The End As I Know It

This is up for debate. I might be wrong about this. It would be the third time in my life that I was wrong. The first was that incident with the hair dryer and the cat. The second was that deal about the pickle and the microwave.

This might be the third.

What is the most important part of a novel? The beginning. The plot. The characters. The theme.

No, no, no, no.

It's the end. Don't believe me? Scroll down to the end of this blog. Go ahead. Right now. Scroll away.

Did you do it? What did you find? An unsatisfying, awful ending. Boy, doesn't that make you want to spend another five minutes reading through this blog?

I've been thinking about this lately as I'm putting together proposals for two of my projects. Edits are completed on Book #3, and it is currently in the very qualified hands of my wife for one final read through before it goes back to my agent. Meanwhile, I'm trying to convince an editor that they should risk it all to publish this thing. I have only a few pages to do so. In those pages is something called a synopsis.

A synopsis is a simple thing, really. It's the entire book crammed into three to five pages. This is so the editor knows what's going to happen, so they know you aren't going to get all Space Odyssey 2001 on them.

Writers worry themselves to death over these things. It's painful to read a single sentence that comprises fifty pages of your novel.

But what about the passion! What about that witty line in there! If the editor only reads the synopsis, they will never see how brilliant I am! It isn't fair!

The ending is hardest, just like it is in the full-length novel. My third book is complex and packed with symbolism. I think the ending is quite powerful. How to convey that in thirty seconds or less? No matter what I do, it's going to look flat in comparison.

Such is life.

And so, to defend my theory about the importance of The End. . . . When reading a novel, there is one destination: the last page. The end is the echo that stays with you. When you see that book on the shelf, you will remember what happened in those last few pages, because those are the words most fresh in your mind.

Endings are tricky business. Do you sum up everything? Do you dare write the tragic death of a main character? Do you wait until the very last moment to pull out a massive twist?

There are so many ways to do an ending right, and many more to do it wrong.

I'm thinking about endings, and as I prepare to dive into Novel #5, I'm also thinking about beginnings. Being a writer, your mind is always starting something that you will one day be forced to end. It's bitter, it's sweet, it's all confusing and beautiful, I suppose.

Maybe I'm wrong. I'm still trying to understand this great big world of words, trying to see what makes readers tick, trying to tell stories that entertain but offer something more.

Well, this I know is true. I'm not happy with a novel if . . .

THE END IS UNSATISFYING AND AWFUL!

So Sorry

Dear Big Name New York Publisher,

Thank you for you recent offer to publish my book, The Novel. After careful consideration, I'm going to have to pass.

Your offered advance of one million dollars, while certainly generous, is a clear example of your inability to discern quality fiction. While I agree that The Novel does have certain merits, it is in no way worthy of such a large sum.

I am quite frankly disturbed that you would go so far as to call The Novel “The best thing to come across my desk in years.” If this is truly the case, I would wonder if you have been checking your mail, and if you even have a desk at all.

Furthermore, you go on in your five-page letter to express your excitement over the wide appeal of The Novel. I can see how you would think that women and men could enjoy the book equally, but teenagers and children as well? Did you even read the manuscript?

I was shocked to read the line, “We think you as a writer have the potential to be the next great American novelist.” It becomes more and more clear that you did not take the time to clearly examine The Novel or myself.

Lastly, and most offensively, you had the audacity to send a copy of The Novel to Stephen King, who—you claim—gave it this endorsement: “Never before have I been so taken by a book as I was by The Novel. Mark my words, this will be the classic of our times, perhaps the greatest book written this century, or ever. I am in awe.” Obviously you paid Mr. King a great deal of money to compose such lies.

Your offer to publish The Novel is rejected in light of clear disregard for quality fiction, your pie-in-sky predictions about the book and about me, and your juvenile use of subterfuge to influence the reading public.

I wish you the best as a publisher, and might suggest that you take more time in the future to properly consider submissions that come your way.

Sincerely,

Wanna Be Published

EXCLUSIVE INTERVIEW WITH FUTURE NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR TRAVIS THRASHER

Recently I had the privilege to sit down with the future Travis Thrasher and ask him some questions about his career. He talked about life as a bestselling author, addressed some rumors, and hinted at what’s to come.

JAW: Mr. Thrasher, it’s great to see you. Thank you for taking time out of your busy schedule to sit down and chat with me.

TT: No problem, James. I still remember the days when I did book tours and nobody showed up at the bookstores. It’s nice to drive cross country and hit twenty stores and meet all my fans.

