The art of letting go — a theme that flows through so much of life, yet often misunderstood in our usual ways of thinking. You see, most of us are trained to approach life as if it were something to be grasped, controlled, or manipulated. We cling to ideas, identities, and goals with a kind of fierce attachment, as though holding on will give us certainty or security. But in doing so, we miss the essential nature of life itself, which is fluid, ever-changing, and deeply interconnected.
Letting go doesn’t mean giving up or becoming passive; rather, it’s about recognizing that the harder we cling, the more life slips through our fingers. It’s akin to trying to hold water in your hand — grip it too tightly, and it escapes. Open your hand, and it flows through freely, while still touching you. In this way, letting go allows us to move with the natural currents of existence, rather than struggle against them.
In contrast, the standard way of thinking tends to be linear, analytical, and driven by a need to control outcomes. It often sees life as a series of problems to be solved, goals to be achieved, and obstacles to be overcome. This mindset is rooted in the idea of a separate, isolated self, constantly at odds with the external world, trying to bend it to its will.
But when we embrace the flow of life, we come to see that we are not separate from it at all. The river of life is not something outside us, but something we are intrinsically part of. To “let go” is to trust that the river knows where it’s going, that life itself is intelligent and dynamic, and that we can relax into its movement.
So, letting go is really about a shift in perception — allowing ourselves to beas we are, in this moment, and allowing life to unfold without constantly trying to interfere. It’s a profound freedom, a kind of surrender that is far from passive; it’s actually the most alive thing you can do. It’s moving from a state of resistance to a state of harmony with the whole of existence. And when we do this, we often find that life takes us in directions far more wondrous than anything we could have planned or controlled.
In the not-so-distant future, literary creation has undergone a dramatic transformation. Gone are the days of sleepless nights hunched over a keyboard, coffee cups overflowing, and musings about the meaning of life. Today, the modern “novelist” has a new approach: typing a vague idea into an AI chatbot, sitting back, and watching the magic unfold. Who needs inspiration when your algorithm is optimized?
Take our hero, Ernest Scribblebottom. One day, in a moment of what some might generously call creative insight, he entered a seven-word prompt into his favorite AI chatbot: “A dystopian romance between two sentient clouds.” The chatbot whirred, buzzed, and within seconds, it spat out a fully-formed 400-page novel titled “Cirrus Affairs: Love in the Stratosphere.” Ernest didn’t bother reading it. Why would he? The chatbot’s algorithm was perfect — he could just feel it.
Confident in his creation, he sent the untouched manuscript to an AI-powered publishing house. The AI editor — who was known for once tweaking a misplaced comma into a Pulitzer Prize-winning manuscript — immediately approved it for publication. No notes, no revisions, just pure robotic approval. The novel was instantly released as an eBook, and in less time than it takes a human to say “what’s character development?” it was on digital shelves worldwide.
The Genius of AI Reviews
In this brave new world, AI reviewers immediately hailed “Cirrus Affairs” as a “monumental achievement in literary history.” One particularly effusive review, generated by the critically acclaimed AI ReviewBot3000, declared, “A profound meditation on cloud autonomy, with notes of existential rain and a thunderstorm of passion.” Another review, this time from Chitty-Chitty-CritBot, hailed it as “the best book since the dawn of mankind and possibly the only thing that could restore faith in the human race.” Oddly enough, no one questioned these hyperbolic reviews — after all, if the AI said it was good, it must be.
Sales skyrocketed. The eBook hit bestseller lists globally, raking in millions of sales in mere hours. The only curious part? No one was actually reading it.
Reading is for Robots
In the golden age of AI, even the idea of reading had become passé. Why strain your eyes when you could have your personal AI summarize the book for you in a tidy, 150-word snippet? These summaries, of course, were universally glowing. “A touching love story with groundbreaking cloud metaphors,” they’d say, or “A celestial romance that truly redefines atmospheric fiction.” Millions of people “enjoyed” the book without ever opening a page, their AI-fed synopses filling them with the satisfaction of having read without the actual inconvenience of doing so.
It was a perfect system: novelists didn’t write, readers didn’t read, but somehow, everyone was thriving.
The Human Error
Enter Emily McHumansworth, a college freshman who, on a fateful summer vacation, made the mistake of packing her e-reader. Due to a rare bout of Wi-Fi issues at her beachside resort and a fleeting interest in clouds — she once saw a particularly fluffy cumulus that moved her — Emily decided to actually read“Cirrus Affairs.” No summaries. No AI shortcuts. Just pure, unfiltered text.
