SPOILERS!!!LEAVE!!!!SPOILERS!!!YOU SHOULDN'T BE HERE ANYWAY!!SPOILERS!!!LEAVE
Okay, this is my "out there" page. It is reserved for authors, ah, "in outer space" yet forgivable for the deus ex machina fallback position.
My Bet-Hedge 'Tude
Ever read one of those books that seems to exist outside of your realm of perceiving it? I'm not talking that if-a-tree-falls-in-the-forest-etc. diatribe. I'm about that sense of non-comittal, stand-offish, disinterested feeling as the pages wing by. You know, as if there's an intelligence crafting away that has no concern if you read it or not. There's no suspension of disbelief, merely indifference that's closer to distain than apathy. It is a read that leans to creating itself as it unfolds—sans any author—and, quite possibly, constructing the next page just before you turn it. As a result, The 37th Mandala appears above its tropes and conventional pigeonholes that sag most Horror reads.
In fact, if you think you understand this novel, drop me an e-mail, 'cause I sure don't.
A mandala is a physical illustration used in East Indian religions to focus your mind and attach your intelligence for cosmic and/or spiritual understanding, even possibly into a transformative state of Being. We all know that, but in this book, they exist as entities outside our sensory realm, but can be interactive using an occultist's sophisticated spells. Our protagonist, Derek Crowe, is a non-believing, New Ager writing devotional fluff for the naive and/or desperate no-cluers not for empathy or enlightenment, but strictly pure profit. He's exploitative, cynical, and mean. A lonely and wooly curmidgeon shedding into full misanthropy. That's his MO. You know, the kinda guy who thinks the whole world is a sucker and he's here to get his licks.
It's hard to get emotionally involved when the main dude is such an asshole loser.
Anyway, it isn't terribly clear, but Derek gloms onto another