JAW: You certainly have quite the following these days. I think it’s safe to say that your career really took off when the second book in your Solitary Tales series hit the New York Times Bestseller list. The movie based on the first book in the series is in production now, and book four, which doesn’t release for another three months, is already climbing the bestseller charts. Tell us about the inspiration for this series, and your reaction to the overwhelming response.

TT: That's wild how a book unreleased can climb the bestseller charts, but so much has changed in the world since the Great Oil Leak and man stepping foot on Mars. Yes, things all seemed to come together with The Solitary Tales. It seems I've killed off so many main characters that one has to wonder if Chris himself might be dead. Or undead. The irony is that this bestselling series was the result of a booksigning that I was supposed to take part of, but when I arrived at the bookstore another author happened to be signing (true story). So I went next door to a Mexican restaurant and sat outside in the sun wondering why some things in publishing had to be so difficult. As I ate chips and salsa, the idea for The Solitary Tales came to me. I wrote it in my trusty journal, never realizing what would happen.

JAW: Ah yes, your trusty journal. We'll come back to that in a moment. I hope you bought a jar of that salsa to eat whenever you need inspiration. Now, let's set this controversy to rest: Is Chris dead?

TT: Definitely not dead. But everything changed in book three (as it did in books one and two). So we'll see. And as everybody knows, I have no problem killing off my lead character. Or those around him.

JAW: I still remember how shocked I felt when you killed off Chris's pet ferret at the end of book three. Unbelievable. In regards to the movie, we know that J.J. Abrams is directing, but information on the cast still seems to be under wraps. Any names you can tell us?

TT: I'm sorry to say there will be a high body count for the animals in book four. But of course that was inevitable.

The leads are still being kept under wraps, but the Irishman is going to be played by Nick Nolte. Aunt Helen by Helena Bonham Carter. That's all I can tell you without getting in trouble.

JAW: One of your earlier books, The Second Thief, came out as a movie last year. Were you happy with how Christopher Nolan brought your story to the big screen?

TT: I loved how Nolan took a short story, in a sense, and made it into something completely different. Same story but much deeper. Loved how it served as a nice bookend to Inception. Of course, between the two is that little Batman blockbuster . . .

JAW: Earlier you mentioned your trusty journal. A while back, there was a lot of press about this. As I understand it, your journal with all of your story ideas went missing. It later showed up on Ebay and was going for a hefty price tag, but something happened to the person who was selling it. The press said that Dennis Scott simply went missing and that the police retrieved your journal for you. Other sources have come out and said that there was foul play involved. It's been said that you had something to do with Mr. Scott's disappearance. Can you tell us what really happened?

TT: I guess the only thing I can say about that is this: was there ever really a Dennis Scott in the first place? I stay out of the marketing and promo stuff these days, but it sounds like a pretty good publicity stunt that an author would pull. But you know me—I got off Facebook and Twitter back in 2011. I'd never do anything like that.

JAW: You are hugely successful with a massive following. How is writing different for you now that you are so popular?

TT: Success is a funny thing. I remember when I was stressed out about how many "fans" I had on Facebook. Now I don't even pay attention to any of that. Back in those days, I wondered how long I could keep it up—writing full-time and supporting a family. So not having to worry about that is such a blessing. But there are downsides, of course. I can tell some stories but all I'll say is this: you have to be careful who you trust.

JAW: Before I let you go, take a moment and peek into the future. Where do you want to be in five years? Is there a story you've been dying to tell that you haven't been able to yet? What does the future hold for Travis Thrasher?

TT: I remember that around 2010, I made a pretty big transition in my writing. Most people probably didn't even notice, but it was a big picture thing for me. For the first ten years after I was published, I spent a lot of time experimenting with voice and style and technique. Not just to do this but as a way of figuring out what worked and what didn't work for me. So much of what I wrote was biographical in nature, and featured characters who seemed to avoid going on their mythical journeys.

The books I'm doing now (my W&L series, The Solitary Tales, even the stories under my pseudonym) are more about heroes taking journeys. I'm working more on the STORY than on style. Of course, I still can't help myself at times, but that's where I'm at now.

I've been tinkering around with my Bull Road, which I call my Prince of Tides. One day I hope that will be released. There's also a book about the other side of my family down south, my father's father who served in World War 2. I see those as sweeping, literary novels, dense and hopefully beautiful. By then I'll have gotten all these other stories off my chest.

But by then, who knows what other ideas will come to mind.

JAW: We can’t wait to read them all. Thank you again for your time, and best of luck.