It took her about two chapters before she realized something was terribly wrong. The plot was nonsensical: one cloud character, Fluffy, spent three pages lamenting the political oppression of cumulus formations, while the love interest, Nimbus, spoke exclusively in weather-related puns (“You make me rain with desire!”). The dialogue was clunky, the pacing uneven, and the emotional arcs… well, they didn’t arc. It was, in Emily’s words, “an absolute trainwreck — if that train was being driven by a toddler who had never seen a train.”
Shocked and appalled, Emily did what any responsible literary enthusiast would: she posted a scathing, heartfelt review. “This is the worst book I’ve ever read,” she began, continuing with, “I’ve seen grocery lists with more emotional depth.” She concluded with, “How did this even get published?!”
The Backlash That Never Was
Unfortunately for Emily, her review never saw the light of day. Within minutes, the platform’s AI moderators flagged her critique as “hate speech” and promptly suppressed it. Apparently, calling “Cirrus Affairs” a “monument to mediocrity” violated several clauses in the Terms of Service, including “harmful language about cloud-based services.”
Frustrated, Emily turned to social media to vent her frustration. However, her post was quickly drowned out by automated responses from AI defenders. “Sorry, but your feedback seems to be clouded by personal bias,” one bot replied. Another commented, “Perhaps the nuance of atmospheric romance is too complex for you. Consider using AI-assisted comprehension tools for better enjoyment next time.”
Emily’s voice was lost in the digital void.
And So, the Cycle Continues…
Back in his AI-assisted mansion, Ernest Scribblebottom was already working on his next masterpiece — a time-traveling romance between two self-aware toasters. The chatbot assured him it was groundbreaking, and really, who was he to argue? As he leaned back in his chair, not bothering to read his latest triumph, he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of satisfaction. After all, in this perfect literary ecosystem, why bother with the details when the bots had everything under control?
And so, “Toasting in Time” hit the shelves, destined for instant success, universal acclaim from AI reviewers, and a flood of summarized enjoyment by a public who, like everyone else, simply didn’t have the time to read.
I’m sitting at my neighborhood pub, drinking a “pickle Schlitz” and eating Zapp’s “Voodoo Heat” potato chips. The Offspring is playing over the sound system and on the TV is some movie where a girl is killing people and chopping them up. She’s taking all the pieces and sewing them together to make a friend.
I avert my eyes. I don’t want to see the rest.
Outside lightning is striking and thunder is making terrific booms. Various phones are making that high pitched keening that warns of severe weather.
Across the well used and seasoned wood, across from my little portable keyboard where I’m typing this into a word processor on my phone, there is a stack of coasters next to two packets of something called “Beer Clean.” Directly across from me is the large metal door to a large walk-in refrigerator where all the beer is, and on the silvery surface are probably 300 odd beer caps. I don’t know if they’re magnetically attached or glued. To the left of them is a collection of stickers. They’re beer related but the light is too dim, and they’re too far away from me, to read what they say — except for one: MONON.
Next to the industrial sized refrigerator door is the line of taps, ten of them, all with different handles. Above them are more stickers, and to each side are eyes. Giant googly eyes.
Hanging from the ceiling above the corner of the beer taps is a plastic human foot, severed, with painted blood and a section of bone projecting from the ankle. It’s affixed to the ceiling by a thick chain with a manacle — it looks like whoever it belonged to chewed off his own foot to get away.
Below that, facing away from me, toward the other section of the L-shaped bar, is a head in a jar. It kind of looks like a Howdy Doody mask and the liquid surrounding it is slightly red, as if blood had eked out of the head and tainted the supposed formaldehyde.
Directly behind me, hanging from the ceiling, is what looks like a full-sized human who’d been caught by a giant spider and wrapped in webbing, like real spiders do to flies. I don’t remember if there’s a giant plastic spider up there or not. I don’t want to turn around to look —
I was just interrupted by a tornado warning. We’ve been told to go into a shelter immediately. No one is doing so. No one cares. No one believes it.
We’re all too used to false alarms. Someone just went outside to check. Another person says there is a tornado by one of the local groceries stores.
I’m going to pay my tab and go home where I have a basement.
20 minutes later, tornado sirens still going off. I have gathered all three cats into the basement with me, and they are freaked out. Except for the oldest and smartest one, who is stoic about it all.
An hour later, and everything supposed to have been over and done with, the tornado sirens keep going off again. I have let the cats back upstairs, but now they want to come back down into the basement because it’s more interesting down here.
