Travis Hallden Holt's Blog

On occasion I'm asked, "What's the best thing about being a writer?" This took awhile to answer because its a very layered question. There are always the obvious 2, 3 or 4 answers that will quickly come to mind, and many of those are common among writers. Creativity, expression and such. Then there are the buried answers that writers ignore, or are not fully cognizant of, like its muddled in some recess of the subconscious. Or it could be that the real answers are hard to face and we don't like to admit to them. After a long time of sitting on this question, my true answer crawled out into my full awareness and slapped me stupid. In all honesty, the best thing for me about being a writer is that it opened the doors to higher, more exclusive, elite, enclaves of the upper crust, well-to-do social strata, that I would not otherwise have access to. A type of "Starving Artist" syndrome perhaps, where it's okay to be a pauper because you're deep and you bare so much pain and emotion, and you have a medium to channel through and you so shamelessly express your catharsis that somehow others admire it.  Like it or not, there are social boundaries. You can't touch them, but you know they are there and they keep you in coach class, and standing in lines, and stuck in commuter traffic. But alas, being a writer gives you a pass to enter some of those elite groups. Not all of them mind you, but some. Like, for me, I was given a pass to enter and mingle and dillydally in the "Beautiful People" group. That's right. That's how I met my wife. I'll be Asperger honest here; had I not been a writer, my wife never would have given me a second thought. I never would have even landing that first date. It was my writing that wooed her, and touched her deeply. Stretched her thoughts and feelings, and got her attention. I'm not saying I'm a great writer, or even a good one, but I will say that at just the right moment in time, I strung together the right words for the right person and magic happened. I try not to overthink it. Anyway, that was the door into the major leagues and it was solely because of my writing and I unabashedly grabbed my writers pass and charged through. She is movie-star beautiful, artistic, intelligent, educated, spiritually attuned, and she graced me with her presence and attention. Jackpot. It was like I had climbed through the back of the wardrobe into another dimension. She reminded me what love is and what it isn't. She opened my eyes to The Infinite. At that point I surpassed Ringo Starr as the luckiest man in the world. Sorry Ringo, it came easy.

Back in 2008 I decided to take my writing to the next level. I had been writing off and on for 16 years and believed my latest story was marketable. It was what they call a "high concept" psychological thriller. Big stakes. Action galore. It even packed history and romance into the mix. I scraped together enough money to attend Thrillerfest, a conference catering specifically to thriller writers. There would be plenty of famous, successful writers sharing their experiences and secrets to success, and would be accessible to us wannabes. On the agenda were lectures, classes, luncheons, interviews, panels, book signings, and cocktail parties. Dozens of the top New York City literary agents were attending and available to aspiring authors to pitch their novels for a chance at representation. The conference was touted as an author's mecca and when all was said and done it delivered everything it had promised.I anted up the money for the conference, hotel room, and airfare--a sizable sum for a working-class stiff for sure, but the payoff felt worth every penny. To rub elbows with successful authors, network with other like-minded dreamers, learn from the best in the profession, with the chance to land a big-time literary agent--well, it lured me in like a drunken, desperate sailor to a siren.I stumbled into the Grand Hyatt at Grand Central Station all wide-eyed and stupefied, like an extraterrestrial's first visit to Earth. I had been to cities all over the globe: Tokyo, Hong Kong, Soeul, LA, Vancouver, Miami, but this city had something special. My first Thrillerfest encounter was with two men handing out name tags and registering the attendees. Two friendly, down-to-Earth guys you'd have over for beers and BBQ. Turns out they were Jon Land and Andrew Peterson, both successful thriller authors. While Peterson was in the early phase of his writing career, Jon Land had over 20 novels to his credit at that time (many more now) and many best-sellers. Later that day I would watch Jon Land interview Tom Doherty, the founder of Tor Books, home to authors whose books I had been reading for decades. Somebody pinch me.Long before I had thoughts of writing I was a thriller-reading junkie. For a thriller lover such as I, this was the jackpot. The biggest names in the genre were attending. I saw Clive Cussler and was speechless, unable to stop staring. I stood not far from Lee Child at a cocktail party. I rode an elevator with Alison Brennan, and made some thoughtless, inappropriate reference to an Aerosmith song. It wasn't intentional; I