Are There Degrees of Profundity?

Where do profound thoughts come from? Do we just wait for them to smack us on the head?


I learned that enlightenment can begin with an event no more complicated than watching seagulls.

Before we get to the gulls, it bears mentioning, there have been two occasions when seemingly benign comments created circumstances sending my life sailing off into new directions, like a pinball hitting that hundred-point bumper, lighting up all the machinery.

Through my teens and twenties, life was a rather steep uphill battle. At the time, concerns were limited to wondering whether my last ten dollars, three days before payday, would buy gasoline for the car, or a few more groceries. Looking back, those were happy times, the good old days. When the thirties rolled around, income increased and money worries leveled out, even disappeared to a great extent. Life was good.

It’s easy to see it all in retrospect. Living on a plateau, whether financial or from any other perspective, is only comfortable as long as no one pushes us from it. Funny thing about plateaus, no down escalator, only lethal drops. If we’re lucky enough to get there, the battle to keep the fruits of our achievements can be a killer.

Working in the television business in a small Texas market in the seventies and early eighties was a joy, until the station sold and management changed. Suddenly, I didn’t fit. Fear of losing what I had invested years to build pressed my Chicken Little button. It seemed calamity lurked just out of sight, but I expected it to come into view at any moment. I put in twice the time and thrice the effort to simply stay employed. No matter. My goals had been raised to unreasonable limits, support systems removed. They wanted me gone.

Friends came for a visit one weekend. I laid the oh-woe-is-me treatment on a buddy. He tired quickly of hearing it. “Nothing lasts forever,” he said flatly, “Stop worrying about it.”

Comments don’t get more basic, benign or non-threatening than that. But, for me, at that time, it was a life-altering revelation. Like a bullet between the eyes, it exploded the sacred myth that that job should be forever. What the hell was I thinking? He was dead-on right. Nothing lasts forever.

Then came profundity number two. Near the end of that situation, I learned to deal with inevitability, even joke about it. I continued finding or creating promotional vehicles suited to my clients. Admittedly, some of that was to impress my superiors to show them what they would be missing when they let the ax fall.

As I agonized over a proposal and worried aloud about it, a coworker said, “It’s just f___ing television, not brain surgery. Stop worrying about it.”

That’s when I discovered lightning could strike twice. That comment, made in passing, and in jest, scars my psyche to this day, but it’s a funny little blemish. It’s one of those guiding forces in my life I refer to, and say often, just substitute the word television with the flavor of the month. I never change the profanity. It fits all situations.

That former coworker holds a special place in my heart for that comment. He’ll likely never know that he provided me a springboard to another life’s change. All he wanted was a laugh.

When the mind is open, wisdom gets in. But, how does one go about opening a mind? It’s certainly not like flipping a light switch.

Sometimes, a simple summer vacation and a day at the beach can do the trick.

It was daybreak, my favorite time of day. I poured a cup of coffee, grabbed a lawn chair and walked to the beach, no other plan in mind than greet the day while listening to the crashing surf, ready to get my vacation underway.

The rhythmic sound of crashing surf and a steady breeze worked its magic. Troubles took flight—ah, sweet, sweet peace of mind. It felt good. I had nothing on my mind except letting the sound of the surf and sights of the ocean sweep over me.

Gulls gathered at the water’s edge looking into the rising sun, unmoving, even against the stiff breeze. They seemed to be refusing to relinquish a front row seat, like they saw something worth staring at.

I was reminded of a movie where angels gathered on a beach, all oriented east, looking into the rising sun, as these gulls did, greeting the new day. Did the director see this same sight, too?

A cloud drifted across the still-rising sun, shooting streamers of God’s light in all directions. That certainly didn’t settle my seeking mind.

It concerned me that I might be taking for granted what those birds saw as reverent. In their way, they must have been giving thanks for surviving long enough to see another sunrise.

The excited squeal of a small child startled me from contemplation. I looked. People were coming out to enjoy this sliver of paradise. As far as I could see in both directions, people walked to the beach, as if the hand of a director cued them to do so.

At that moment, it was as if God’s finger touched that sleeping part of my brain.

This must have been about the temporal nature of life. A hundred years from now no one on that beach would likely be alive—very few on the entire planet, yet the gulls would still greet each new day and the surf would still pound the beach.

I shuddered.