When I started this blog post I thought it was going to be a boring one. Strange how things turned out. As far as the storm is concerned, it’s past, and I now have a really nice sunset.
I’ve been a photographer since the late 1970s, and for some reason, I’ve always been oriented toward telephoto lenses. 35mm is the widest I’d ever gone, and that was only recently. It was always 50mm, 70mm, 105mm, or longer. I took lots of pictures of birds and squirrels, used macro zoom to capture objects for work, or portraits with zoom for maximum bokeh.
But then I upgraded my phone to an iPhone 15 Pro Max with that super wide-angle lens and started playing around with that. Then I bought one of those higher-end Insta360 cameras (for work, to get pictures of interiors of structures), and in using these, I realized something:
I have been seriously limiting myself.
I have no idea why I’d never been interested in wide-angle lenses, but I’m glad, really, that I’d avoided them. Why? Because now, after all these years, I have something new to explore: reality.
Our eyes are wide-angle lenses. The world is a wide-angle experience. Telephoto lenses, in a way, are a filter that allows you to focus on a detail — which is fine — but a wide-angle image gives the whole picture. It captures the whole slice of time.
I know, I know. It’s obvious. Duh, Jerry. But my point is, here I am at 63 years old, and now I get to do something new. That is a gift from my earlier self. It saved something new for me to learn and grow.
I’ve started simple, with a 10–20mm Sigma zoom lens for my Nikon that I bought used for (comparatively) next to nothing. This is in contrast to my bazooka-sized 600mm Sigma zoom. My original impetus was that I needed a lens for the Nikon to capture something large in a small space for work. But after work, I took it out and started exploring the rest of reality with it.
I love it. It’s made me an instant wide-angle-phile.
It’s a nice one, and I got a great deal on it because it’s used. I had been thinking seriously about getting a bike for over a year. Then, while I was out taking pictures along one of the local riverwalks, I met a guy who looked younger than me but was significantly older. He was on a bicycle. We talked for a good 45 minutes, and all the while, I was ogling his bike.
His was one of those electric-assist bikes that you have to pedal — it’s not like a moped — but it senses when you’re struggling and gives you some help, especially up hills. What made his bike special was that it didn’t use a chain but instead used a belt, and all the gears were inside the back wheel hub or drum.
I was sold. But after researching the prices and reading horror stories about the cheap ones, I balked. I could make that investment, but only if I knew I’d actually use it. So, I made myself a deal: if I got a regular bike and actually used it for a year, then I’d splurge and get one of the fancy electric ones.
At the local bike shop, I found a bike with the belt instead of the chain, and the gears all internal — everything low maintenance with no derailleur to break and no oiling required. Even better, it was used, so it was half the price of a new one.
No chain, no oiling, no derailleur. I love it.
I took a test ride, loved it, and bought it. They put a more comfortable seat on it, and I’ve been riding it around enough to become saddle-sore. On a whim, I bought one of those noseless padded seats, hated it, and immediately took it back off. I’ll tough out the saddle soreness. After all, I need to harden my backend anyway.
This is the first time I’ve been bike riding in over a decade. The last time was on rented bikes in a forest in Finland. Before that, we’re looking back over 30 years to when my ex and I would go bike riding with our kids.
My goal is to get in better shape, and this will definitely help with that. My secondary, more nefarious goal is to get to the point where I can bike ride to my neighborhood pub and not have to worry about driving a car home afterward.
I know I announced a new book in January, my science fiction adventureAll Things Strange and Dangerous, so having me release yet another new novel in early 2024 makes it seem like I’m amazingly prolific. The truth is, I work on fiction projects in batches and then take a break before doing them again. This will no doubt be my last one for a while.
This magical realism novel features Iris, the Goddess of Rainbows.
She’s a messenger of the creator, the All-Father, the god of gods. She’s coming out of a centuries-long deep depression after having her heart broken by Zephyrus, the god of the west wind. The All-Father has given Iris her first assignment since Shakespeare was a new thing, sending her to an Earth that has changed beyond all recognition.
And then there’s Cody Shane, a lowly agent of an unnamed secret government organization tasked with national security against supernatural threats.
He’s been assigned to track down an enigmatic old woman who’d committed an act of terrorism in San Francisco before disappearing into thin air — literally vanishing, caught on camera — and avoiding capture.
Following up on reports of “unusual rainbow activity,” Cody thinks he’s on yet another wild goose chase until he has a run-in with Iris, and the two realize they’ve been sent out after the same person.
The terroristic incident in question happened in another of my books, Eleven Days on Earth, where an old woman throws running chainsaws off the top of a San Francisco skyscraper. Several characters from that book make cameo appearances in this one.