was simply starstruck. I rambled and she was gracious, understanding and forgiving. During a presentation, I sat next to Rebecca Cantrell who dismissively rolled her eyes at my attempt at small talk. I listened to lectures by Andrew Gross, D. P. Lyle, Donald Maass, David Morrell, James Rollins, R. L. Stine.Alright, you get the gist. Everywhere I turned there was an industry icon.In the afternoon of the second day, I pitched my novel to thirteen of the most prestigious literary agents in the industry. Of those thirteen, nine requested the manuscript. I was elated. I returned to Florida and within a few days I had sent out everything requested of me.Over the following six weeks the rejections trickled in. When all nine submission responses were tallied, all had given a definitive no.I was crushed. That had been my best shot. I had poured everything into that endeavor. Years of work.I quit.I wanted to quit.By all outside appearances, the writing bug was a cataclysmic failure. I lot of money and a lot of time for nothing. Deep within my psyche though, I knew there was value in the experience...somewhere, although it sure as hell didn't feel like it.My writing quest looked abysmal and I had no logical reason to do anything other than quit. My pragmatic side, the voice of my father, firmly chastised me and said to give it a proper burial. You're not cut out for it. Stop this tomfoolery and grow up. Be responsible. Quit being silly. Be a man.I have no idea whether or not it made me more or less manly, or had no effect, but in the end I couldn't stop. Eventually the sting of those rejections wore away with time. Like the bull rider, I brushed myself off, took stock of my injuries, and climbed back in that chute.I realized a writer wasn't defined by the publishing deals, the number of readers, or the sales rankings. Its the act of expressing ideas through storytelling. Its independent of all else. No other components required. It's all in the "doing" not in the results.It's like the musician on the street corner, strumming, singing, eyes-closed, pouring out their soul, everyone walking by. He or she is still a musician regardless of an audience. He or she follows the call of their soul, independent of others. Independent of circumstances. Independent of how many greenbacks are thrown into the hat.I'm reminded of the film The Wrestler. Mickey Rourke plays a has-been wrestler who risks everything to get back into the ring one more time, his stage having been reduced to a tawdry warehouse. Great movie. Very inspirational for me. If you want to see someone chase their purpose at all costs, then it's a must-see.I think back to the night of that conference in NYC. After I had pitched to thirteen big-time literary agents and been in the presence of authors having household names, I carried my suitcase from the conference hotel (I couldn't afford to stay where the conference was held) about a mile through the rain to an much smaller hotel I had booked online. The kind of hotel where the night clerk is protected from muggers by a glass security window. The room itself could barely fit a twin bed, and the bathroom wasn't much bigger than an upright coffin. It smelled of mildew and stale cigarette smoke, and the lone window looked out into a brick wall, so close an old guy like me could leap from building to building. I sat on the thread-bare blanket, box springs sagging, with my mind brimming with possibilities. There was no telling where this journey would take me, and the potential was exciting.That night became one of those defining moments. A milestone in my life. I look back at that moment and realize it was then that I knew I was a writer.Because I was doing it. I was actively chasing my dream. I was navigating through the gritty reality, and behind-the-scenes, unglamorous work to achieve publication. That experience was as necessary as the writing itself. That and...well...all of it. The rejections, the years of solitary work, the scraping together money on a shoestring budget, the lost sleep, the damp gloom of a decrepit motel--those are the cornerstones to achieve a piece of worthwhile writing. But hey, isn't that the way it is with most things in life?So after I quit sulking, I went back to work, joined a critique group of brilliant writers who bitch-slapped me back to proper humility, and started another novel.Eight years later that novel won the Beverly Hills Book Award in Horror. The same award (but in another category) that Jon Land had won the prior year. And as icing on the cake, Jon Land read my novel and had this to say:"In UNHOLY BARGAIN, debut author Travis Holt beautifully blends thriller and horror elements with seamless alacrity befitting a much more seasoned hand. An able and appropriate successor to the likes of John Farris, Ira Levin and Robert R. McCammon, his first novel offers a unique take on the nature of evil and the heroism required to fight it. UNHOLY BARGAIN is anything but that, delivering on everything it promises and never failing to satisfy in sumptuous and scintillating fashion. A major debut."Jon Land, USA Today bestselling authorFucking "A," man.  Never...ever...quit.

