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I first read Graham Hancock’s Fingerprints of the Gods: The Evidence of Earth’s Lost Civilization in the early 2000’s, after a friend casually mentioned it in conversation. It wasn’t really a book recommendation, at that point. And in fact, I don’t really remember what he said about the book, specifically, that piqued my interest. But he was someone I respected, the book sounded intriguing, and I immediately picked up a copy.

The thing was a tome. About two inches thick, in paperback, and coming in at 592 pages. It was far from being the longest book I’d read up to that point, but it was definitely a chunk of book that felt wonderful to hold in my hand. I do almost all of my reading via ebooks these days, but I’ve always been a sucker for a good, solid book.

I’ve also always loved history, though I did go through a period where I apparently denied this, first to myself and then, by extension and attitude, to others. It wasn’t cool, after all. I had enough trouble getting along with people in school, especially high school, without throwing “he’s the guy who nerds out about history” into the mix. 

Actually, it wasn’t even strictly history I nerded out over. It was weird and unusual history.

I loved reading and watching things about ancient Egypt, for example, but mostly it was the stuff about lost tombs and treasures, mystic objects and mythic beings, powerful gods and sorcerers that really got my brain buzzing. The hint of mystery among the ancient was always the most intriguing part to me. Reading a laundry list of lineage between dynasties was never quite as appealing, and neither was memorizing when Person X read Speech Y at Location and Event Z.

A plea to history teachers: Please stop teaching history as if it’s just one big census, and start focusing on the inspiring and fun parts. Love, people who love history. 

Fingerprints of the Gods hit all the right notes for me, right from page one. And though it was not the first book about “weird and unusual history” I’d ever read, it was still the start of a new era in reading and research and thought for me. It became a foundational book for my experience with and slog through history and archaeological study, and even more so for my career as a novelist. 

You can see the influence of this book (as well as other books by Hancock and his peers) in my Dan Kotler Archaeological Thrillers. Kotler is, in essence, an homage to guys like Hancock—an archaeologist who skirts the edge of the accepted narrative of history, who finds himself continuously at odds with the institutions of science and academia, challenging their self-assured positions with new facts that they’d prefer to ignore. Kotler gets compared to other famous fictional archaeologists and historians—notably the likes of Indiana Jones and Dr. Robert Langdon (of Da Vinci Code fame), and even Clive Cussler’s Dirk Pitt, at times—but at his core is an echo of Graham Hancock.

The thing that intrigues me most about Fingerprints is the concept of comparative mythology. It’s a theme I’ve come back to hundreds of times in my novels, and to me it’s perhaps the key to understanding more about human culture and history, shedding a very different light on our origins than what has so far been our story. 

Comparative mythology is, in a nutshell, the notion that hidden among all of the various and disparate cultures of the world are threads of a common story, and hints of a civilization lost to the mists of time. As just one example, when you look into every single myth and religion in recorded history, there is a flood myth. And that flood myth invariably contains common elements, even between cultures that should have absolutely nothing in common. There is always a man who communes with a greater power (God, or gods, or spirits, or some other powerful entity). This figure is told in advance of the coming of a great flood, and given explicit instructions for what to do so he and his family will survive. And in following those instructions they all do survive, to go forth and repopulate the Earth.

It’s mind boggling how similar the stories are. It shows up everywhere.

Call me on this. Go look at myths from the Mayans and Aztecs, compare them to myths from the Christian story, and then to myths from ancient Egypt, the Mesopotamian, the Phoenicians. And then, just for fun, look for flood myths among the Celts and Vikings. 

Water, water everywhere.

The same thing happens with other myths and legends, including the presence of “great trees” in just about every religion in existence, and the story of a savior who dies, only to be resurrected and raised to the heavens. Read the story of Osiris, and compare him to Christ, and then for some real fun go look at the story of Viracocha—the bearded, white-skinned god worshiped by the pre-Inca in Peru, who was known for traveling the land with his disciples, teaching about doing good while healing the sick, and even walking on water.

Mind = Blown.

