interest… Is a frustrating one, but what book that has a love interest isn’t frustrating?
Part of me wants to love Denna as much as Kvothe loves her but the other half wants to dislike her quite strongly. Over the span of this novel (and the next) so little is known about her as well as Kvothe’s progress as far as becoming a lover. It’s harder to become attached to a character that you continuously know so little about. However I can sympathize with Kvothe’s undying love for a lovely and mysterious girl.
Rothfuss is an artist and a magician in the words he weaves to create such a beautiful story with a character you want so badly to win – but anyone who’s made it further than 50 pages will know this trilogy is that of a tragedy.
If you are a fan of fantasy or even if you aren’t because I am certainly not a fan of fantasy, check this book out.
Find out who Kvothe, Kote, Reshi, the Bloodless is.

Thank you for reading
Zac Zinn

The Story of Blackwater

Here is a short story I’ll be putting out in small sections.

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Blackwater – Part One

1871

The rain had never come down so hard as it did that night. Samuel looked out to the window near the front door and saw water running down the pane. It wasn’t the type of rain that the water had to accumulate enough weight to begin rolling down. Tonight there was no standing water. It poured down at an alarming rate.Thunder crashed and roared after a flash of light soared across the dark sky.

There were many things to be worried about that night. The rain threatened to flood his simple house. Already he was afraid to check the cellar. The moon had disappeared many hours before, just as the storm began. It wasn’t covered by storm clouds, but just dimmed until it dissolved into oblivion. When Samuel looked out his front window and found a sky so dark it seemed to suck the light from the candles lighting the house.

There were strange noises outside. Noises that didn’t come from the violence of a storm, not even a storm that took the moon away. Samuel’s mind wandered for a moment trying to make sense of the sounds he heard. However before too long he stopped himself. Nothing good would come of dwelling on such possible evils, he thought. There were many things to be worried about that night; each one worse than the former. But the most frightening one was the knowledge that Samuel’s brother was out there somewhere.

Read When We Write

Do you find that your writing is at its best when you’re reading a book at the same time? Do you read in the same genre as you’re writing? I find that my writing is at its prime when I’m reading as well. This would make sense because I went through a long dry spell and now that I think about it, I wasn’t reading anything.

So before I go and dive into this, if you’re reading something as you write, be sure of 3 things.

  1. DO NOT rip off the writer. Being inspired by writing is one of the best tools we as writers can use. Even if you don’t downright plagiarize, it’s not right to rip off from writers.
  2. Make sure what you’re reading specializes in what you think your weakness is. Dialogue. Read a story that has rich characters and each one has a clear personality that shows in their dialogue. Too many stories die and wither from bad and unbelievable dialogue.
  3. Lastly is narrative. If you’re writing is weak on narrative, just like dialogue, read books that have long and meaty narratives. I always struggled with detail and narrative while my dialogue thrived. So I started reading books with long paragraphs of details and narratives. As soon as I began, I saw my writing improve before my eyes in just the first writing session.

Are you writing a love story that includes heartache and raw feelings? I’d recommend reading any one of the following: (Most of these are available on Amazon for absurdly cheap prices)

(No spoilers I swear)

 

I’ll Be There by Holly Goldberg Sloan
This fantastic story is unknown by way too many. It’s a tender story of two brothers (Sam and Riddle) from a broken and dangerous home. They find comforting arms and a warm home in teenager Emily Bell’s household. The story thrives on hard situations with a violent father, and the love Sam has for his brother and the life his new interest – Emily has. The story sucks you in and carries you on each page.

 

The Promise of Stardust by Priscille Sibley

Tears have never been so close to my eyes because of a book. Matt Beaulieu’s wife Elle suffers a terrible injury and is left brain dead. The catch here is that he finds out she’s pregnant. Through this struggle to keep her body alive there are unexpected challenges that appear that will test both Matt and your heart. Flashbacks in this novel are key as they show the couple younger and allow you time and pages to grow close to both Matt and Elle. This story remains in my top 10 – maybe I’ll make a list sometime.

Are you writing fantasy?