The book Lucid Dreaming by Stephen Laberge was a treasure trove of information. Laberge was a professor and researcher at Stanford and was on the cutting edge of lucid dreaming research. Hell...he WAS the cutting edge. He conducted scientific experiments with his students, wrote his findings and published them--which amazingly enough was available for the general public. I devoured that book, some sections repeatedly, as though it held the key to the kingdom of God. Initially, It was kind of shocking to see that a prestigious university was conducting experiments (funding it no less) in a field that I had stumbled onto while dreaming on a night that was no different than any other.When I came across Laberge's list of exercises to help induce lucid dreams, I struck the mother-lode. They were tools, like hammer and nails to a carpenter.One of the most useful tools and the one I implemented immediately was the Reality Check, or "RC". He may not have used that term back then in 1987, but its a term I've seen used in online forums today.The RC was crucial in my return to lucid dreaming. It's a tool that requires practice, honing and developing. Basically it works like this: Periodically during the day, you observe some minute detail in your physical surroundings, like the position of hands on a clock, or the pattern of leaves fallen on the ground, or the lines in the palm of your hand. You observe it just long enough to memorize the image. Then you look away for a moment, and return your attention to that object. If the subject matter is identical to the first, it is certain you are in the physical world, in your waken state. But if the details had shifted, like if the hands on the clock were in a significantly different position or different shape, length, color, etc., or the leaves on the ground were in a different configuration, then you are dreaming. This was based on the inherent nature of dreams, that details shift and flow and never hold together long. It may sound a little strange, but I tell you it worked. That simple little Reality Check brought your awareness to the forefront of your consciousness, whether you were awake or asleep, which was the key to lucid dreaming. You have to know your dreaming to be lucid within the dream, to be present. And if you made RCs a thoughtless, periodic habit during the day, that habit would extend into the night in your dream state.It didn't take long until I was routinely conducting RCs in my dreams, and those RCs triggered my awareness of being inside the dream--lucidity.At first, that initial excitement of becoming lucid in the dream would instantly bounce me out of the dream and wake me up. Every damn time. It was frustrating.That very first lucid dream--the one that sent me on this quest--seemed epic, unapproachable, unreplicatable.It became a matter of remaining calm at that moment of lucidity, to the point of suppressing your emotional reaction--totally. The better at smothering my emotions I became, the longer I would stay in the dream. It was a very gradual learning curve, but with practice I could go a little further, and the next time a little further than the time before. Very small increments.It was like the movie Edge of Tomorrow where Tom Cruise's character was caught in a loop. He was a soldier in a future war against aliens. When he died in battle, he instantly woke up the previous day. He relived that day, again dying, but each time he used what he had learned from the previous day and extended his life on that battle field. In each of my lucid dreams, I would creep a little further into the dream world, and a little further the next time.Eventually I mastered becoming lucid and remaining lucid. I call it "the drop-in,' because it felt like I just dropped-in out of nowhere into another world, and I never knew where I was going to land. The next few years were full of lengthy excursions into the dream world, being fully lucid and having superhuman abilities. It was a wild ride and I had no clue where it was taking me. I had one, single goal though: transition over to one of the dream worlds, Any one of them. It didn't matter which, just as long as I stayed there...permanently. Find out more in my next blog post.

I didn't wait long to jump into research mode. My first lucid dream was still fresh and the intensity of it had not lost any luster over the passage of a few days. Soon I went to the largest public library in San Diego and began thumbing through the card catalog. I still didn't know if there was a name for the nocturnal experience, so I simply started in the letter D for "dreams, dreaming, dream anything." It didn't take long for me to come across a book on lucid dreaming. Judging from the brief, cursory description in the card catalog, it looked to be the book I was looking for. At least that was my hope; it was the only title on that subject, so if this was about something entirely different, I'd be in a real dilemma.The book was Lucid Dreaming by Stephen Laberge. He was a researcher at Stanford University. Adrenaline hummed in my ears. It held all the promise of a cryptex without the locks and secret codes. Just a few days ago during my sleep, I had stumbled into another world purely by accident, that by first glance seemed very much like this one, yet still different. Maybe this book held the key to going back to that other world. Unfortunately, whatever esoteric knowledge held within those pages would have to wait. There were only 3 copies and they were all checked out. One copy was due back in a week. I went to the counter and reserved it, then went about my business feeling it had been a productive afternoon (that's how research went back in 1987). First off, I had learned there was a name to the phenomenon, and it was important enough to someone to research and write an entire book on the matter. Secondly, I was not alone. The experience was not unique to me. There were others in the area who cared enough to check out a book from the public library--at least three others in the city of San Diego. So maybe I wasn't going mad, or overreacting to an overactive imagination. Well..I suppose I could still be overreacting to something. But I was bitten and curious and not content to just let it lie. Check out my next blog to find out what the book revealed.

