SEASON of the SERPENT  is David’s first novel. This Olympic effort has taken almost 15 years to develop, rework, and complete. He lives with his partner of twelve years in the Washington, DC area.

“On the surface, my childhood was vaguely normal; my adolescence was unremarkable. I graduated from college with a superfluous degree. I paid my dues and put in my time for a successful media career in Washington, D.C. All these details are unimportant. What is vital is that I was ready to wake up.” 

– Season of the Serpent: Book One


An author is just a conduit for the story. The story actually chooses him (or her) to narrate it. It starts with inspiration – the author takes a leap of faith and seemingly snatches the idea out of the sky. He doesn’t know where it came from. He doesn’t really care. The idea alone is what interests him. With care and hard work it grows – a seed planted in the rich soil of imagination.

An author struggles with his art. He wrestles with the words every day like a sorcerer trying to summon an elusive spirit until the incantation is just right. Mysteriously. the muse comes forth when the author surrenders to the magical enchantment. Then he must step aside and lets the conjured spirt reveal his tale.

Here’s the trick – the author is always hidden inside his work – he works tirelessly to erase his tracks, to throw off suspicion, to evade detection. However, occasionally he peers out from behind the curtain and winks at the audience as if to say:  Here I am, come in and find me. But if you ask for my secret, I’ll deny everything.


I am an enigma without a name.  I am a traveler cast ashore, homesick for a home I have never known.  I miss the company of people I have never met.  I long  for their conversation, to speak with my mind instead of my lips, in a language beyond words, alien to this world.  Thoughts, emotions, and experience transmitted in waves hiding nothing, no confusion across translation, no misunderstanding,  no walls of ego.  Fear dissolves away.  In another’s thoughts I see the reflection of my own.  We are separate, we are one, we are never alone.

I am the dreamer who is not asleep, who has awakened within the dream.  I walk within a landscape of symbol and sign.  There is a song on the wind for those with ears to hear.  It carries a riddle, buried in rhyme, composed by the universe.  There are signs along the road for those who have eyes to see.  They direct all who seek the truth, leading them blindly to a paradox which can be neither fully understood nor explained.

Cosmic poetry written in the verse of subatomic physics, the casual connection between mind and matter, the magic of unknown science.  It composes the lyrics of our faith.  We are both the author and the audience, the creator and the creation.  When we listen for God, we listen at the door of a house we are predestined to build and inhabit.  God sends a telegram from our future, the blueprints of our destiny which we stumble blindly to fulfill.

We are the child in a womb of consciousness yet to be born.  Our psychological clock is counting down.  The astrological calendar is running out.  We have slept through the long night, only to awaken minutes before daybreak.  Naked in the blinding light, stripped of illusion, the sleeper will rise on a razor’s edge.  And yes, some must awaken prematurely, to clear the dangerous path ahead for those who still sleep.

– by David Nova
(deleted material from Season of the Serpent: Book One)