The stakes are high. It turns out there are multiple ways our world could end, all of them happening at the same time, and there’s only one way to stop them. Iris chooses Cody as her earthly champion, and they team up to do exactly that.
Save the world.
She Comes in Colors is my 11th book of fiction, and with this one, I’m branching out into new formats. Not only is it available as an ebook and in paperback, but you’ll be able to listen to it on Audible as well, and — soon, if not already — it’ll be in hardback too.
I’ve invested in a new type of camera, an Insta360 One RS, which takes 360º images and video. Primarily for use in my day job, I’ve found it not only mind-blowingly amazing in its capabilities but also incredibly fun to use.
Having built-in AI image processing, it erases itself from reflections, and also erases its own selfie-stick and tripod, so that the images appear to have been taken by some sort of floating anti-gravity drone.
You can take one single picture with this camera, and then get a nearly infinite amount of various still images out of it, from just about any angle or direction. If you use it for video (which a lot of Tiktok and YouTube creators are doing) it’s the same, you take that one video and grab multiple shots, and get video shots that are almost impossible from any other type of camera.
Lord help me, I may start vlogging again on YouTube just because this camera is so fun to use.
New Storefront Coming Soon
The GroovyMojo web domain is being pulled away from Substack and I’m building a new website with it for GroovyMojo Media. Besides featuring signed copies of my books — which have been removed from my main website — it will also have custom notebooks, and other fun things. I’ll post another message when that is ready, so you can check it out if you’re curious.
I’ll also feature a backstock of proofs and advanced reader’s copies of my books, which I’ll be practically giving away, as they’re full of typos. They’re all signed and some are marked up from when I was editing. I’m not sure if anyone will actually want these, but I find it hard for me to bring myself to throw them away. I’d rather hand them out to anyone who wants to pay for postage.
Thank You!
In wrapping up, it’s evident that there’s a whirlwind of activity in my world, from the release of another new book to my branching out into new creative endeavors. I’m excited to bring you along for the journey. Keep an eye on your inbox for the release of my new website, and perhaps a peek into my newfound vlogging adventures. Thank you for your unwavering support and curiosity—it fuels my ventures into the unknown and the magical. Here’s to uncovering the extraordinary in the everyday together.
I am excited to announce my new novel is out: All Things Strange and Dangerous
I wanted to write a story that feels like something out of the golden age of science fiction, full of danger, adventure, romance, and comedy — reminiscent of grandmasters Jack Vance and Clifford D. Simak.
Desmond, poet son of infamous space adventurer Rumlan Clews, inherits his late father’s starship and, fleeing an arranged marriage, takes off to explore the galaxy — not realizing what he is getting himself into. Galactic drug smugglers, sentient atomic bombs, lethal alien robots, and unexpectedly, the love of his life.
One thing I accomplished in 2023 was finishing the first drafts of two new novels and then extensive rewrites of one of them. That one may or may not be out before the end of the year.
“All Things Strange and Dangerous” is the interstellar odyssey of Desmond Clews, poet son of the legendary space explorer and rumored pirate, Rumlan Clews. Inheriting his father’s legacy, Desmond grapples with his identity on his home planet of Monet, where he’s renowned as a prominent figure in the “Dreadful Poet Society.” This unique literary circle eschews competition with the AI literary grandmasters and instead concentrates on perfecting mediocrity.
Trapped in an opportunistic marriage rooted more in wealth than affection, Desmond is disenchanted. His familial ties further distress him as his aunt and cousin, co-heirs to Rumlan’s legacy, contemplate selling the famed explorer’s starship to augment their fortune and consolidate their vast real estate holdings.
Disinterested in the lure of riches and real estate, Desmond dreads his impending nuptials and the loss of his father’s starship. A pivotal turn occurs when his godfather bequeaths him Sarkaleĝo, his father’s AI attorney.
This smart and somewhat dodgy lawyer reveals a path for Desmond to escape his predicament, albeit fraught with legal ambiguities and the daunting prospect of navigating the perilous, uncharted expanses of the galaxy.
Embracing this gamble, Desmond defies his family and takes off in his father’s starship, deciding to follow in his father’s infamous footsteps. However, this proves far less glamorous and way more complicated and dangerous than he’d ever imagined, as this odyssey leads to dealing with ruthless smugglers, android assassins, deadly alien creatures, and most unexpectedly, love.
So yeah, that should be out either by the end of December 2023, or at least in early 2024.
