The Week That Wasn’t and What To Do

This happened a few weeks ago.

First, the Arizona Coyotes invited me and a friend to a game. I love free tickets, so my friend and I planned to fly to Phoenix the day of the game. But the day before the flight  my friend had a kidney stone problem, I could not find anyone at last minute, so I contacted Coyotes and told them I was unable to attend. Rats! And they beat Calgary 2-0. Rats!

Then my new printer was not communicating with my computer. They stubbornly ignored each other like a married couple after an argument. Both sulking, neither giving in, a standoff with no resolution for days. Finally they made up and began working together.

The next day I came home from a meeting to road construction outside my house. They had been working on upgrading the sewer system, an improvement designed to prevent the old system from flushing unwanted waste out into the street. As if there is wanted waste. One man asked if I had a land line. I answered no, but my computer works off that line. Oops. They had knocked down the line.

They called someone who came within an hour to fix it and left. Later I discovered there was no connection. Huh? The next day I told the foreman my problem and he said he knew a guy who would get here and fix it. So I waited. And waited. The entire day I was a prisoner waiting for the pardon to free me. The guy never showed. I never saw the foreman again. The next day I called the company who provides my service. They would send someone, but he could not get there until after four. I had seven more hours to wait. The man showed and after examining everything he said the guy from yesterday hooked up the line wrong.

Two days wasted waiting for my phone line hookup. I thought I would go crazy. I was like a drug addict waiting for a fix. I need to get on the Internet. I have to do this,  I have to do that, and more again. Who emailed me? What spam did I get? Was my identity stolen in my absence? Is the digital world still there?

So what does one do when an entire week goes haywire. Well one thing is to throw objects to express your angry. But nothing breakable, or items which would break something else. I recommend rolled up socks. Or take a full box of toothpicks and throw them at a wall. It should be a wall in the kitchen because they can be swept up easily, unlike a carpeted room. Trust me.

Or you can just laugh at the insanity around you, that you are really not in control, that there are forces sometimes working against you. Ha Ha.

But you can’t laugh until the week has subsided, the unnamed forces withdrawn, a retreat to regroup for another attack some other week. It has now been four or five weeks. I am not laughing.

Today I tried to log in to WordPress to create this post. The login ignored me. I could not login. Finally I turned off my computer for a few minutes, restarted, and spoiler alert-it is working. Must have been a reconnaissance probe testing for a weakness in my defense. I won today, maybe this will be a good week.

I hope your week was a good one.

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BACK FROM THE DEAD

I am not dead, not anymore anyway. My previous blog was October 18th. Around that time I had a medical issue that put me down for over a month. It affected my brain and my legs. Recovery was slow and in truth, still am recovering, but have progressed well thanks to meds, exercise, and diet.

Though I took time off from blogging I used the time to finish my latest e-book for Amazon, though I have yet to push the publish button. Will do so soon.

When your body betrays you many things start weighing on your mind. Like making out a will in which you are making uncomfortable decisions. I want to take everything with me; I still have a ton of unread books and cool collectibles. Why do I have to designate who gets what? Without a radio, TV, or Internet how do I keep abreast of baseball and hockey? Making out a will is like giving up, not only your stuff, but signing away your life. It’s an admission you can’t live forever.

Then other things creep into your mind to weigh in on, like checking on burial vs. cremation by talking with mortuaries and cemeteries. Like how soon will the end come and if it doesn’t come, can I get my money back. Dying is expensive. Maybe I should go into the mountains, lie down, and wait for bears or cougars so I can provide a meal for creatures of the woods and be recycled into nature.

I can joke about it now, but that first month was filled with depression. I hated my body and its betrayal. I only went to the doctors office and the grocery store. I saw no friends. Only took phone calls and communicated by email and texts.

Today I check the obituaries in the newspaper to see if I have passed on yet. For all I know, I could be a ghost. It doesn’t hurt to check the paper to double check.

Besides finishing my book, I started to research my next project. It will require a lot more research. But I have finished the first chapter. So feel good about that.

We all know the end will come, our life will end. But when young we ignore it and rightly so. In order to function, in order to truly live we must believe we are immortal. Death is for others, not me. If we didn’t believe that we’d go nuts.

I’m older now, there are more years behind me than ahead of me. But I still think I will continue to live even with my recent issues. It keeps me going. reader

What You Can Learn From a Confused Lion

In a recent Clint Hurdle blog James Clear told the story about Clyde Beatty, famous lion tamer. He was the first to use a chair and whip to go into a cage with a lion. I had assumed all my life the chair was for protection. It wasn’t. Beaty knew the Lion, seeing the chair with 4 legs in his face, would be confused as he could not decide which leg to attack, so the lion was essentially paralyzed by indecision.