I’m not too versed in this field of writing but I do have two recommendations.

The Name of the Wind by Patrick Rothfuss

There’s a reason critics tell readers to shelve this next LOTR and The Hobbit. Kvothe (pronounced Kwothe) is a simple boy traveling with his family as a traveling circus. One day he finds his parents and his entire troupe slain. The culprit? A group of people that are thought of as fictional fairytales. His only answers are at a place called The University where they teach magic, but not the cheap “abracadabra” magic. It’s well thought out magic that happens in the mind. This book which is book 1 of a trilogy is good for everything. Narratives and description that rivals any book I’ve ever read and dialogue of equal value.

Need a short story for narrative value?

The Slow Regard of Silent Things – By Patrick Rothfuss

Yes same writer. However this small novelette ranging just over a hundred pages takes a side character from his trilogy and spends a few days with her. Auri is a cute, innocent girl who cracked. She isn’t mentally sane and sees the world in a different light. You don’t need to read his others to understand this. All you need to know is that she lives underground beneath a school and is gathering different items to make a gift for her friend. The entire thing is ALL NARRATIVE. Pages of description of rooms, chambers, pits, wells and everything in between. If you’re not a fan of fantasy, don’t be afraid to give this a chance because it isn’t fantasy at heart. It’s a story of a girl who sees regular items commonly discarded as something special. It’s truly an interesting read.

Are you writing horror?

Horns – Joe Hill

You may not recognize Joe Hill by his penname, but you may recognize Stephen King’s name. Joe Hill is Stephen King’s son and let me tell you, he made his way into horror writing not by being King’s son, but by writing damn good stories.

Ig Parrish’s love of his life, beautiful Merrin Williams is dead; brutally attacked, violated and killed. The town believes he did it no matter what he says. After some drunken night to which he remembers almost nothing, Ig wakes up and has horns on his head. With these horns come influential power over others. He sees into their lives like a peeking through a window and can tell them to do things. This novels covers dark comedy, murder mystery, supernatural, romance, let’s just say it  covers everything and covers it well. This is one to read a few times, and then maybe watch the movie (which was actually pretty good).

Let’s go to the King.

The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon by Stephen King

Have you heard of this one? Because it’s not like other King novels. Trisha McFarland is a young girl who is forced to go hiking with her dysfunctional family. After taking a few steps away from the path, she is lost with no idea how to get back. She’s not in a small wooded area either. She’s lost in the Appalachian Trail. In addition to being a survival story, King weaves a sinister plot line with something watching little Trisha from afar. She can hear it growl, she can hear it move around her but she can’t see it. This shorter novel (speaking in terms of King’s usual length) is a smooth and creepy read.

Other very honorable mentions

This Is Where I Leave You – Jonathon Tropper

Do me a favor and read anything by this great writer. Every story he puts out, he creates a new story that mixes heartbreak, nostalgia, humor and some of the richest characters you’ll find in writing. Just do me a favor and read the story before you watch the movie…or don’t watch the movie at all.

This Bright River – Patrick Somerville

This lovely story is also in my top 10. Being my only exposure to Mr. Somerville, I’m not sure why I haven’t picked anything else by him. This book is about a tortured protagonist who has a dark history. He runs into a woman from his past with a terrible life as well and the two clash and mix. It’s a dark love story that travels through family secrets, possible murders and worse things still.

That should about do it. Thanks for reading, and feel free to comment what you like to read when you write, or what you’re reading right now.

Thanks,

Zac Zinn

Show & Tell

It’s show and tell time boys and girls!
What’s your favorite book and why?
Let us know in the comments why you love this one book more than the rest.

Mine is The Name of the Wind. I’m in love with this book because I don’t like fantasy books yet, this story captivates me each time I read it. Patrick Rothfuss is a master of words who weaves them together into something beautiful.

Now it’s your turn!

Thank you for reading
Zac Zinn

A Gleam Of Light – One Night

A Gleam of Light
1/22/15

Tell me a story that you’ve never had the words to tell.
Tell me of a night you never wanted to end.
When you laughed like a child walking down a well-lit city street.