It was 1987. I had recently returned from a western Pacific naval deployment, meaning I had spent 6 months bobbing up and down on the ocean, occasionally pulling into an exotic port upon which I would collapse from pure exhaustion. There was no internet back then, nor cell phones, nor satellite TV. Being out at sea meant you were isolated from the rest of the world other than a letter from home now and then. Remember letters? Hand written notes stuffed in an envelope with a postage stamp slapped on the side? If you're under 30, you know what letters are (were), but you've probably never experienced writing one, mailing one, and receiving one. Imagine writing information by hand, sending it off and waiting a week or two for a response. At sea you can easily double that waiting time.Anyway, I was just settling into my routine back in the States, when at the age of 26 I had my first lucid dream. At the time, I had never heard of such a thing, let alone know what one was. Bear in mind this was before the information highway at our fingertips. Research on a topic was conducted at a public library, with catalog cards and the Encyclopedia Britannica. Hell, I had no idea there was even a name for the experience I had.The night started out like any other. Went to sleep at the normal time. Just the standard, un-noteworthy American brand of drama filling the day.I found myself walking down a street. There were no vehicles, like it had been cordoned off for pedestrian use only. There were venders scattered down the street, with kiosks on the walks, shops and cafe and terraces. It was like a bazaar. Shoppers and people enjoying themselves, leisurely strolling about. There were gardens and fountains, pottery and sculptures. As I was moving though the crowd, I was suddenly struck with the awareness that I was in a dream, that all the people, the conversations, the street, the buildings, were all a fabrication of my mind (or so I thought back then). Even with that realization, it was difficult to distinguish what was before me, with the reality back in my waken state. It felt so solid, appeared so vivid and permanent. It wasn't wispy or vague at all. In fact, it was detailed, from the individual expressions and behaviors of each person, to the lighting, shadow, and movement of leaves on a tree.All those ponderings spanned only a few dozen seconds or so. Out from the middle of the crowd directly in front of me, two menacing-looking thugs materialized. I didn't know how they got there. They could have emerged from somewhere in the crowd, or out from a shop. However they came to be wasn't important. Their intentions were evident; that much I knew. Their focus was on me. They had a threatening posture and air, and were unmistakably coming for me. The Matrix, a movie that wouldn't be out for another 12 years, would be very, VERY reminiscent of the experience, namely those scenes where the agents tracked down those who didn't belong. And just like the advise Cypher would give Neo when confronted by agents, I turned and ran.Yes, seconds before I was marveling at the clarity of objects in a mere dream, fully aware it was only a dream, so why would I be running? What was there to be scared of? In the moment, there wasn't time to postulate. I could feel them closing in from behind and I ran for what felt like my life. Like I said, there wasn't much to distinguish this dream from reality.It wasn't long before the dream world started to collapse. It felt like I had reached a border that separated the dream world from the real world, only this border wasn't sharply defined. It was more like a transitional area, where one gradually faded while the other reciprocatingly took form. A borderland where the two worlds co-existed to varying degrees.I continued to sprint through the misty, twirling twilight of the border. Although the dream world had mostly vanished, I could still sense one of those thugs right on my ass. I could also sense my return to reality a breath away. As the real world materialized around me, I chanced a glance behind, still pumping arms and legs, and caught a fist in the nose. It was one of those numbing, star-seeing blows that rocked my head back. At this point, thankfully, my head bounced off my bed.I was sweating, out of breath, and wondered what had just happened. The dream remained as clear as any memory from a recent day at work. Unbelievable. And what made this dream so uncanny was the blood flowing from my swollen and bruised nose.It appeared as though my imagined dream character had crossed into my reality with solid form, even if for only a fraction of a second. Either that or I unknowingly punched myself in the nose.  How could that be? Did I simply hit myself in the face as I subconsciously playacted a story crafted from my imagination? It would be another 28 years before I had an answer, and that answer would seem even more preposterous.At that time though, in 1987, I hadn't a clue what had just transpired, or what it was called, or if the experience could be replicated. Maybe it was a rare phenomenon, a once in a lifetime freak occurrence like spontaneous combustion. Regardless, I was hooked and the following day began my search for answers. Stay tuned to my next post and find out where my curiosity had led.