I think we all are faced with so many choices at times that we can’t figure out how to proceed.

In 1999 I bought my first computer. I knew nothing about them, but I wanted one. So I decided to buy one and figure out through trial and error how to use it. The computer was a Gateway, a popular company at the time. I followed the instructions and assembled it which was a miracle in itself as I have trouble understanding instructions. Fortunately the instructions had pretty pictures that showed what to do.

It came time to push start, so I pushed it. I was unaware that their computer, when it came on, would have a series of loud musical notes. It caught me by surprise and I nearly fell backwards off my chair. But I was online and part of the new world.

The point is to make a decision, then figure things out.

Take writing for example. Nobody really knows how to begin because too many people say do this, not that. Too many conflicting opinions. I recall reading books and articles when I first said ‘I want to write’. In the end I decided to trust my instincts. Just start a story. I can change things later, I can edit, I can add scenes, I can take out passages. I just had to ignore the legs of the chair with so many opinions on how to write and just attack on my own.

Trying to learn is good, nothing wrong about that, but in the end, at some point, you take the plunge and go for it. Whatever you decide you will learn more by trial and error because you must get into whatever you choose and learn for yourself.

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One Simple Lesson For A Happy Life

In Travels with Epicurus, subtitled A Journey to a Greek Island in Search of a Fulfilled Life, the following story was told by the author Daniel Klein, who learned it had been told by Aegean islanders for a long time.

A prosperous Greek American was visiting one of the Aegean islands one day when “he comes upon an old Greek man sitting on a rock, sipping a glass of ouzo, and lazily staring at the sun setting into the seas. The American notices there are olive trees growing on the hills behind the old Greek, but that they are untended, with olives just dropping here and there onto the ground. He asks who the trees belong to.

“They’re mine,” the Greek replies.

“Don’t you gather the olives?” the American asks.

“I just pick one when I want one,” the old man says.

“But don’t you realize that if you pruned the trees and picked the olives at their peak, you could sell them? In America everybody is crazy about virgin olive oil, and they pay a damned good price for it.”

“What would I do with the money?” the old Greek asks.

“Why, you could build yourself a big house and hire servants to do everything for you.”

“And then what would I do?

“You could do anything you want.”

“You mean, like sit outside and sip ouzo at sunset?”

The above story is not unlike the old adage about stopping to smell the roses. If you are young, ambitious, want the big house and servants you are unlikely to take the advice. It is only the elders among us, who realize that sitting on the beach at sunset, drinking wine, watching the sun set, that truly appreciate what life offers. Simple pleasures are the great rewards, bringing peace and serenity. Stay calm, enjoy.

Skol!

 

 

Amazon’s Bots Causing Writers Nightmares

I applaud Amazon for developing algorithms and bots that seek out and destroy paid book reviews. Any type of review, book or otherwise, should not come from a paid hack. Nor, on the flip side, should Amazon allow reviews from those who always give bad reviews to everything they choose to write about. It is their idea of fun. They are the human equivalent of bots. The software digital bots have an excuse, the humans one are evil.

But we don’t live in a perfect world, far from it, and these problems will be ongoing.

A few years ago I had a 4-star review for one of my e-books that disappeared. Amazon told me they did not know why. As it dropped my average review from 3.5 to 3 that did not help my cause. Luckily I had saved it through copy and paste and can use it on this site.

I follow Anne R. Allen’s blog about some recent problems regarding Amazon’s bots deleting reviews that are random, done for no reason. This hurts both Amazon and writers.

I quote from her blog: ” UPDATE, 4/24/18: Yesterday the Washington Post ran an article on Amazon’s fake review problem, which made it sound pretty severe, and shows why the Zon is cracking down so hard.

But today industry watchdog David Gaughran offered some enlightening information that refutes some of the data in the WaPo article.

It seems that Amazon is using some very dodgy data from an outfit called ReviewMeta to flag “fake” reviews. Two “proofs” of wrongdoing, according to ReviewMeta are: 1) reviewers who mention the name of the book 2) reviewers who review more than one book in a series. Their algorithm flags those as fake reviews.

So if you’ve had your reviews removed, or your account has been deleted, it may have happened because you broke these “rules” which have no relevance to book reviewing.