Will you take a small journey with me?
Will you go on a brief vacation from the world with me?

A gleam of light hits her eyes and you see a small piece of your own personal heaven in them. Her rich irises of green shine through you and make you feel weightless. Those eyes become a drug you can’t stop taking.
There’s warmth between your hands when they touch. The friction increases against your skin and lessens between your smiles. Your mind races from idea to idea because even at your sanest moment, you can’t understand the extension of bliss you feel.
Even at that chaos, you’re aware of the friction between your hands. Holding hers, you let the friction turn to spark. The spark lit to a brief flame as your lips press against the top of her hand. A move that lets her know you’re not after her body but after her heart. When you see a smile form from pure happiness on her face, you know that you have it.
Your timing in yesteryears has always seemed to be off somehow but in this night… it all comes together.
But at some point she gives a sigh that sounds of sadness. Doubt penetrates your head and you think that maybe this was only a one night vacation from a lonely life. When the reality of life sets in, maybe this night is only supposed to stay within those hours.
The sun is peaking over the horizon as the first breaths of morning hit your nose. Your hands are no longer touching and you’re sitting at a bus stop bench. There’s sadness in the air because the night you didn’t want to end, is finally ending. With the bus only five or ten minutes away, you’re struggling to find the words to say. You need to say something to give some amount of reassurance, but the words escape you. Settling for the comfort of touch, you slide closer to her and wrap your arm around her. Resting her head against you, she quickly falls asleep after the long and exciting night.
The night is over
Morning is here
The fear of what today and tomorrow holds rests inside
But when you watch her clouded exhales leave her mouth you think
People either get something fast or forever.
This night felt like a flash of light much like that first gleam that reflected from her eyes.
You find yourself asking a question to which you can’t find the answer.
Is it too much to ask for fast and forever?

1/22/15

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Thank you for reading
Zac Zinn

Obsession

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Here is a piece written by a good friend of mine that’s definitely worth reading.
Obsession, by Jon Smith

Obsession is a strong word.  Not in thee sense of being obsessed with some
quick fad, or some kind of food.  True obsession. Something so important
that it is on your mind nearly all moments you are awake, whether a quiet
thunder or constant scream.

I have two obsessions that are so constant that they force me from sleep on
some lonely nights in my truck. The first has become a compulsion in my
adult life and that is writing instruments and paper goods.  The second is
writing.

Personally, writing instruments and paper goods seem to culminate around
typewriters and vintage/eclectic papers.  I understand that saying
typewriter in the modern age gives off the striking mental image of skinny,
high waist jeans, some obscure band t-shirt and a coffee cup demanding
attention with clicks and clacks in a public space.  I can understand that,
but my obsession isn’t fleeting, or some general demand to live in a parody
off the life of some famed author or poet.  There is some deeper draw to
typewriters for me.

When I began to write, I didn’t have a computer.  It was somewhere around
1993, or 1994 when my dad told me I should find a way to express my
unfettered energies.  At the time, he and I would spend our weekends
sitting through Twilight Zone re-runs and long walks to the movie theater
at Delco Plaza for double or triple features of whatever happened to be in
theaters.  He suggested that I write down all the stories that I always
made up when we walked to the theater.

It didn’t take long to realize that my penmanship was not a strength.   It
is still as awful now from an inability to focus.  So, my dad went up into
our attic and brought down an ugly brown case.  Inside was the first
typewriter I ever owned, a Royal portable.  The typewriter needed a new
ribbon, so we wen to the store and picked one up.  No, really!  Back then
you didn’t have to travel to some kitsch dealer in Brooklyn to get
something like a typewriter ribbon.  Anyhow, it took the both of us to
figure out how to replace the old dry ribbon and for me it was about the
greatest thing in the world.

Every time I visited my dad, I would spend more time getting to know the
Royal.  I was staring to learn about computers in school, which felt easier
because I spent my weekends playing on a keyboard.  I ended up giving that
typewriter to a former girlfriend for Christmas.