It happens to everyone with almost no exception. I'm sure that in a world of over 7 billion people there are those who are not profoundly touched by this malady. But like death and taxes, for the vast majority it's an absolute. Sadly enough, its permanent in nearly all cases.There is a time in everyone's life when "the magic" is lost. It ceases to exist other than in the imagination of some. You don't believe in it, or even in the possibility of it. It becomes foolishness. It is for kids. The world is set in stone and the sooner you face it, the better off you are. Life is mundane and predictable and you have a role, so get back in line and march to the beat.Now, I'm not talking about pixie dust and flying carpets (but I'm not totally excluding those either). I'm talking about living without limitations. God, or Source, or Light (or however you want to name the unnamable) dwells within you, and that you could move mountains if you only believed. That the Source within connects us as one, that we're not isolated beings in a hostile world. That we are the authors of our lives and we have the power to change the WORLD. That a life of adventure, thrills, prosperity, abundance, love, and all your heart's desires, is waiting for you because it is your birthright. That we have not begun to explore our potential. That there is so much more out there than what we can experience with our five senses. There is an untapped capacity of our mind. That there are multiple dimensions of existence, parallel universes. Telepathy, teleportation, astral travel, telekinesis, clairvoyance, precognition, extraterrestrials, etc.  (There are several words or terms you could substitute for magic: human potential, paranormal abilities, supernatural gifts, tapping into your divine nature, the mysteries of the Universe, cosmic potentials, consciousness.)You most likely don't recall when the magic in your life vanished, like if it had happened on a certain date, like when you learned Santa Clause wasn't real. It's very much like the fall of Rome: a crawling, insidious, unnoticeable collapse. When the last vestige of belief and awareness of your power and magic within had evaporated into the ethers, you paid it no attention.Once it's gone, that's it. Any mention of it is crazy and stupid. But for some, there's a distant calling in the recesses of their soul. A call to welcome it back. An extended invitation. You've completely forgotten it, but it left a shadow in its absence. You know there's something to it.How does one get it back? Unfortunately, magic doesn't show back up when you want it to. There's no magic spell to have magic magically reappear after you've buried it for 20 or 30 or 40 years. Not just you, society and the culture at large has sunk it deep within the bowels of mankind's existence. Just as Rome didn't fall overnight, it wasn't built quickly either. Don't be hard on yourself. It's not your fault, individually speaking, not entirely. We turned it off collectively as a species.I don't remember when I first started losing it. I do remember the world as my oyster, that a grand, unimaginable adventure awaited me. Unfortunately, our environment has a huge influence, even if we're not fully aware of it. I remember when the rules started restricting my limitless aspirations, freedom, and spirit. We all remember. The rules infected every aspect of our lives. From when to get up in the morning to the time you went to bed. You were told when to eat, what to eat, what to wear, what to say. You had no choices. You thought you did, but you didn't. You went to school, learned subjects everyone else was learning regardless of individual abilities. You were told how to behave, what to believe, how to live your life and what it looked like, where to live, what is acceptable and what is shunned. If you didn't comply, there were consequences. Conform or suffer. Total assimilation. Resistance was futile.I do remember when the final vestige of belief in a gloriously magical, nonconventional world had died. I had resisted and fought all the rules my whole life. I was the poster child of a mischievous troublemaker who turned rebellious teenager. One by one I reluctantly and resentfully accepted the rules. Then one day in high school, a day like any other, I unknowingly ceded to the last, remaining rule. There were no more rules left to fight against. They had all been erected and welded around me in their proper place like a cage, and there was nothing left but to live the cookie-cutter life expected of me. It was frightening. I had spent all my school days fighting it, either in some form of punishment, escapism, or rebellion, which meant ZERO time in preparation for the role handed me. It was like I had lived in my own little fantasy world, and when that vanished, the real world seemed as unfamiliar as a stranger. I graduated high school with no plan, no preparation, no idea, no direction. My Rome was leveled. My one-man rebellion crushed. The post-war instruction manual had been gratifyingly flushed down the crapper. It was my own fault my preparatory years were squandered, but there was no time to dwell on that. It was time to grow up in a hurry. Couldn't be too hard, after all, there were plenty of people to tell me how I should live my life.Get a college education in a field that was sensible and marketable. Start a career at a reputable, fortune 500 organization. Promote to positions of ever-increasing responsibility and earnings. Get married. Take out a mortgage. Slave over Bank of America's house for 30 years. Ride the Ferris wheel of perpetual consumerism and waste. Take my rightful place in the tribe and blindly support the roles of those around me. Don't ask too many questions. Produce off-spring and strip them of their magic. Prepare them for their role as a drone in the system. Institute punishment for those who don't conform. Once all usefulness to the tribe ran its course, get sick, spend all savings on pharmaceuticals and surgery, then die.None of that ever felt right, but alas, my programming was complete. I was functioning in the perpetual, robotic subroutine of the American dream--an illusion that I had been hypnotized to believe real. All this would continue till one day in the future the power plug will be pulled, and people would talk or write about how well (or poorly) I had fulfilled my role. Or more likely, nobody would say or write anything. Just be another day.As a young adult I was riding that conveyer belt, not very happy but not knowing what to do about it (or if there was anything at all to be done). My brooding state had nothing to do with the people I was with, or my circumstances, or surroundings. It was all within me. It was my issue and I take ownership of it all. Deep inside the core of my being, I felt there was something more to life (sound familiar?). Then without any effort or warning, an event occurred in my late twenties that started me on the road back to magic. It was my "follow the white rabbit," moment. It was the first time I had experienced a lucid dream, and this one was spectacular. It resulted in a busted nose and a slew of questions and possibilities. It led me down a path, that led to another, then another, and eventually to the writing of Unholy Bargain. Read about that dream in my next post.