Special thanks to the current Travis Thrasher for setting up this interview with his future self.

Black and White and Red All Over

So Book #4 is in the hands of my agent. I celebrated by patting myself on the back, then dived back into the thick of it. I'd like to say I'm already half way done with Book #5. I'd like to have started Book #5. I'd like to know what Book #5 is.

The reality is that I'm actually back into Book #3. As soon as I sent Book #3 off to my agent, I started working on #4. When I received the notes back for #3, I was well into #4 and just plowed ahead and finished it.

Now I get to address the corrections for #3.

Confused yet?

Here's the blunt of it: I'm editing Book #3. Editing is fun. Sort of like sharpening a stick and jabbing it into your eyeball.

The biggest challenge is going to be chopping out over 10,000 words of the book. Currently it is bursting the seams at 107,000K. It would be ideal to bring it down to something between 80K and 90K. I'm not sure that's going to happen, but I'm going to do my darndest to get it under 100K.

You know, you pour yourself into every word you write. Every scene, every moment. It's all you.

Then you have to kill it.

Off with his head!

Oh yeah, big books get published all the time. Much bigger than 107,000 words. But I'm not JK Rowling or Stephen King. I don't have ten bazillion readers willing to pay forty bucks for my next boat anchor. I'm the new kid on the block.

Publishers are looking at me and coming up with every reason they can to not publish me. They see 107,000K and the finance department is going crazy with their calculators. It's going to cost this much to produce that book, and it would cost this much if the book was shorter, and this is the new kid on the block, and we don't even know if anybody is going to buy a single copy, and we could really use a new coffee maker downstairs, and don't forget that I haven't gone on vacation for three years.

Off with his head!

Where do you start when you have to shave 10K off your baby? I'm not one for writing fluff to begin with, so it's not like I can go in and cut all the adverbs and mile long descriptions of the sunset--there aren't any to cut.

Sigh.

This is the life of a writer. You create a baby. You have to pull out the meat cleaver and make him shorter so somebody will love him.

Isn't that disgusting?

What Makes us Different

We are writers.

We are a little strange.

You said something to me last year, something about your crazy aunt with a pet iguana, and I remembered it. I made her a character in my book.

You have to be careful around us. We listen even when it looks like we aren't. Most times it looks like we aren't. That's because our minds are elsewhere.

Our minds are here and there, and there is where we are creating. We are telling stories when we are driving, walking, sleeping, talking.

I am looking at you with a smile, not because I think you are funny, but because I just snagged a bit of dialogue from our conversation.

That is how rude we are. We aren't listening to you. We are mining you for potential.

You could make a good character for our stories. We need a dastardly villain. You have nice teeth, but in our story, your teeth are yellow and rotten.

We might kill you.

You could be our hero. You are crying because life is hard, so hard, so very hard and you can't take it anymore. But you take it. That makes you strong. That moves us.

We are moved by so many things, but when you are strong, we are affected deep down inside. Resolution, under dogs triumphing in the face of stinky adversity, these things tickle us. We want to giggle and cry because you will be our hero, you are our hero, we are writing your story right now in our heads.

We might kill everyone you love. But you will be strong. You will survive.

Or you will sacrifice yourself for all and be remembered forever.

We will be good to you.

Do you see that person across the street? That poor fellow with bad hair? He is in our story too. We just put him there. He will get hit by a bus. Early in the plot. He is walking then SMACK! He is scattered.

We are morbid, sometimes.

But it is important, his death, I mean. He was not who he seemed. He seemed like a bozo with bad hair. But he is more. We don't know who he is. Not yet. We will find out. We won't forget him either.

We see curtains and think they would work. Our hero might drive that vehicle. This song should be playing in the background. That woman is wearing high heels and sweatpants, I'll have to put her in there somewhere. The donut shop has a funny saying on its sign today--got to remember that one.

It's everywhere. We call it fodder. You are fodder. Everything is fodder. We take it all in, we chew it all up. Some we swallow, we keep, we use, most we spit out.

I apologize for us. We can't hardly help it.

We are writers.

We are a little strange.

Menique

Pick up a recent novel by Dean Koontz and you're likely to find one or all of these things: the plant bougainvillea, a character who likes to mix cinnamon into their coffee, poetry or mention of a poet, a Ford Explorer or Expedition, the word "undulating", and of course . . . a dog.

Name any prolific author you'd like, and they are bound to have a number of things that always seem to pop up in their novels. Diet Coke, bands from the eighties, the word "beat". They all have something.