This may be why the robots are getting things so very, very wrong.”

Digital technology is not fool proof. As you can see from the quote Big Brother Bots can go rogue, or maybe they are not that smart. So if you are a writer and have books, e-books, or sell anything on Amazon, monitor your reviews. Know how many reviews there are, who wrote them, what the rating was. And you might want to keep track the old fashioned way, paper and pen. You never know.

The following e-book has a 3.5 rating based on 3 reviews and is not the e-book with the missing review I mentioned. If you chose to buy this e-book please do NOT review the book. The bots may think we know each other. I can’t afford to lose reviews. Thanks for reading.

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The dilemma of telling people you’re a writer

A few days ago I received my online newsletter from Authors Publish.  It contains two leads for publishing houses, but what caught my interest was a short piece about what happens when you tell people you are a writer.

Number one of the five is the imposter syndrome. I have always been hesitant telling people I am a writer. The reactions I have gotten have not been positive, leaving me at times, feeling like an imposter. To this point, other than a brief memoir in a book published in 2012 and two short stories published locally in an annual book, I have published three e-novels and two short-story collections on Amazon. I also wrote film reviews for a newspaper for eleven years and did a few freelance stories. I received positive feedback during that period.

Yet I still hesitate.

I told a woman the other day about my short story published in an edition of the locally published book and she told me she wrote a piece for them a few years ago-and then made sure she deflated me my saying -“They publish anything sent to them.” I don’t know why she blew it off, and I question whether everything send is published.

Another woman said she only reads ‘real books’ and e-books are not real. Perhaps she fears the digital world. Then there are relatives. My closest cousins don’t read much, if at all, and though one wanted one of the annuals where my short story was published, he has never read, to my knowledge, the story. He had said he would tell me how he liked it, but that was about seven months ago. No phone call, no email, no smoke signals, not a wisp of contact. My other cousin said she still has not read the story. She never reads.

Is there any doubt why I sometimes feel like an imposter and any doubt why I hesitate to tell people I am a writer.

My best experience was reading my latest short story at the kickoff for the last annual collection of local writers. One woman said she read the story three times, and the man who puts the writings together for publication told the group how much he liked the story, why he liked it, and pushed me to read the opening page of my short story.

Though I hesitate, I am getting better at it. I have learned that detractors often have insecurities as I noted about the woman who said they publish anything. Like the Taylor Swift line ” haters are going to hate” so stay away from the haters and the negative nellies. They are not worth your time. I have found a positive group of local writers to share writing and experiences with, so am moving forward.

Keep away from people who try to belittle your ambitions. Small people always do that, but the great make you feel, that you too, can become great.-Mark Twain.

I am coming out of  the “I am a writer” closet.

I am a writer, like it or not, take it or leave it.

To Publish or Not to Publish; that is the question-and of course How

If Moses were alive today he’d come down from the mountain with the Ten Commandments and spend the next five years trying to get them published.
– Anonymous

I have published three e-novels and two collections of short stories on Amazon because getting an agent who may find a publisher who may publish the book would be like beating the odds of winning the lottery. The odds are against anyone for too many reasons to go into in this blog.

But . . .

Having just finished my fourth novel I am faced with a choice based on new information about e-books and hard copy (book) by a publisher (who puts book in bookstores).

First, Amazon has something new that might make it easier for me and anyone else to publish. In the past I outsourced my word.doc to LiberWriter who changes my word doc. to the specifications of Amazon, something I do not feel qualified to do. LiberWriter sends me a file that I can upload on Amazon. Of course that costs me money, but I am willing as it saves me time and because I have no idea how to do it anyway.

Bu now Amazon has something called Kindle Create that lets me send my Word Doc to a software program they have and it recognizes everything, lets me play with it a bit, edit and so on before I publish, thus bypassing my paid formatter. I have done a cursory review of the how to and it seems easy enough for me to accomplish.

Or . . .

I subscribe to Authors Publish, a free weekly e-mail about smaller publishing houses that are likely to accept your manuscript. They do research on the company and also remind you to check out the publisher yourself through websites like Predators and Editors, which, alas, is no more. It is looking for a caretaker. But there is Writers Beware, that is supported by Science  Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America with support from Mystery Writers of America, Horror Writers Association, and American Society of Journalists and Authors (links below). Authors Publish also has leads on magazines, online zines, journals, and they tell who pays and who doesn’t and provide links.

So . . .