When life’s drudgery drags you down, someone close will certainly crack wise, “In a hundred years from now, who’s going to care?”

It’s true.

Enjoy.

Life’s short.


Daniel (Danny) Lance Wright
Author of
"Paradise Flawed"/Dream Books LLC/2009
"Six Years' Worth"/Father's Press/2007
"The Last Radiant Heart"/Virtual Tales/Summer 2010
"Anne Bonny, Where Are You?"/Rogue Phoenix Press/Spring 2010

Chicken or the Egg

As a fiction writer, a concept or premise will come to me by way of something I’ve seen or read and then go about the business of concocting characters to bring the story to life. But, just yesterday, it occurred to me that I have several interesting characters rambling around in my head that have no story home. They’re just interesting people I’ve known, or know of, that would make excellent characters if only I had a story for them.


That got me wondering about other fiction writers. And, it amounts to the classic conundrum: Which came first, the chicken or the egg? Do other fiction writers build stories around strong characters or create characters to be plugged into a story after conceptualizing a plot line? Or, is there a mix?

As mentioned, I have characters in mind but I’ve never built a story around a single character.

I need to pause and say, though, I’ve yet to write a sequel. That, to me, is a different situation. The story must be built around the character(s). I’m confining this to the genesis of a brand new project.

Somehow, I have the feeling that this might be a polarizing subject if opened up for debate. Who cares? I think I’ll ask anyhow.

Which came first, the character or the story?





Daniel (Danny) Lance Wright

Author of

"Paradise Flawed"/Dream Books LLC/2009

"Six Years' Worth"/Father's Press/2007

"The Last Radiant Heart"/Virtual Tales/Summer 2010

"Anne Bonny, Where Are You?"/Rogue Phoenix Press/Spring 2010

Circling Buzzards

A Sunday morning tradition I’ve always enjoyed has been to cook brunch, sit with my wife in the dining room facing a window, curtains pulled back and look out at the world as we enjoy the meal. That Sunday was no different, except, maybe, for my state of mind.


Dad is eighty-six. He has only days left in this life. I’ve spent time at his side listening to stories that get increasingly personal as time slips away. I’ve learned more about the man in a week than at any other time in my sixty years. Therefore, it was on my mind. Somehow, I would incorporate those stories into a work of fiction. I figured a cathartic benefit might be in it for me, if for no other reason. That’s when I began to wonder what it is that obligates a person to spill every secret of life when it begins leaching away.

As I ate, two buzzards flew high over our neighborhood and had begun that familiar slow circling flapless descent. It could only mean some creature had lost its life. But, then I thought: Could it be the creature isn’t dead yet? Is it possible that it’s lying on the ground watching death come for it? If so, is it reconciling life, too? These questions born of that view led to a philosophical meandering that held my mind hostage for over half an hour.

That said, it’s only natural I think on the secrets of my own life that I hold. At the moment, none seem important. At best, they’re amusing. At worst, they’d anger or confuse people. So, I leave them tucked away to enjoy, or regret, within my own secret world. Eventually, like the rest of the human race, I’ll be compelled to share them before I die and leave it to the next generation to determine value.

For now, it continues baffling. Everyone that endures a lingering death does it. Why?



Daniel (Danny) Lance Wright
Author of
"Paradise Flawed"/Dream Books LLC/2009
"Six Years' Worth"/Father's Press/2007
"The Last Radiant Heart"/Virtual Tales/Summer 2010
"Anne Bonny, Where Are You?"/Rogue Phoenix Press/May 2010

Italy 1944

Italy 1944




My father is eighty-six and a World War II veteran. He’s on oxygen round the clock due to COPD. His mind is sharp and relishes staying abreast of current events. But, it’s not his command of contemporary facts that’s astounding, although his knowledge of what’s happening in Washington rivals any of the pundits or politicians on the Sunday morning network news magazines.

When I visit, it doesn’t matter what our conversations consist of, it will sooner or later metamorphose into a war story, usually Italy in 1944. He served some time in North Africa but that hardly ever comes up. Even sixty-six years later it’s amazing the detail he uses to tell his stories. Names, places, ages—all the information necessary to tell a story chocked with descriptive nuance.

This past week he retold a story I’ve heard numerous times about a night in a bar with a soldier he knew. It was in a small town just outside Rome. But on this telling, I learned something new.

