June 23, 2009I remember that particular trip home for Christmas. Yes, that was December 2007, when I was knee-deep in projects for the Spring ‘08 catalog. Something—likely deadline fear—possessed me to lug all 509 pages of
Paul LaViolette’s unedited manuscript,
Secrets of Antigravity Propulsion, all the way to Kansas with me so I could “work on the plane.”
Riiiiiiight.
I can tell you right now I did absolutely no work on the plane. I did, however, get a really impressive backache. I also did some typical worrying. In addition to the standard editorial tasks I needed to take care of, I had another concern about the book on my mind—the pesky opening to the book, those all-important sentences that determine whether you’re going to keep reading or put the book back on the shelf.
The book’s first chapter, “Antigravity: From Dream to Reality,” opened with the compelling heading: “Traveling to the Stars.” As an old Star Wars and Star Trek fan, I was a co-conspirator in wanting readers to catch Paul’s passion for the possibility of interstellar space travel. But something about that first sentence wasn’t quite right. It just didn’t resonate, at least not yet.
I sat at the departure gate for Wichita, Kansas at O’Hare and mulled. I read Time magazine and thought some more, then pulled the opening pages of
Secrets of Antigravity out of my travel bag and scribbled a few notes for Paul. In them, I asked him to consider how traveling to the stars had long captivated the imagination and longing of mankind, of how we’d gone to the moon and taken pictures of the farthest reaches of space, yet, as for our civilian mode of travel, well, not much seems to have changed. In fact, when I was sitting with my knees crammed into the seat in front of me and my elbow vying for the 2-inch space I was to share with the person next to me, I’d have to say that if propulsion technology had improved at the same rate as customer service, we were all in big trouble.
And there, in the airport, the seed of Paul’s opening was planted, in my blue-pencil scrawl on a post-it note.
Since that cold winter’s day in ‘07 many books have crossed my desk, and I hadn’t thought much about
Secrets of Antigravity Propulsion. That is until recently, when I learned that since its release in July 2008, it has sold over 8,000 copies! Also, after Paul spoke on Coast to Coast AM Radio on June 21st, his sales ranking on Amazon rose to 187th, with the book ranking number one in three categories: physics/mechanics, Astronomy, and UFOs.
As a full-time editor, it’s easy to forget that each book carries on a life of its own long after it leaves my desk and that the words the authors and I pour over actually reach people. It’s particularly gratifying to see an author like
Paul LaViolette—intelligent, diligent, passionate and a true believer in his subject—meet with success that Thoreau describes as “unexpected in common hours.” If only the readers knew the labor behind the words—not only the long hours of writing and editing, but also those small moments, when Paul had his first glean of inspiration for the book or an editor engaged in productive procrastination at the airport.
A Final Conversation with a Great Philosopher (June 11, 2009)
I hadn’t been able to get through to the London number for several days. When the mail service did pick up,
John Michell’s mailbox was completely full. Then, finally on a Tuesday, the now-familiar voice with its distinct British accent answered, “Hello?”
I always get a slightly nervous feeling when I’m about to talk to an author, but I overcome it with thinking, “stick to the facts, the relevant questions!” In this case my nervousness dissipated instantly, because
John Michell, the esteemed author of the 1969 bestseller
The View Over Atlantis as well as 25 other titles that fueled the counterculture and new age movement, was so warm and welcoming; he immediately put me at ease. Plus, we had questions about his book to resolve! That day we were working on
The Sacred Center, about the art of finding sacred sanctuaries.
We decided to delete a sentence that had become obsolete since the first edition. It’s always great to realize that sometimes the best fix is to just not say anything at all. After working through the last few questions I had for him, our conversation somehow turned philosophical. As many people know,
John Michell wrote extensively about the metaphysical and spiritual qualities of the universe, discussing at length the sacred numbers and geometry found in nature and in spiritual mysteries—Fibonocci spirals and the golden angle, the divine city of the New Jerusalem.
I mentioned how sad it is that some people choose to ignore the spiritual aspect of the world around them. “It’s a bit limited, isn’t it?” said John. “Yes, yes it is,” I said, and we laughed.
As the conversation drew to a close, I mentioned his mailbox having been full and having tried to reach him. That’s when John told me he’d been at the hospital, where the doctors had found a spot on his lung. My breath caught in my throat—“oh.” Despite the ominous potential of such news, John was upbeat and charming as ever, and our conversation ended with laughter and goodwill.
Not long after I learned that
John Michell had died, his health having deteriorated stunningly quickly. My heart sank at the news. How could it be that I had the privilege of working with this great thinker and philosopher, esteemed by so many intellectuals, scholars, and cultural icons, on one of his last projects? I am humbled by it, this gift my own life journey gave me unexpectedly.
On April 24, 2009 a great light went out of the world, but I am certain that
John Michell is now with the “divine geomancer” he was so fond of writing about.