Among the emails from them I have found book publishers that I may be able to work with. I have yet to fully research them as these e-mails have come during my writing and proofreading, so I saved the ones I read that looked promising. I have had a couple short stories published in hardcover, but a novel would be nice.

Therefore . . .

I must research both Kindle Create and a possible publisher. And do so now. But we have more options today then did Moses and he was more of an agent.

Horror Writers Association

Mystery Writers of America

American Society of Journalists and Authors

Thanks for reading.

 

 

 

A short story about a magical book for you to read

My short story, The Book That Couldn’t be Put Down was published last year in Mason County Writes. I offer it here to read at your leisure.

The Book That Couldn’t Be Put Down 

It began so innocently.

Kellum Buchman, who frequented library sales, rummage sales, Goodwill, thrift stores, used book stores, any outlet for cheap books, was considered a bookworm by sneering lowbrows, considered a booklover by loving family, and  Kellum, who was browsing for books at a yard sale when it happened, considered himself, without snobbery, a bibliophile. Then it happened.

It was such a simple act. Picking up a book he noticed on a table full of well-worn books, old magazines and postcards, something he or anyone has done hundreds of times. It was an old book, one with a leather cover, thick with crisp pages; excellent condition really. Holding the book in his left hand he read the copyright page. A first edition from 1909 from a writer he had not heard of, not that it mattered to Kellum.

He decided to buy it and was switching the book from his left hand to his right, when he noticed something odd. He looked up to see if anyone noticed. The person in charge of the yard sale was sitting in her aluminum framed patio chair not looking at him, but chatting with another woman, both as old as most of the books and magazines on the table. Other bargain hunters were scanning flower pots, bowls, silverware, and other human detritus, once key components of a life, now either trash or collectibles depending on one’s sensibility.

Still looking around him, Kellum tried pulling the book off his left hand. It would not come free though his left hand was flat against the back cover. He turned around, his back to customers, and quickly put out his left arm, palm up; but the book did not drop, simply falling open like a spread out accordion.

Turning around he drew the book to his chest, trying his best to act nonchalant.  He intended to buy more books, but considered the inherent problem. What if another book he picked up with his right hand . . . no, it could not be chanced. He walked up to the woman in the aluminum chair and paid $2 for the book and hurried off.

Back in his apartment, bookcases on four walls surrounded a much faded, well-trod on Oriental rug. A green swiveling comfy chair, the arms of which were no longer green where the hand would rest, but stained brown from human contact over how many years sat in the epicenter of the rug with a 1950ish floor lamp placed near the chair for optimum reading. Standing near the lamp Kellum once again raised his left arm and tried to shake loose the book and once again it would not fall. He tried to pry up the book at the corners, peaking to see if there was some type of Super-Dooper gloopy glue that was causing this unnatural act. He found nothing to indicate why the book was stuck to his left palm.

He tried to think of what do to. Could smearing butter or grease break the hold? He didn’t see how as neither could get between his hand and the book cover. Hot water? Besides damaging the book he didn’t think it would work, after all how hot should the water be? Boiling? No, that was not the answer. Take a knife and slowly slide the blade between fingers and book to see if he could edge his fingers away.  He had a box cutter, but ruled that out as being too sharp and would no doubt cut away his skin. He got a pocket knife and tried to pry the book away by sliding the knife near the bottom of his hand, but though he could, with some trouble mind you, get the knife slightly between book and skin, going any further proved fruitless.

Then an idea struck him. He bent over, his left palm facing down, the book resting on the floor. He then placed each foot on either side of his palm, the feet resting on the edges of the book, and then pushed down with his feet while trying to straighten his back. Smart plan, but high hopes turned to frustration as the desired effect did not come close to success.

Kellum sat in his old green swivel chair, his head tilted back, stared at the ceiling. He just sat and stared, thinking of nothing, pretending what happened was not real, but a dream. He was using deniability as a method to calm his nerves, come to a peace in which the answer would come to him without thinking. No need to panic, no need to overthink. Relax and let the answer come to you.

An hour or so later he woke up. The book was still there. No dream and no answer. Having a book attached to your hand presents problems. He realized this when he had to use the bathroom. Now I will not tell you what he was doing as in either case you can imagine for yourself the problems he encountered. It was, of course, awkward. Not to mention time consuming.

And naturally making dinner or any meal was also problematic. He was for all intent and purpose a one armed man. But one who forgot that at times and tried to do something, but the book would knock off a glass onto the floor, shattering into small pieces, presenting yet another problem. At least a normal one armed man does not have the weight of a large 1909 leather-bound thick book pulling at you. It forced him many times to bring the book to his chest like a professor walking with his books to class, hugging them so they would not escape.