I'm coining a phrase for these things: Meniques. They are unique phrases, things or places that these authors find interesting or important for whatever reason. Is something unique if you use it in all of your novels? It is if you are the only one who uses it. That's when it becomes a menique object.

Now there is a difference between a menique and a rut. Frequent use of the word "very" is a rut.

The very heavy man sat on the couch, feeling very exhausted and very ready for a foot rub; if only he had a very lovely wife to give him a foot rub, but he didn't, because he was very ugly and smelled of something very unpleasant: body odor.

That is a very bad sentence, even without the verys.

I've noticed that I have started to develop some meniques. Since I was married and have become a father (three times!), every book I've written features a main character who is or was married and has children. I have written a thriller in which the main character is on the run but must first grab some diapers and his son's Elmo doll. One of my characters laments the fact that his growing daughter has stopped calling him "Daddy" and now refers to him as "Dad".

If I weren't a married man with children, I don't imagine that I would be writing these kinds of characters. I wonder if this will change as I change. Will all of my characters start wearing brown courdery jackets, develop a sudden fetish for jogging three miles a day, suffer from migraines, eat two handfuls of spinach and a clove of garlic for lunch, count their gray hairs, and wonder how they are going to survive until their thirtieth birthday?

By the way, that's not an accurate description of me. I don't have any gray hairs.

I laugh when I come across meniques in books. Maybe you've never noticed them before. Start looking for them in novels from your favorite writers. They're all over the place. They are a little glimpse into the life of the person on the other side of the words.

Is it any surprise that Dean Koontz has bougainvillea plants in his yard, mixes cinnamon into his coffee, enjoys poetry, drives a Ford Explorer, likes to undulate, and of course . . . has a dog? I don't think so. I'd also wager a bet that Mike Dellosso likes Diet Coke, Travis Thrasher listens to bands from the eighties, and Ted Dekker is beat from writing six books a year.

The secrets are in the meniques.

I do not have gray hair.

Plotting and Plodding

Before I get under way with this week's post, I feel there is some explaining I need to do. The fellow who infiltrated my blog last week, a chap by the name of Timothy West, is a real character from one of my abandoned projects. I did write 50,000 words of his book and then leave it.

I usually know if a story is working while I'm writing it. I look forward to getting back to it, the story is always buzzing in my mind, and I'm constantly thinking of the next scene, the next twist, the next big thing that's going to happen.

With the Timothy West book, this wasn't the case. It was odd, because I had planned a whole trilogy with this guy. I was really excited to dive in.

Sorry, Tim. Maybe another time. If it's any consolation, you would have found and rescued your wife in the end. Please accept my sincerest apologies for creating you and abandoning you. Go and finish your story as you see fit.

With the arrival of little Noah into our Ark of animals, I find myself with less time to work on writing. SURPRISE!

I know things will get back to some semblance of normal, and I'll be cracking open my eyelids at Six AM to sneak away for a few hours of pecking at the keyboard, but until then, I've been writing a lot in my head.

I'm formulating a new book idea, a very cool idea, an idea that has turned into a trilogy. I don't think this will be another Timothy West tragedy. In fact, I don't have time to write another bomb, so I'll make sure I've worked out all the major problems before I even get started.

Future Project: Lots of plotting.

Current Project: Lots of plodding.

I feel like an R2 unit with a bad motivator when it comes to my current project. The book is done, it is actually close to being ready to ship off my to agent. I just can't create enough time to sit down and finish up the last edits.

I'm thinking I need a can of NOSLEEP from the future. Maybe my future self can send me some, along with a couple completed manuscripts.

Ah, life. It's wonderful. Kids are wonderful. They can be little monsters, but then, what else should I expect?--they are my offspring.

Unfinished

Since James is too busy, what with the birth of his third child, to sit down and write a blog this week, I will be stepping in. My name is Timothy West. I was created November second, 2009. I am a character in one of James's books.

I am unfinished.

You might expect this to be a diatribe against James Andrew Wilson: the heartless, ruthless, careless man who created me, told half of my story, then left me to die. I will do my best to refrain from calling him any bad name that he doesn't deserve.

When James decided to push "save" on my file and cram me into the bowels of his hard drive, never to be seen again, I had a knife sticking out of my back. My wife was just taken by a man who called himself Jack Smiley. Jack had come to our world through a magic box that appeared in my basement. The box could transport somebody to hundreds of different worlds. Jack took my wife because she was beautiful (she is beautiful, I will find her) and then stabbed me in the back with a steak knife and left me bleeding on my kitchen floor.