As usual, he explained the soldier in great detail using his full name, where his hometown was, how long he’d been in Italy, and many other highly descriptive details of the night and the bar plus its patrons as if he watched a movie in his mind’s eye. I was feigning interest since I’d heard it so many times and casually made the comment, “He must have been a really good buddy.”

He said, “Oh no, I met him at the bar and never saw him again after that night.”

Dad tossed out that comment thinking nothing of it and continued on with the story; whereas my focus on what he was saying stopped cold right there. How could he remember all that about a guy he knew for a few hours and a bar he was in once only?

It has to be the nature of war. All the senses are set on edge and pushed to extremes. This can be a good thing in dangerous situations. One can react instantaneously and get the job done clear of mind. But, after it’s over it can cause post traumatic stress disorder at one extreme while people, like my Dad, who managed to preserve relative mental stability, had an indelible mark made another way—acute sensory awareness that keeps people and events fresh for a lifetime.

It doesn’t matter that I’ve heard them all many, many times and will likely hear them all again. I’ll keep listening because it’s not about the story, it’s about the storyteller.


Daniel (Danny) Lance Wright
Author of
"Paradise Flawed"/Dream Books LLC/2009
"Six Years' Worth"/Father's Press/2007
"The Last Radiant Heart"/Virtual Tales/Spring 2010
"Anne Bonny, Where Are You?"/Rogue Phoenix Press/May 2010

A Winner's Instinct

Earlier this week, a relatively warm afternoon somehow wedged itself between cold fronts. I enjoyed the simple pleasure of walking the hundred yards to my mailbox. Afterward, while making a beeline for the garbage can with a handful of credit card offers and other ways to spend money, I saw a roadrunner, but that’s not out of the ordinary since a pair of them live nearby and are neighbors year-round.


What brought me to a standstill was that the bird had a live long snake in its beak. It was obvious that the skinny serpent had no desire to be its lunch. And, it was clear that the roadrunner did not care for its proximity to me. It ran, or so it tried. It was, at first, very comical.

The snake encircled the bird’s legs and tripped it. The roadrunner had gained enough momentum that it slid on its beak before recouping balance and taking off again. This repeated several times in quick succession. That poor roadrunner floundered but refused to release its prey even as it approached a barbed wire fence with a dense stand of dried weeds along it. It appeared impassable.

Well, dear chaparral, it would seem you’ve met your match and might consider shorter snakes in the future, I thought.

The bird suddenly found footing, stood and took wing—snake still clutched and dangling like the tail of a kite. It was a genuine spectacle of nature.

As it disappeared behind a cedar tree to enjoy its meal, my smile faded away as I thought on what I had just witnessed. That bird refused to give. The snake refused to give up. But, in the end, there could be only one winner.

That’s life. That’s what we, as humans, do everyday—try to progress positives in measurable ways, defeating whatever downsides stand in our way.

So, tomorrow when you’re eating breakfast thinking about your day, ask yourself: Today, will I be the roadrunner or will I be the snake?


Daniel (Danny) Lance Wright
Author of
"Paradise Flawed"/Dream Books LLC/2009
"Six Years' Worth"/Father's Press/2007
"The Last Radiant Heart"/Virtual Tales/Spring 2010
"Anne Bonny, Where Are You?"/Rogue Phoenix Press/May 2010

Brain Power

Below is the foreword to my new novel, The Last Radiant Heart, set to release in late spring or early summer of 2010. I thought it would be fun to post it and invite comments. Even if you choose not to leave your thoughts on it, I hope you enjoy the read. –Daniel Lance Wright


Whether beliefs are rooted in creationism, evolution, or any other discipline, there is a point everyone will likely agree on: The human mind functions at a mere fraction of potential.

Debate on the subject creates more questions than answers. Although theories are bandied about, nothing has ever been proven. It remains a debatable and interesting topic of conversation.

If two people can agree that the human mind is only using a miniscule portion of that potential then the question becomes: Is there a story out there—a person—that could provide evidence of a brain fully developed? If so, what would it mean? What would that person be capable of?

Theoretically, such a person would set the scientific and theological communities on their ears. Such a discovery might require an overhaul of thinking that has been around for thousands of years. Since beliefs tend to harden with time, changing that thinking might require a large hammer of truth.