Just to bring these thoughts to a close, I understand the simplistic idea
of being hip through anachronism.  I keep my collection of typewriters at
home where they belong, not drug out as a focal point of my existence.  I
haven’t written a novel on any of them, but I do write most of my poetry on
any of the ten typewriters I have collected.  Does it matter what methods
are used to convey your thoughts?  Not at all.  Consider what the Marquis
de Sade used to write his final works.

My second obsession is writing, which I am sure I share with a few people
on the planet.  I have shelves filled with notebooks of abandoned ideas,
and false starts.  There are so many facets of writing that it sometimes
feels like an immense beast I am trying to tame, rather than some torrid
lover who fills me with joy.  A hurricane, a calm sea.

I was talking to a painter from Exton the other day about writing and
art.   He has a vast array of subjects that he paints, and quit his job
thirty years ago to follow his of painting as a career.  I told him about
my forthcoming novella Finzel; a Psychotic Love Story.  He asked if I had
shopped it around for a publisher.

No.  Not at all.  I wouldn’t want the confines of the structure that sells
to take away from whatever I have to say.  The work I do possesses me, and
it possesses me for a reason.  Finzel took over me for a three day span and
wouldn’t let go until it was finished.  I doubt anyone would ever pick it
up and publish it “as-is” because of the style that it was written in,
theme, etc.  It was written honestly, with fervor and a little delirium.

He commended me on believing in my work that much.  I told him that one day
I will give up my steady paycheck and fight to make a life out of writing,
like he had done with painting.  Well, it can be a harsh thing, with plenty
of skipped meals and the stress of not making the rent at the end of the
month.  I’m married to a wonderful woman who supports my work, paints my
covers for me, and wants me to succeed with my writing.

Maybe writing isn’t the only part of that obsession.  It’s on my mind all
the time, as I drive down the road thinking of what I should dictate next,
or typing when I get back home, riffing ideas with anyone who offers an
ear.  It’s a constant.  But so is the idea of finally getting myself
motivated to hit the road and read wherever there’s a microphone and an
audience, selling books in truck stop to passersby for gas and enough money
for a sandwich.  An unsafe life scraping by until some work of mine finally
hits a bigger audience.  Maybe my second obsession is success with creative
work, and not just writing.