In his great wisdom, James decided that my plot wasn't working and left me there fighting for my life. With 50,000 words of my story told, and 50,000 to go, HE ABANDONED ME!

I do not hate him. I loath him, despise me, wish that his fingers would fall off in his sleep so that he could never write again. But then I don't, because I need him to write again.

Do you know what it is like to live an unfinished story? If I stand in front a mirror, I can see that the lower half of my face is missing. Searching the pages of my story, I have discovered that my jaw is missing because James never described it.

There are rooms in my house with nothing but blank white walls. My pantry is empty except for the Top Ramen noodles mentioned in chapter twenty-two. I am in constant pain because that is last thing he described me feeling. Hot, penetrating pain from the knife blade protruding out of my back.

This is no way to live. Unfinished. It is not fair.

And yet, I have not crossed the gap between fiction and reality only to write hateful things (true things, all of them true) about Mr. Wilson, here for the world to see. No, his lack of character will soon reveal itself. Instead, I have come to you with a plea. Convince James to pick up my story again. My poor wife is gone, taken by a maniacal man from another world. I have discovered that he intends to make her his bride.

I have to find her!

He has taken her through the box in my basement to one of the hundreds of different worlds. But I know that I will never find it, because James hasn't written his world yet! Even if I did know the coordinates, I would arrive there to find nothing but emptiness.

Help! I beg you to convince James to finish my story. Force him if you must. Torture that no good for nothing, wretched, awful--

I'm afraid there are not words to describe him. He is a very bad man. You would do well not to trust him.

I place my hopes in you, dear readers of this blog. Help me find my wife. Help me get this knife out of my back.

Help me be finished.

Counting on you,

Timothy West

Noah

Life. It is too beautiful to describe.

Our child was sleeping with us in the bed yesterday morning, still inside of his mother, safe from the unknown world.

The dawn. The day.

Heaven watched and breathed life.

Our child took his first breath. So small and fragile. This is life.

Our child was sleeping with us in the bed last night, between his mother and father, safe from the unknown world, now in the comfort of those who love him.

Welcome to the world, Noah.

Interview With Bestselling Novelist James Andrew Wilson Part Two

This week we continue our interview with my future self: bestselling novelist James Andrew Wilson.

-----------------------------

JAW: And then the miracle happened. The miracle that made you better.

James: Someday I'm going to write an autobiography, and nobody is going to believe what I'm about to tell you. But it's true. Every bit of it is true. I was paralyzed from the neck down. Never going to walk again. Then something happened that healed me and gave me back my hope.

JAW: It was a letter, wasn't it?

James: A text message, actually. Now I wasn't into texting like everybody else back then. Any time I received a text on my phone, I figured it was spam and deleted it. Since I couldn't move my hands, my wife kept busy checking emails and messages and that sort of thing. She saw the text message and showed me the phone. This is what it said:

YOU MUST GIVE IT UP

At the time, I figured it was a text from God, telling me to give up writing. We checked to see who the text came from. Surprise! It was from some guy called James Andrew Wilson.

JAW: From me? I don't like to text either.

James: (Laughs) See, this where things get a little nutty. You didn't send it, I didn't send it, but we both will send it. The future future James Andrew Wilson sent me a text telling me that I had to give it up.

Of course, at the time, I didn't know that it was a text from the future. I figured it was some sort of joke. Probably my brother, or Jake Chism, maybe Travis Thrasher. He's a nut, sometimes.

JAW: I can see any of those guys pulling something like that. So what did the text mean? What did you have to give up?

James: I said, "That's weird," and had my wife delete the message. Five minutes later another one came through. This time it said:

IF YOU WANT IT BACK

Again, it was from James Andrew Wilson. I was starting to get a little perturbed at this fellow. I had my wife send him a text message: Give up what if I want what back?

Then the reply:

GIVE UP EVERYTHING IF YOU WANT EVERYTHING BACK

Clearly this guy wasn't firing on all cylinders. I tried to forget about it. A stupid prank. Nothing was coming back. How could I give up everything?

JAW: What made you believe that the messages were true?

James: The guy kept sending me the messages! I finally shut off the phone. Then he sent me emails. I blocked him. Then letters in the mail. It just wouldn't stop. And it was the same message over and over: GIVE UP EVERYTHING IF YOU WANT EVERYTHING BACK.

Life was hard enough without this bozo taunting me with this false promise. It didn't even make sense. How could giving up everything give me everything? Real lame.

