conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is a description for a book titled Westlake Soul about Westlake, Soul, although with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Genre Fiction?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Westlake Soul used to be a surfer dude with a beautiful girlfriend. Now, after a tragic accident, hes trapped inside himself, living in a permanent vegetative state but with the ability to project his consciousness outside himself and to communicate with his dog (although it must be stated that, as we read the book, we begin to wonder if these are true abilities, or imagined). As he approaches the end of his lifeit seems inevitable that his parents will decide to remove his feeding tube and let him dieWestlake realizes that hes running out of time to find a way to prove that, deep down inside, hes still himself. Remarkably, the author sells his premise completely; we dont even ask how Westlake, unable to communicate in any way, is managing to tell us his story With thematic similarities to Dalton Trumbos Johnny Got His Gun, this imaginative mix of fantasy and reality combines highly dramatic subject matter with a narrative touch that is surprisingly light and funny. The ending, though, is haunting and more than a little emotionally charged. A daring and completely successful book. --David Pitt
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the first sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Now, after a tragic accident, hes trapped inside himself, living in a permanent vegetative state but with the ability to project his consciousness outside himself and to communicate with his dog (although it must be stated that, as we read the book, we begin to wonder if these are true abilities, or imagined). As he approaches the end of his lifeit seems inevitable that his parents will decide to remove his feeding tube and let him dieWestlake realizes that hes running out of time to find a way to prove that, deep down inside, hes still himself. Remarkably, the author sells his premise completely; we dont even ask how Westlake, unable to communicate in any way, is managing to tell us his story With thematic similarities to Dalton Trumbos Johnny Got His Gun, this imaginative mix of fantasy and reality combines highly dramatic subject matter with a narrative touch that is surprisingly light and funny. The ending, though, is haunting and more than a little emotionally charged. A daring and completely successful book. --David Pitt
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is the first five paragraphs for this book? Start with the sentence 'Westlake Soul
  We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts, which last year invested $20'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Westlake Soul
  We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts, which last year invested $20.1 million in writing and publishing throughout Canada.
  Somebody somewhere is writing this down. This I know; I'm a living (kind of), breathing genius. I'm reaching out and making it happen—from right here: the vegetable patch. Albert Einstein couldn't do that. The dude was shit-hot with atomic bombs and the theory of relativity, but could he talk to dogs? And Goethe... nobody used their 10% of the iceberg more effectively, but when it came to tapping the ego and the id, he was just like the rest of you.
  My name is. I know what you're thinking... a name like that I could be one of Gladys Knight's backing singers. One of her Pips. But I'm not a Pip. I'm a twenty-three-year-old former surfing champion (Billabong Classic '07, Ride the Barrel '08). I live in Hallow Falls, Ontario, with my parents, my little sister, and our dog, Hub. You want a description? Imagine Stephen Hawking. Now lose the glasses and give him a Kurt Cobain haircut. It's pretty close.
  All superheroes get their powers from somewhere. A radioactive spider bite. A science experiment gone awry. I got mine from a surfing accident in Tofino. The ultimate wipeout. I woke up with the most powerful mind on the planet, but a body like a wet paper bag. I'm not cool with the trade-off, but such is life.
  I won't be like this for long, though... being fed through a tube, my mouth hanging open, fucking drooling. I'm going to use my superbrain to drag myself from this (permanent) vegetative state.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is five more paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Yvette's pursed lips twitched. Perhaps a smile, or perhaps the realization that she was soon going to be superfluous to requirements.
  Mom took a deep breath and blinked her wet eyes. "Soon." Barely a word. She clutched Yvette's hand. Dabbed with the Kleenex. "We've met with the doctor. He agrees that it's the best course of action. So now we just need to... mentally prepare."
  I had never doubted my parents' faith. I'd assumed it was eternal. And I had never doubted my ability to reward that faith by breaking out of my prison. Beginning with a single, intelligible word. Or smiling on command. Or feeling Mom's hand in mine and squeezing her fingers. Small, yet momentous, steps on the road to recovery. It's all different now, though. The only thing I'm certain of is that Dr. Quietus is bigger and badder than ever. He's closer, too. When Yvette removes my feeding tube, my life expectancy will be down to days. Maybe a couple of weeks, if I'm lucky.
  Today is Tuesday, September 20, 2011. It has been a hot summer, but the nights are getting cooler and the leaves are beginning to turn—the merest threads of gold and red, caught only in a certain light. I may see them turn fully, but I doubt I'll see them fall. And I certainly won't see them bud and bloom anew.
  For now, though, I need to release. Not to the ocean, or anywhere loud and full of power, but somewhere serene and distant. The moon, perhaps, where I can float above the maria with tears in my eyes, and prepare myself for the long fall.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is the last five paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: I went deeper, through schools of fish like mirror shards, and pods of singing humpbacks. Down, into a layer of darkness, and beyond... where lobates flowed around me like natural satellites, and were dragged deeper by my diving mass.
  Bottom of the ocean. Darkness all around, but a whisper of light above. Like a window that has been painted black, all but the thinnest crack. And I can see out, at the sky, perhaps. Surf City Blue.
  I'll feel her love—a breathtaking miniature sun—and remember what she asked me when the ocean was cold and dark.
  The Ontario Arts Council, for their generous support and continued good work; Claude Lalumière, for his help with the French translations (many humorous e-mails were exchanged, believe me); Mark Morris and Joel A. Sutherland, my wonderful beta readers, who offered excellent suggestions and proved themselves as essential as I knew they would be; the three doctors (in no particular order): Dr. Tressa Amirthanayagam, who cast her expert eye over an early draft, and whose enthusiasm buoyed the numerous revisions; Dr. Andrew Marsh (a real life super genius), who patiently provided information on such topics as bioresonant energy and quantum entanglement, and in a way that I (not a super genius) could grasp; Dr. Paul Hosek, who does fantastic work with PVS patients every day, and who proved invaluable—as a doctor and a reader—in ways I can't even begin to describe.
  Finally... my beautiful wife, Emily. My superhero. The sun in miniature. For too many reasons to mention. Suffice to say that some aspects of this novel were difficult to write, and some were not.