Fingerprints looks at all of the above, by the way, and has served me as a very stable foundation for exploring things like this at a much deeper level. 

In this book I first learned of the alignment of the pyramids at Giza to the stars in the belt of Orion. I further learned that the same sort of alignment is in evidence at the Mayan pyramids. I learned about the prolific presence of circular cycles of destruction and resurrection in all the ancient cultures, a speculation about the continual death and rebirth of humanity. I learned that there are human cultures of which we know practically nothing, beyond the whispers we’ve deciphered from time-worn stone and ancient artifacts. All of these things, in one form or another, have made it into my books. And all of them hint at a world before the world we know, more ancient than we ever imagined.

“Stuff just keeps getting older,” as Graham Hancock himself is fond of saying. And he’s right. 

If you’ve read and enjoyed my Dan Kotler thrillers, and have an interest in the type of “weird and usual history” that Kotler is now famous for exploring, I recommend reading Fingerprints of the Gods, and the other books that have sprung from Hancock’s pen. You’ll come away with a new perspective on history and humanity, and it will change you forever.

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YOU ARE READING SIDE NOTES

Side Notes is an extension of my Notes at the End, which are author’s notes that appear at the end of every one of my novels. If you like these posts, you’ll love the books. 

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Traveling—especially the whole #vanlife version of traveling—does a lot to inspire me. Over the past two months along we’ve seen all kinds of interesting sights and explored all sorts if locations. I’ve been to ancient and mysterious structures, fabulous seaside mansions, and haunting historical sites. And technically I never left my home, since we were in the van the whole time. There’s something kind of awesome about exploring the world while having your own personal bathroom at hand.

One of the locations we visited a short time back is known as “the Viking Tower,” located in Newport, Rhode Island.

In my first Dan Kotler book, The Coelho Medallion, the Viking Tower got a very brief mention. It was one of several sites in the US that Kotler called out as potential evidence for the presence of Vikings in America. The structure is pretty ancient by American terms, standing in what is now a small and well-manicured public park near the coast.

I had heard about this structure years ago, and in that time I’ve read and watched a lot about it. There’s some controversy around its origins and even its age. At present, the consensus seems to be that it is actually an old windmill, presumably built in the 17th century.

You can learn more about it from this Wikipedia article: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Newport_Tower_(Rhode_Island)

And my buddy and fellow thriller author, Nick Thacker, and I talked about the structure a bit on an upcoming episode of our podcast, Stuff That’s Real, That You Didn’t Know was Real, But Also Is Cool (we’ll let you off the hook, and you call it Stuff That’s Real Podcast for short). You can find the podcast and watch for that upcoming episode here: http://stuffthatsreal.com

I love topics like this one. The mystery. The history. The questions. Even the answers are intriguing, mostly because you can sense and see that there are those who are willing to ignore one set of facts in favor of another, all in the name of putting the questions to rest. That’s just good science, right there. It’s at least good thriller novel fodder.

Because whatever the real origin and history of the Viking Towner (or the Newport Tower, or the Old Stone Mill) might be, the fact that there is a haze of uncertainty and questions around it means its wide open for some novelist conjecture and what-if.

I mean… what if it really is a structure built by Vikings, in some pre-Columbian era of North America? What does that suggest about our history, both known and unknown?

Or what if it turns out that this really was an old mill, built by American settlers… what happened to them? Where did they go? Was this a Roanoke scenario, where a whole village of early settlers just vanished from the Earth? And if so, who was responsible, and why?

Why aren’t there any other structures dated to around the time of the Old Mill?

Why haven’t they found evidence of timbers or implements that would be associated with the mill?

What if their carbon dating of the mortar between stones was thrown off by environmental factors?

So… many… questions.

And where there are questions, there are stories.

My job, as a novelist, is to mine questions and mysteries for the story I can craft for my audience. And if I were to choose to write about the Viking Tower, I can already think of a half-dozen directions to take those stories. Dan Kotler would surely be intrigued, and so would I. And so, hopefully, would my readers.