Thank you for reading
Zac Zinn

Thorns – A Horror Story

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Here is a piece I wrote…

Thorns
Chapter One: Wooden Walls
Opening his eyes, Remedy recognized nothing around him. When he fell asleep just minutes before, he fell asleep to a dark bedroom. The strong beam of moonlight hitting his window but dimming to all but a small trace of light passed the black blinds. However faint, the light cast enough brightness into the room so that a trained eye could see its surroundings. There were posters littering the walls of various rock bands. One poster features a sarcastic inspirational quote in mockery of the ones found in school classrooms.
In the corner furthest from the window was a television and video game cases scattered on the floor. Another corner of the room had a transparent plastic desk that held a laptop and stacks of paper. Some of the sheets were old homework assignments he had never finished; others were drawings Remedy worked on but never put into his portfolio.
A door creaked open in between the television and desk. The fake wood and rusty hinges of the closet door moaned quietly enough so not to wake him.
And in the weak, pale moonlight that barely lit the darkened room, a black shroud hovered out of the closet. It maintained no distinct shape as it made its way to Remedy. It was smoke but it couldn’t be smelled. It was black but it could be seen through. It was quiet but sinister in its intention. It was an external being, but it was Remedy.
Sifting and pushing itself under the lone sheet that covered Remedy’s tear stained face, the cloud compressed itself into a narrow tornado of blackness. Once it became slender, the shroud disappeared as it forced itself into Remedy’s mouth and down his throat.
Remedy immediately woke up tasting pure charcoal in his mouth. Licking his cracked lips, he tried to cause his glands to salivate and relieve him of the terrible taste. Nothing. His mouth remained as dry as sand under a desert sun. He opened his eyes and found nothing he recognized. He was no longer in his bedroom. If he weren’t so disoriented he would have noticed the deadening silence that rang off each surface. However there was no reality that hit Remedy that what he was seeing was real.
Remedy closed his eyes and let his eyes moisten so he could better see his surroundings. But when he opened them again, he found the same…room?
There were no visible windows. Each wall had large pieces of plywood nailed so that no actual wall was able to be seen.
As his senses returned to him, Remedy noticed more things. He was on the floor. There wasn’t a bed in the room; or anything for that matter. The air was thick and musty with a foul stench that he couldn’t quite place. Looking down at himself he suddenly fully awakened. He was naked down to skin and bones. He instinctively sat up and slid himself backwards until his back touched one of the wooden walls. Curling up and wrapping his arms around his bony legs, fifteen year old Remedy looked spastically around the room to find a way out. However when he looked around with frightened eyes, he found nothing. The room was completely enclosed with the plywood. It didn’t make sense how it should’ve been complete and utter darkness but somehow there was a dim light that shone.
The concrete floor beneath his bottom and feet grew warm at an alarming rate. It went from a cold to the touch temperature to an almost burning heat. Within five more seconds, the red hotness against his hindquarters was too much to bear.
Remedy jumped up hugged himself as he shook. He kept taking lifting each foot off the floor for a moment before switching trying to keep his skin from burning. Soon it became too much. Rapidly switching feet and taking steps in random directions, he started looking around again for something, anything. Nothing had changed though; the room had no exit. 
The skin on the bottom of his feet became so hot that they itched. He felt like he could rip the skin off his feet and the only emotion he’d feel would be relief. Remedy opened his mouth to yell in panic and tasted the charcoal on his tongue again.
Should I yell for help? He thought. Who would hear me? I’m nowhere.
Remedy started running all over the enclosed room hoping to find that when he returned to any certain wall that a door would be there. He ran in circles looking at the floor, the walls, and the ceiling; but nothing changed.
Remedy looked down at the floor as he kept running and saw bloody footprints on the concrete floor. All of the sudden, the room lit up, blinding Remedy. He closed his eyes as his eyelids began burning. The ends of his eye lashes lit up like the small cherry on a cigarette. They burned down until the skin where each strand used to grow from. When they burned completely off, his eyelids sizzled red and the first layer of skin began to burn off.
Hearing glass break, Remedy tried opening his eyes again, he saw broken glass scattered all over the floor. However he couldn’t stop running. Standing in one place wasn’t an option. His first step broke a piece as large as light bulb.
Remedy screamed until his vocal chords burned with the same intensity of the rest of his body. He saw the floor turning a bright red like a brand ready to sear into an animal.
The nerves on the bottoms of his feet were being destroyed and charred till they were gone. His blood on the floor began to bubble at boiling point.
Falling down, Remedy writhed and screamed flipping from his stomach to his back. Glass stuck to his melting skin and within seconds his entire body was covered with glass. Each thrash upon the floor the glass pushed further into his skin.
His eyelids had burned off. He knew his eyes were next. As he rolled again onto his back, Remedy saw the wooden walls set ablaze. The bright flames danced high against the ceiling.
Remedy had a thought. If I could survive until the walls burn themselves down, maybe there would be a way out.
However just as he finished the thought, the large section of wood closest to him fell from the wall and crashed down on top of him. The flames from the wood raved inside Remedy’s eye sockets. Black ash rested where his eyes used to be and Remedy stopped moving.
Suddenly, the wood on top of him disappeared and the fire stopped. The floor returned to a bearable temperature and the glass that wasn’t inside vanished as well. Remedy was left with a thread of life remaining. His skin was no more and all that was left was a blackened and charred surface.
Please die, please die, please die. Remedy’s mind was left crippled and all but dead. The only life remaining was the repeated last message, asking for an end to the pain. The humanity inside him, the strive to live, the desire of life were no longer alive.
He continued laying there on his back with no vision taking shallow breaths. The feeling of dust and ash reached the depths of his lungs when he inhaled.
“Remedy,” something spoke. The voice was more like a hiss rather than a solid sound.
Remedy didn’t make any reply for the simple reason that he was dead. His body was just hanging onto the last seconds of life.
“Stand up Remedy.”
Remedy began moving but not by his own power. He was a puppet and the voice was the puppeteer. His head lifted up and the black on the back of his neck cracked seeping with blood. In moments, he was standing, frozen in place.
“See Remedy.” Instantly, Remedy saw – his eyes returning to life. He would have been confused if his mind were alive. All around him was white. He was standing outside in a snowy forest. As the snow fell, the flakes melted before they hit Remedy. The heat from his body radiated around him and melted the flakes as well as the snow beneath him.
Ahead of him sat a statue that stared into his eyes. The stone statue stood at the same height as Remedy. It was a man’s body with legs that turned into branches running into the ground. Its head was that of a jackal. The narrow slender head looked menacingly at Remedy with black eyes. The eyes themselves looked alive somehow while the rest remained stone.
It spoke four words and the ground, it shook. Its solid stone jaw moved up and down finishing the words and then smiled.
“Unhallowed be thy name.”
As the ground shook, the branches from the statue’s legs extended further into the ground. Movement stirred underneath Remedy’s feet until the stone branches sprung free and latched onto his legs. From where they touched him around his ankles, his body turned to stone. As his black remains were replaced with gray rock, the branches pulled him into the ground.
Remedy’s right hand twitched with a sign of life. It opened up and rotated outwards in a gesture of “help” before turning to stone. His jaw became unhinged and hung open with ash falling towards the ground.
“Help,” he breathed.
The only part of Remedy’s body above the surface was his head. It stayed just inches above the ground for an extra second. The puppeteer that controlled him twisted and jolted his head backwards, snapping bones inside his neck. With his head turned backwards and sideways to face the statue, the jackal stood up. Stone grinding against stone, its smile was gone. It outstretched a hand that had a hole in the palm and opened its mouth again.
“Welcome Remedy. Welcome.”
Remedy’s head grayed out and disappeared under the ground. The soil was hot under the snow, but Remedy didn’t know. He was dead.
//
Shooting underneath his blanket, Remedy thrashed in his bed and screamed.
“No!! Get away!!”
He threw fists in every direction, hitting his headboard, bedframe, and bedside table. As he raged, the closet door across the room creaked close.