Showering was out of the question; bathing being a reasonable alternative, he was able to come clean without too much distress.

But these were the least of his problems. The larger one being he would have to call in sick tomorrow for how could he go to work and do his job as surgical tech, sterilizing medical instruments and assisting in surgery. And for how many days would he have to do it?

Naturally he thought of going to a doctor, he knew many of them. They of course called him a bookworm and other related indignities, though of course intellectually he knew bookworm was not an insult, but emotionally he felt the way his coworkers used the word, it seemed to be insulting. Going to them would make him the object of intense ridicule.

So he called in sick, again and again and again, until he was told not to come in any more. He never left his apartment except to take trash out and only in the middle of the night. He ordered home delivery of his groceries, telling the store to place them outside the door, knock, and then leave. He paid online and always tipped. He paid all bills online, declined to accept any invitations from family or what few friends he had to go anywhere. He had become a recluse.

Then things took a hopeful turn.

One night he took out the trash and a young girl noticed him struggling with the garbage bag, the book hugging the bag. He put the trash in the can and turned and saw the girl.

“You can’t put the book down, can you?” she said.

“What are you talking about?”

“No matter what you do, the book will not let go of you; the book is stuck on your hand.”

“How did you know? Have you been spying on me?”

“No. The same thing happened to me.”

“But you have no book now. What happened, I mean how did you get rid of the book?”

“Have you read the book?” she asked.

“No . . . I mean I . . . wait . . . your smiling. That’s it! You mean all I have to do is read the book and it will leave me.”

“It worked for me. Think about it. When you read a book you get involved with characters, their stories, it can consume you, staying with the story until it is over, then there is the come down after the reading when everything returns to normal, the story fades away as another story in another book takes its place. Read the book, finish the story, and life will return to normal. The story wants you, needs you as much as you need it, for a story needs readers as much as readers need a story, so the book is insisting on being read and you will be one with the book until it is finished.”

“It’s so simple,” he said. “The answer was obvious, it was in front of me all this time and I couldn’t see it. God, I feel stupid and me a reader. I guess I got mad at the book and blamed it or something. I read other books, not easy, as I’m sure you know, but . . . there the book was and I hadn’t even bothered to read it. Thank you. I’m glad I met you.” He looked at the book on his hand, smiled, and then looked up at the girl. She was gone. I didn’t get her name he thought. In fact he had never seen her before. Maybe she was a new tenant in the building.

Back in his apartment he started to read the book, got distracted thinking about the girl, about 19 or so, maybe older, her dark shoulder length hair, her suggestive smile-thought he thought that he might be projecting her smile as suggestive to flatter himself-but she did have cute dimples.

He shook off his memory of her and restarted his reading, getting involved in the characters and the story. The book was nearly 600 pages so could not be read in one night, or in two. As much as he wanted to finish the story, to let the book fall way, to get back to a normal life, he felt it could not be rushed. Each book, each story, had to be savored like a gourmet meal; letting the flavor come to you, slowly chewing it all, taking it all in bit by bit.

Over the next couple of days as he got further into the story he noticed a change. It was not any loosening of the book, but a change in his skin. It started that first night, the night he met the girl when taking out his garbage. His skin color was yellowing ever so slightly and it got progressively yellower and dryer each day. Naturally it worried him, interfered with his concentration of the story, as he continually went to the bathroom mirror to check his skin. He also noticed it was not just his arms, but his legs, his face, his chest, in fact his entire body color was changing the more he read.

On the third day looking at his skin while sitting in his green comfy chair on the faded oriental rug he realized what the skin looked like, realized as he rubbed his right arm over his left arm above the book. His skin was like parchment, in both color and feel. Was the book poisoned or something? The girl never told me about this? Did it happen to her? He never noticed as she stood mostly in shadow near the trash cans. In fact, he thought, I didn’t get a good look at her at all.

Then he could no longer read, feeling that, in fact, reading was making things worse, that the more he read the more his skin was turning into parchment. But that was not the case as going without reading for a day his color did not change. In fact, after not reading, his hair was turning to what can best be described as papyrus. And his eyes; his eyes, once hazel, now looked like white pulp.

Then things got worse.