If you happen to be one of those readers, my hope is you’re seeing a bit of the behind-the-scenes that goes into my thriller novels. This is how it happens. I stumble across something while traveling or doing research, I have questions, I go looking for answers, and when I don’t find any I start making some up. Because being a storyteller, I’m compelled to come up with some explanation for this mystery, and if I can’t find it in the real world then the only way to scratch that itch is to invent it.

I think the same is true for readers. It’s why I read thrillers and mysteries and books with intriguing questions at their heart, anyway. If an author presents me with an intriguing enough question, I’ll read to find the answer. It’s a satisfying symbiotic relationship.

For any authors who may have stumbled across this post, here’s the lesson at its heart: Your job, as the storyteller, is to pose the right question. If you ask the right question, then readers will buy and read your book to find the answer. So the more intriguing and nuanced the question, the better your chances of a sale.

The really good books, movies, television shows, and video games we consume have this at their core. It’s all about asking a question that gets the reader or viewer or player excited, and then delivering a satisfying answer to that question.

So, if you’re a writer, spend a little time tinkering and refining your question. See if you can boil it down to a line or two. That can be labeled as “your premise.”

If you’re a reader, then you’re already doing your part in the novel writing process. Chances are that if the question asked by the book isn’t good enough, you won’t bother picking it up. And if the answer the author gives you isn’t good enough, you’ll leave a bad review.

Such is the cycle of life.

Questions and answers.

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Say hello using the Contact menu above, and God bless you with health, happiness, and happy reading.

David Hahn was not a terrorist.

The story of a boy scout who nearly went nuclear.
Kevin Tumlinson | WrittenWorld.us

We all have our hobbies. Maybe it’s trains. Maybe it’s comic books. Maybe it’s scotch or fine wine. There’s going to be something you’re passionate about, maybe even obsessed about, that occupies your time away from your work.

But what happens when our hobbies become a threat? And not just a threat to us, but maybe even a threat to our neighbors? Or—think bigger—what happens when our hobbies become a threat to national security?

I’m Kevin Tumlinson, and this … is the Written World.

I like quirky bits of history. I'm always on the lookout for odd little tidbits that make you scratch your head and wonder at what happened. And these can range on the spectrum of epicness—from little-known facts about the evolution of a turn of phrase, such as "jump the shark," to more profound revelations such as the historical presence of Vikings in North America, centuries before its discovery by Europeans.

 I even wrote a whole book about that last one.

 Sometimes, though, you come across some quirky history that makes you pause and makes you think, and may even makes you laugh and cringe a little.

 That's exactly how I feel about David Hahn, the "Radioactive Boy Scout."

 The thing about David's story that resonates most with me is that he grew up in a small town, without much of a social scene, and so he was forced to find his entertainment where he could. He was smart, and I like to think that we share that trait. The opinions of others may vary. And he was resourceful, another thing I believe (or hope) we have in common.

 Growing up in Commerce Township, Michigan, David was a Boy Scout. He participated in all the usual boy scout things, such as going hiking and camping, learning to tie knots, and doing good deeds for the community. By most signs, David was a good kid.

 He earned a lot of badges while in the scouts, but one of those badges set him on a path that would lead to infamy. David, it turns out, was one of only a few people to earn the Atomic Energy merit badge.

David had a keen interest in atomic energy. He obsessed over it, studying everything he could find on the subject. And as it turned out, he could find a lot.

 When trips to the local library weren't producing enough information, David did what any bright and curious kid would do: He opened up a phonebook (this was the early 1990s ... Google wasn't quite a thing yet) and started making phone calls.

He reached out to experts in the field, sometimes telling them he was a student working on a project, sometimes posing as a researcher or other official position. David would often write twenty or more letters per day, occasionally claiming to be a Physics teacher at Chippewa Valley High School. His letters went to experts and professionals all across the industry, including the Department of Energy and the Nuclear Regulatory Commission.

 In the end, not only did David learn exactly how something like a nuclear reactor might work, but he also managed to talk some experts into sending him some parts and supplies.

 What he needed, though, was fissionable material to work with. And lots of it.