Chapter Two: The Absence of God is…
Thank you for reading…
Zac Zinn

What Inspires You? (A Story of My Friend)

What inspires you to write? What hits your bones and your blood pump and make you want open up the word document or a blank page and write?
I’ve asked why do you write before, but now I’m asking what inspires you?
Religion? Love of any sort? Nostalgia? Or maybe just a creative edge that needs to be let out.
I write in a mix of all of them. Besides the fact that I just enjoy writing, I do it because I have things to say.
I do it because I want to portray a message of _____ to people.
I think all writers can say that statement. But the question is – what fills that blank?
Maybe it’s hope. Maybe it’s despair and everything in between.
My answer would certainly never be just to write an action book. I’m not hammering on people who write those, it’s just not for me. Anything I ever write is either a release for me in some way, or it’s something I want people to read.
People sometimes, well, oftentimes mention that my books are very sad and depressing but that’s because they miss the mark. Take the main character of my 2012 novel, Landon. He was in high school and had cancer. When they were done reading it, they told me it was a very sad book but I disagreed with them. My message was hope; not to write a book for the sake of being sad, unlike another absurdly famous book regarding teenage cancer… but we won’t get into that now.
My message of hope was if your time was rapidly coming to an end, how would you spend your time? What’s worth your thoughts? Words? Everything suddenly matters a whole lot more than it did before.
It’s nostalgia. A very good friend of mine died of cancer in 2011. And like my book, the outlook was grim. It didn’t stop him from becoming a man I could look up to because even in the face of death, he shone a bright light for everyone to see. He found the secret we all search for. It was true happiness with his life, from his wife to his friends; it was truth.
When my fingers hit the keyboard, they wrote about what was inside my heart. Nostalgia of my friend. I saw truth, and I had to write it.

So what inspires you? Is it something specific or something abstract?