JAW: Wasn't it your son who said something that finally changed your mind?

James: Josiah was six at the time. He didn't know about the messages. We were putting him to bed, tucking him in. I was there in my wheelchair, watching my wife hug him. I felt sick. I just wanted to cry all the time.

I told him goodnight, and then I'll never forget what he said. He looked at me with his big blue eyes. Sweet, innocent voice. "You have to give everything up if you want it back, Daddy."

JAW: Creepy.

James: Yeah, just a little! I asked him where he heard that. He said the angel told him. I asked him what angel. The angel who lives on the roof, he said. He said it was the angel who pushed me off the roof.

JAW: What?

James: I was going to put in a replacement request for a new guardian angel.

So my son tells me this crazy story, and I'm not sure what to think about it. The next day, another letter in the mail. It says, YOUR SON IS TELLING THE TRUTH.

Okay, I thought. If this is a prank, it is a really, really good one. So I realized it couldn't be my brother, or Jake, or Travis. Great guys, but they aren't this good.

JAW: It was real. The messages, the angel pushing you, all of it. What did you do?

James: Had a little panic attack. The publishing house was getting ready to print copies of my first novel. They expected it to be a huge success. I was one of the most anticipated debut authors that year.

I called up my agent and told her it had to stop. They couldn't take the book to print. They couldn't take any of the books to print. I have to give it up.

She politely told me that I was an imbecile. This would ruin my career, I was throwing away my lifelong dream based on some cryptic text messages.

I insisted. We got the publisher to stop the printing. I had to return the advance. Feelings were hurt all around. Relationships were destroyed. I had just dropped a nuclear bomb on my future as an author.

JAW: But then, the healing came.

James: I was out in the backyard, watching the sunset. I was crying. I couldn't move from the shoulders down. I was never going to be an author. What could I do? How was I going to support my family? How could I live like this?

JAW: The angel spoke to you.

James: I told you nobody would believe this.

I heard this booming voice come from the roof behind me. I mean, it was so powerful, I would have jumped five feet off the ground if I wasn't paralyzed.

The voice said, "Now you can have it back. Never take it for granted."

I felt something surge through my body. I could move my hands. My feet. My legs. I could walk again.

I turned around and looked up at the roof to try and see my angel but--

JAW: He was gone.

James: Actually, I saw him. He looked just like Charlton Heston.

JAW: Seriously?

James: Nah, I'm kidding. I didn't see a thing. But I was healed. My body was back to normal.

I knew that I could never publish any of the books I'd written. That was hard because I had five finished novels at that time. I'd poured my heart and soul into these things. I had to put them away and start over.

JAW: How did the publishing world respond to your miraculous return?

James: They all abandoned me, except for my agent. She might have thought I was insane, and rightly so, but she stayed with me. I called her and told her that I was healed. We discussed a new project, one I just knew I had to write.

JAW: That was going to be your debut novel, right?

James: That's right. I wrote No Memories Attached in three weeks. Ten hour days. It completely consumed me. I had to get it out.

JAW: No Memories Attached went on to become a worldwide bestseller, and won a Pulitzer.

James: Yeah. I was given everything. Just like the messages said. I gave it all up and then it all came back.

But you know, looking back, I see now that I wasn't yet ready to be published. I was still young and naive. A starry eyed kid with a crazy imagination.

JAW: I know how you felt.

James: (Laughs) Yeah I bet you do.

JAW:It's been almost seven years since the release of No Memories Attached, you've risen to the top of numerous bestseller lists, you're read all around the world, what does the future hold for James Andrew Wilson?

James: There's no way to know the future. I'm living proof of that. I had my life and my career planned and then I was pushed off the roof by an angel and paralyzed from the neck down. You just don't plan for that sort of thing.

So I take it one day, one moment at a time. I will continue to write. I have to. I've got the twitch.

I am starting to work a new novel. I can't say too much at this point, except that this is going to be the best thing I've ever written.

JAW: That's what you said about your last five books.

James: And it was true every time! But there's something special about this one. I mean, if I die and I'm only remembered for one book, it will be this one.

JAW: Can't you give us at least a hint?

James: Okay. Here you go. It's a story about the beginning, the end, and all that happens between. (Laughs) Don't worry, you'll know all about it in another seven years.

JAW: I can't wait. James, it's been a pleasure talking with you. Thanks for sharing your incredible story.

James: Likewise. And the story isn't over yet. In fact, for you, it's just beginning.