Unholy Bargain has been released as an eBook and is also available in paperback through Lulu. Although the story itself only spans a few weeks from start to finish, the material that I drew from came from selected experiences over the course of my life.I grew up in a rural, mountainous community before Nintendo, before Atari, before Pong, the internet, household computers, DVD and MTV. Adventure came with everyday living, and doing. Expanding the imagination, exploring new places, having new experiences—came from gearing up, opening the front door, and getting to it. With it carried dirt and grease, cuts and bruises, and the occasional broken bone. Carpal tunnel syndrome and computer eye strain were unheard of.Adventure also came from books.Don’t get me wrong, I surf the net and shop and use it to my advantage as much as the next guy. I watch television, stream movies off Netflix, and indulge in my share of digital entertainment, but my first love will always be books.A story by any medium is a work of art meant to be shared, like lyrics meant for a melody, and then naturally and unavoidably becoming integrated into the reader’s human experience. The reader carries that story much like a real experience. In fact, the brain’s biology and chemistry don’t know the difference. When a great story brings tears to the eyes of the reader, or a wave of joy, that physiological process in the brain is the same as a real experience that evokes that very emotion. A great story leaves an indelible fingerprint on our soul.Isn’t that who we are? An amalgamation of stories?  Isn’t that what defines us? We—our lives—are great stories, in and of themselves, yet we are part of another great story. A story of creation, of evolution, the universe, infinite experiences—all expanding across time and space, interconnected in a grand, intelligent, divine design (another great story).Experiences and stories: a rich and fulfilling life has both. They blend and meld, strike and parry, battle and embrace, and form the dance of life. Everyone’s experiences are different. Even when the activity is the same, the individuals' perceptions mold it into a different interpretation. Thank God for that.Experiences are never hindrances. As mundane and trivial as one may think, those experiences are themselves rich and personal…and tell a story. No better or worse than any other; they’re just different. They are profound, unique, and of no less value than another. (Yes, I know. Having dinner on a dock over the ocean in Bora Bora isn’t as glamorous as staying up all night when your daughter has the measles. But then, Bora Bora can’t look you in the eye and rock your world with a soul-soaring, “I love you, daddy.”)Some events in our lives don’t follow the rules and are left unexplained. Some people are content with leaving it at that; I’m not one of them. Under my belt I have eight years experience in the military, world travels, twenty-two years working in the criminal justice system, residency in six different states, countless conversations with mystics, and years of personal research into what lies beyond our five senses. I've seen and heard a lot. I've read about even more. All that fuels my imagination which elevates the possibilities to another level.That sums up Unholy Bargain fairly well. It is an amalgamation of my life's experiences, learning and research, with a healthy dose of imagination stirred in. This blog is about those experiences that inspired the novel. Lucid dreaming and astral travel (AKA out of body experiences) are among those and will be my first topics. So stay tuned.But, it’s not all about me. I welcome your unusual, bizarre, unexplainable, relevant experiences too. Send them to me via email. I'd love to hear from you. Be forewarned; it may find its way—in part or paraphrased—into my blog. Nothing to worry about though, you're with good company in the arena.