A novel is an exceedingly odd thing.  It has a life, or at least a half-life of its own.  When I tried to breath some life into it, it wouldn't budge.  When though I listened to it and let it tell me what it wanted me to tell of itself, well, at least it limped along.  That said, I clearly didn't know what I was doing. Maybe that was a better state of mind from which to write.  Had I known anything, anything at all, nothing at all would have been born.  Ignorance, is not bliss, but it is certainly fecund, and pregnant even with hard-earned truths.  If anyone stumbles across this book, yes, it's odd, but there is some quirky jiggly reality to it.  

http://www.amazon.com/Entanglement-Chronicles-New-Tibet-Book-ebook/dp/B01DJXQ2W4/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1461427068&sr=1-1&keywords=daniel+garrett