 To get it, he got creative. He began salvaging radioactive material from household products. Americium from smoke detectors. Thorium from camping lanterns. Radium from clocks. Tritium from gunsights. Lithium from batteries.

All items that could be obtained either by rummaging through the trash or buying from a local supermarket.

 With materials gathered, and plans cobbled together from books in the public library and documents sent by bonafide nuclear experts, David moved his operation to the shed behind his mother's house. And there, he made history.

 Using his pilfered materials, David built a small nuclear reactor, known as a "breeder reactor." David favored this design because, in a sense, it was self-sustaining.

 We won't go into the pure physics of this, for several reasons. But the short version is that as a breeder reactor uses nuclear fuel, the fission creates radioactive byproducts. So while energy is being generated, the "waste" collects, and this waste can also be used in a fission reaction. In a sense, a breeder reactor generates its own fuel. And though this is far from a perpetual energy source, it can result in a pretty long-lasting source of energy.

 More than most teenagers need, at any rate.

 David got incredibly far along in his experiments and in his build. In fact, he actually succeeded in building the breeder reactor, complete with a radioactive fuel source. And though it never came close to critical mass, it did start generating alarming levels of radiation—more than one thousand times normal background radiation.

This got attention.

 Actually, David and his neighborhood have sheer luck to thank for the fact that his operation was discovered.

 In 1994, just before 3AM on a late August morning, local police were called to investigate claims that a teenager was stealing tires off of cars. They arrived to find David Hahn, who claimed he was just waiting for a friend.

They didn't believe him, and ended up searching his vehicle. When they opened the trunk, they found a metal toolbox, locked and sealed with duct tape, as well as a large assortment of lanterns, clocks, smoke detectors, and more. There were also fifty small cubes of a mysterious gray powder, wrapped in aluminum foil. But what alarmed them most was when David cautioned them about the toolbox, claiming that it was radioactive.

 From there, things escalated quickly. The FBI was called, and they brought along experts from the Nuclear Regulatory Commission (one of the same agencies David had contacted for his research). A Federal State of Nuclear Emergency was declared. There's something you don't see much, in a small town.

 Eventually, men in radiation suits arrived to dismantle David's miniature nuclear facility, carting up not only the reactor and the various materials used but also the tools, the furniture, even the walls of the shed itself. All of it was permeated with alarming levels of radiation, thanks to David's work.

 Frighteningly, some of that material ended up in the local landfill, thrown away in the neighborhood garbage before the Feds ever knew it was there.

These days, the shed and its contents are buried in an undisclosed location in the Great Salt Lake Desert, where it resides next to a bevy of nuclear cast-off, including some of the early experiments that led to the development of the first atomic bomb.

 David Hahn wasn't a terrorist. He was a curious, intelligent, very resourceful boy who became fascinated with something to the degree of obsession. He pursued that obsession, learning everything he could until he did what many might consider impossible.

 David's story is both inspiring and horrifying. On the one hand, it's remarkable that someone so young could have worked out the details of this, in a pre-internet age, to a degree high enough to actually build this device. On the other hand, now that we live in the age of instant information, the implications of something like this are beyond frightening.

I played with this idea a bit in my first thriller novel, The Coelho Medallion. In that book, the terrorist steal crates of smoke detectors, ultimately using the radioactive material within them to build a dirty bomb. It's a scenario that isn't all that farfetched. Which is why it works so well for fiction.

 The world is an interesting and sometimes frightening place. And as we advance in technology, and in our ability to discover and share information, it might be good to keep in mind the David Hahns of the world, and to stress to them the old adage, that just because you can do something, doesn't mean you should.

IF YOU ENJOYED THIS LITTLE TALE …

You might enjoy a good thriller novel. And I happen to write thriller novels. Find something to keep you up all night at KevinTumlinson.com/books

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Kevin Tumlinson is an award-winning and bestselling thriller author and podcast host. He travels the world looking for interesting tidbits of history and culture to fold into his work, and spends much of his time writing from hotels, cafes, coffee shops, and the occasional ride line at Disney World. Find more of Kevin and his work, including novels and podcasts, at KevinTumlinson.com.