Let’s explore a possibility: What if a person existed that had full use of every square centimeter of brain matter, not just part of it? Furthermore, what if full use of that gray matter did not constitute an increased ability to think reason or control body parts—or any other function considered primary?

The result could be a projection of power that changes this person’s personal universe. In other words, allowing him to physically move from one time to the next, one place to the next, or even one dimension to the next.

Could there be truth in such a story? The popular answer would have to be no. But let’s assume the unpopular answer is correct.

Thanks to near-infinite genetic variations, we are amazing creatures, and amazingly different. Some are capable of tremendous feats of ingenuity while others are tragically challenged to perform the simplest tasks.

What if a scale should exist to measure absolute mind capacity? The difference between the near-vegetative human being and the person with the highest intelligence quotient on the planet is indistinguishable on this scale, both near the bottom. The ability to think and reason is common to both. Their assigned position on the scale already indicates how little difference there is between them. Furthermore, we are assuming a scale to measure absolute mind capacity.

What if thinking and reasoning were only a tiny part of the brain’s planned purpose? What if incremental increases in mental capacity create abilities that compounded with each click of the pointer on our assumed scale?

These extraordinary gifts wouldn’t be considered normal or even believable by today’s standards. Such gifts would be labeled queer aberrations of the human condition. Religions of the world would take it to extremes. Some would assign Christ-like status. Others would call it Satan’s work. But everyone would disbelieve until they witnessed it for themselves. It would test all belief boundaries. Therefore, it makes sense that someone possessing such abilities might desire to keep them secret.

Let’s consider these for example: telepathy, telekinesis, astral projection, time travel, inter-dimensional travels and a myriad of others, real or imagined. Small, yet passionate, groups around the world believe in such areas of study. A few openly profess to practice these fringe concepts.

Somewhere, in a lonely position high up on this mind-measuring scale is a nonbeliever. He’s a man of average intelligence—a man that confines such topics to party conversations. But, what he has believed all his life is destined to become irrelevant.

Daniel (Danny) Lance Wright
Author of
"Paradise Flawed"/Dream Books LLC/2009
"Six Years' Worth"/Father's Press/2007
"The Last Radiant Heart"/Virtual Tales/Spring 2010
"Anne Bonny, Where Are You?"/Rogue Phoenix Press/May 2010

Mumbles and Grunts

Although not something dwelt on often, it was thrust into my consciousness recently and there it remains. I’m referring to how I speak versus how I write.


Recently, I had a conversation with a friend who is also an English teacher; twice she corrected me on poor word choice. At the time I just laughed it off and continued whatever it was that I was telling her. It was later that I began to worry about it. A self-analysis began that I’m now continually addressing, even in this writing.

Maybe I should go back to the beginning. I grew up in a rural environment on the Texas South Plains where verbal communication consisted of profanity-laced and testosterone-loaded mumbles and grunts. Hanging out in the office of a cotton gin listening to farmers talk over a game of dominoes is not the best place to learn syntax and good grammar. Unfortunately, I spent many more hours as a child in that and similar environments than in classrooms. Even during the years immersed in the education system learning better, I didn’t practice verbally what I’d been taught.

Eventually, I broke into the television industry and became a news writer/reporter and so began my first foray into using our language correctly. At the time, I didn’t notice—in fact, totally blind to my habit of reverting to grammatically challenged mumbles and grunts once the red light on the camera went off.

It’s not that I’m into secular flagellation, but the cold truth is when I’m drafting a novel and my imagination is running full-bore through my fingertips the result is the print version of those mumbles and grunts. I had a high school English teacher, now long deceased, that I’m sure cringes with every other keystroke as she looks over my shoulder from her heavenly vantage point. I wager that I spend much more time editing than even the most inexperienced writers whose childhoods were spent around people speaking the language as it was intended.

Now I’m too conscious of it, correcting myself so often that the train of thought jumps track and I end up staring, unable to remember what I was saying. Grammatically challenged mumbles and grunts has evolved into conversationally challenged red faces and question marks.

We have to go with our strengths though; right? Thank God for perseverance. That’s where I shine.


Daniel (Danny) Lance Wright
Author of
"Paradise Flawed"/Dream Books LLC/2009
"Six Years' Worth"/Father's Press/2007
"The Last Radiant Heart"/Virtual Tales/Spring 2010
"Anne Bonny, Where Are You?"/Rogue Phoenix Press/May 2010