On the fourth or fifth day, he could not remember which, as he could not sleep and lost track of time, he noticed writing on the parchment of his skin. In sentences winding around his arm beginning at the wrist and moving upward, he saw the words appear as if someone were writing on his skin. He looked at his legs and saw the same, sentences being written as he watched. His chest the same. He hugged the book to his chest and tried running to the bathroom to check his face, but he could not run as the front of his body was changing. The shirt was becoming a hard cardboard like material, the same on his back. He could not make it to the bathroom. The book was not done with him. It was not that the book could not be put down; the book would not let him go. They were becoming as one.

A week later a young girl with shoulder length dark hair walked into Kellum’s apartment. She looked in very room and did not see him. She saw a large book on the floor between a large green comfy chair with worn down arm rests stained from years of human contact and the bathroom. She squatted down and looked at the large leather bound book and smiled. She did not touch it.

Other weird stories by your host are found in these two E- books on Amazon

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Three reasons why you need to write for your health

You do not have to write a novel or short story. I am talking about just writing.

Reason one. When I was in college I read-and I can’t remember who it was that said it-“How do I know what I think until I write it down?” But before you laugh and say “I know what I think” you might be surprised. For example I wrote film reviews for ten years. Once I thought I liked a certain movie,  but as I started to write the review I realized I was writing a bad review. It really was not as good as I thought. My brain, through writing my thoughts more coherently took the opposite course. And it surprised me. It happened on more than one occasion. There is something magical about putting words to work. It clarifies your thinking in surprising ways. So now I know what that writer meant.

Reason two.  Try a journal and keep track of your progress towards goals. I keep track of what I eat so as not to overdo the sugar intake, which is worse than calories. Keep sugar down, unless it comes with maple bars, ice cream, cakes, pies, or cookies. So you see writing a journal is important to your well being. Then years later looking back at your journal you can see how far you’ve come and can congratulate your self and celebrate with a maple bar.

Reason three. This is important as you get older, but writing keeps your brain active and by being active, it prevents atrophy. Getting back to reason one, writing forces you to think and in using Word.doc it forces your eyes to look at the keyboard, to see quickly hitting the right keys. I do not mean to make light of this. I truly believe it is good eye to finger coordination, and of course you are thinking of that you ware trying to say while doing this. It is a good exercise.

So those are my three reasons. An active brain is a healthy brain and a healthy brain is a healthier you.

How I was seduced into Amazon’s supernatural invisible algorithms

It started innocently enough. I was at the local library and picked up a complimentary copy of Book Page. They also have a website bookpage.com for those who have never heard of libraries. On pages 22-23 in the non-fiction book reviews were two titles of interest to me. And now we get to the synchronicity part.

After attending a film at the local cinema, I headed home and went to Amazon ‘s website to learn more about the books and see how many reviews they garnered. I typed in “Andy Warhol was a Hoarder,” a book by Claudia Kalb in which she covers 12 different people of fame, who, shall we say, had some idiosyncrasies, and whether there is some correlation between madness and genius. I have not read the book, but I think there might be. But not full blown madness you understand. But I will read the book at some time.

But what caught my eye is that the next two books listed on Amazon under the Andy Warhol book were two more titles, totally unrelated to Warhol , hoarding, genius or any sort of mental aberration. But both of those books were listed on the same pages in Book Page as the Warhol book.

We on the outside world, the world of nerds and geeks, we who know nothing of algorithms (let alone the ability to spell it) at least have a basic understanding of what it means. So are we now in some supernatural Amazon algorithmic universe where book titles in a thin, little, complimentary, eclectic magazine magically appear on the same Amazon page? Does Amazon, like a computer that I have heard is in existence, reads a persons brain waves? No longer do you have to say anything to Siri, or to Cortana. You just have to think what you want and the computer will react and do what you wish. Beware what you think. If your wife is standing behind you, don’t think porn.

The other two books were David Denby’s “Lit Up” about his  year of observing a high school literature class for one year to see if today’s students actually have an interest in serious literature, and the other was “On My Own,” by NPR talk show host Diane Rehm. It is about the loss of her husband and non-compassionate choices of health care. These were the three books on pages 22-23 that showed up on the same Amazon page when I typed in the Andy Warhol title. Will it happen again? I am to afraid to try.

But I know in telling you about this synchronicity that I have been pixilated into Amazon’s algorithmic math. Otherwise how could I have written this blog and mentioned these books on Amazon. Somehow Amazon drew me in against my will and left me feeling like an alien abductee. We are doomed. The algorithms are after all of us. Forget Reptilians, forget the grays, forget the walking dead. Beware the algorithms.