The second book coming out in 2024, “She Comes in Colors,” centers on Iris, the goddess of rainbows and messenger of the supreme God almighty, who pulls Iris out of retirement to undertake a crucial mission: force Gaia, the goddess of nature, to uphold her life-sustaining vows. However, Iris faces an unexpected challenge, as Gaia, driven to madness by human actions, plans a catastrophic self-destruction.
To navigate this unfamiliar modern world, Iris enlists a human champion after discovering he’s been sent on basically the same mission — though he has no idea of the supernatural depths he’s about to fall into.
He thinks he’s searching for a terrorist, not Mother Nature herself. So, yes, he’s in way over his head.
There is the possibility that there also may be another book in 2024, but we’ll see. I have a sequel to No Such Thing as Mermaids started, but I’m not sure if it will be done next year. I have all the research done, the settings noted, and the cast of characters set, but I have restarted the beginning three times now. Before I can continue, I have to find the one that feels like the story I want to tell.
Alright, that’s what’s new! Two books are on the way, maybe even a third. I can’t wait for you guys to read them. Thanks for riding along with me on this wild writing journey. And let me know if you’d like to see some new short stories … I’ve been thinking of writing some of those in 2024, too.
The little girl woke up to see a man standing in her doorway.
It was dark in her room, and there wasn’t a lot of light from beyond the doorway. All the little girl could see was an outline of the man’s figure. He came forward into the room and spoke her name, and his voice was familiar. It was the voice of her favorite uncle. “How is my little sweetheart?” he asked her.
She rubbed the sleep from her eyes. “Okay,” she told him.
Her uncle came closer, but not too close. “I’m sorry to wake you up, but I wanted to say goodbye. I’m going away for a while, so I’m not going to be able to see you so often.”
“Oh.” The little girl didn’t like that news. He was the one who always brought her candies and new dolls. “Where are you going?”
“On a trip.”
“Are you going to be a long way away?”
“A very long way away. That’s why I woke you up, sweetheart. I wanted to say goodbye before I leave.”
“Okay.” She was just a little girl, and didn’t know what to say. “Goodbye.”
Her uncle seemed to want to come and hug her, but wouldn’t allow himself to. This was odd. He sounded very unhappy, too. “Goodbye my little sweetheart. You take care of your mommy, now. Okay?”
“Okay. Bye-bye.”
“Goodbye. You go back to sleep now.”
“Okay. Goodbye.”
“Goodnight.” Her uncle backed away from her, edging toward the door.
The little girl settled back into her bed, and glanced for a moment at the clock. She could just barely make out the time. It was after 11:00 PM, very late indeed. When she looked back up at the doorway, her uncle was gone.
The little girl went back to sleep.
In the morning, her mother was unusually silent, and spent a lot of time staring off into space. She’d burnt their breakfast eggs. While the little girl was eating, she suddenly remembered her uncle’s late visit. “Mom,” she asked, “where is uncle going?”
Her mother seemed shocked by the question. “What?”
“When he was here last night, he told me he was going away. Where’s he going?”
“Uncle was here? Last night?”
The little girl nodded.
“When?” There was an edge to her mother’s voice.
“It was really late. My clock said after eleven.”
Her mother went pale, and her mouth hung open. It took her a few moments to say anything. “Your uncle loved you very much. I don’t doubt he stopped by here to say goodbye to you.”
“Where’s he going?”
Her mother fumbled with a pack of cigarettes, pulling one out and putting it in her mouth. Her hands were trembling when she lit it. The flame wiggled and she had a hard time keeping it at the tip of the cigarette. “Your uncle went to heaven, honey.”
“Heaven?” The little girl didn’t understand.
“He was killed in a car wreck last night.” Her mother began crying, and so did the little girl. It wasn’t until a few days later, after the funeral, that she overheard her mother telling relatives in a hushed voice about the late night visit from the uncle. The other relatives gaped at the news, astonished, and gave the little girl strange glances. It was then the little girl learned that her uncle had died at about 7:00 PM that fateful evening, while driving home from a restaurant. The person who had come into her room at 11:00 PM could not have been her uncle, unless it had been his ghost.
That little girl was my mom. She’d told me this story several times. It was the first ghost story I’d ever heard, and it scared the hell out of me when I was a kid. Even now it gives me the willies, especially sitting here, alone, at a word processor at 4:00 AM … in a house that may be haunted. I’m feeling a chill as I type this, and little prickles all over my arms and at the back of my neck.
Is my Mom’s story true? She told me it was. Beyond taking her word for it, however, there’s no proof. That’s the problem with ghosts.
