Heterographs

No, heterographs are not charts about straight people. They are words that sound the same but which are spelled differently and mean different things. Here are six of them that tend to confuse people, and ways to remember which is which.

Advice/advise

Of course, whether these are pronounced the same or not depends a lot on where you’re from. To me, the first has a very short “s” sound where the C is, and somewhat of a “z” where the S is in the second, but your mileage may vary. The distinction between the two is that the C version is a noun while the S version is a verb. You give advice, or you advise someone.

The way to remember the difference is this. You can give a piece of advice, and both words have a C in them. Meanwhile, what the U.S. Senate does for the President is Advise and Consent, in which case the “c” is not in the first word. Note also that this error is so common that if you google “advise and consent,” the first few results will actually refer to “advice and consent,” which is just wrong.

Affect/effect

This was one that daunted me for years as well, until a wonderful TV writer and producer I was once lucky enough to work for explained the difference to me. It’s another verb/noun issue, mostly, with exceptions. “Affect” is a verb. “That story affected me.” “Effect” is a noun. “That story had an effect on me.”

The way to remember which is which is really simple. Verbs are action words and “affect” starts with “A.” Nouns are entities, and “effect” starts with “E.”

Now for the two exceptions. The word “effective” is an adjective, but it’s still not a verb, and isn’t as easily mistaken. “That was an effective marketing strategy.” Meanwhile, the word “affect” is also a noun but in a technical sense, usually limited to psychology, in phrases like “The patient presented with a flat affect.” In this case, “affect” refers to the personality or persona they’re giving off, and “flat affect” means basically a blank slate. This is the only time it will ever be a noun, and you’ll probably never use it like this unless you’re a therapist or psychologist.

Capital/capitol

What’s in your wallet!

Sorry, couldn’t resist. Anyway, this one is simpler than you might think, because the latter word has only one meaning while the former has all the others. The Capitol is the actual building that a governmental body meets in, so all you need to remember is the “O,” as in “Office,” as in where the government does business. Otherwise, capital refers to the city that hosts the Capitol, or the style of letter versus lower case, or the amount of money available for investment to an entity, or, particularly if you’re British, to a very, very good thing. Smashing! Brilliant!

Desert/dessert

Wow. Another pair of words a TV producer taught me to distinguish, and this one is probably the simplest of all. Which one has two Esses in it? Simple. The one that stands for “something sweet.” Dessert is the sugary, tasty one. The one with only one Ess is full of… sand. Ta-da!

Emigrate/immigrate

Another really easy one: If you emigrate, then you’re exiting your country and the preposition is from: “They emigrated from Italy in 1840.” If you immigrated, then you are going into, and the preposition is in, to, or into… “They immigrated to the United States in 1912.”

Principle/principal

Another one that’s really old, but really simple: “The principal is not your pal.” Kind of ironic, because the “pal” version is the person who runs a school, but whom you all probably hated with the burning passion of a thousand suns. Meanwhile, principle refers to an idea, a tenet, or the amount owed on a loan short of interest.

Rain/rein/reign

Here’s another oft-confused trio that I’m going to have to make up the reminders for but, hey, it’s what I do and why y’all pay me the big bucks. (Snark. Rolls eyes and points to the “tip jar” link. Cough, cough.)

Rain is the water that falls from the sky and gets you wet.

Rein is the thing you hold to control a horse, although metaphorically “to rein in” means to calm down or control anything. E.G., to rein in your emotions. (In Spanish, “saltar las riendas” literally means to jump the reins, but metaphorically means to just lose it — so the opposite of reining things in.)

Reign is what a king or queen has or does.

So, how to remember? Here we go. When it rains and you don’t have an umbrella, you’re probably going to go “Ai! Sky water!”

And a horse is a farm animal, and when you think of farms think of Old MacDonald, who had a farm… E-I. E-I. Oh… (That’s the middle of “rein,” in case you missed it.)

Finally, if you ever met a king or queen, you’d probably say, “Gee…” and that’s the odd silent letter that makes their reign different than any of the others. If that isn’t enough and you happen to actually live in a kingie or queenie country, then just remember the term “Regnent,” which you might see on your coins all the time, or at least abbreviated in the form “E II R,” and there’s another reminder.

Which sound-alike words confuse you or what mnemonics do you have do unconfuse them? Share in the comments, and drop a tip if this was helpful.a

The voice

Recently, I was working at what’s called the Small Business Marketing Plan Bootcamp, run by two old friends of mine, Hank and Sharyn Yuloff. Well, I’ve known Hank longer, lost touch with him for a while, then re-encountered him at random because we had a friend in common we’d both met long after, and then Hank absolutely hated the movie The Blair Witch Project. Long story, but it was another one of those weird moments in which the most random of events somehow led to big things later on.

If you come to their bootcamp and I’m working it, he’ll probably tell you the whole story. Short version, he sent an email rant about the film to one of my friends, A, who’d co-founded the site with me and D (all three of us had been in a band together way the hell back in my “stupid enough to be in a band” days), and A also told him he should write a review for Filmmonthly.com. When the review popped up, I saw his name and, since it’s an unusual one, I contacted him to say, “Hey… didn’t I know you once?”

As for the Filmmonthly website, it’s still there, although A, D, and I passed it on to other people a long time ago, but since all three of us were the publishers for a long time, it’s unfortunately kind of hard to search for any of our reviews specifically there because our names are pretty much embedded in every page, although I can at least lead you to my deep analysis of the movie A.I., and my review of Stanley Kubrick’s last film, Eyes Wide Shut. And, to top that all off, my other in-depth analysis, of The Big Lebowski, wound up enshrined forever in that mythos in the book Lebowski 101.

But I do digress… All of that intro was by way of saying that I’ve known Hank and Sharyn forever, they are amazing people, they have certainly plugged me a lot to their clients, and in this latest seminar, Hank said something that initially really pissed me off.

It was a day dedicated to the importance of social media, and during the portion about blogging. (Side note: This blog itself only exists because they gave me a freebie bootcamp a couple of years ago, although Hank told me that it wasn’t me getting a freebie from them. Rather, it was them investing in me, and he was right.) Anyway, after they’d talked about the importance of creating content and so on, somebody asked, “What if you can’t write? Should you hire a ghostwriter?”

Hank’s immediate answer was, “No. You have to write it because it has to be in your own voice.”

And, honestly, my sudden instinct was to jump up and yell, “Oh, that’s bullshit!” I mean, one of the words on my business card is “ghostwriter,” and it’s basically what I did for a certain cable TV star for five years, creating a weekly column for his readers, along with maintaining the marketing and corporate voice for his website and magazine that entire time. Hell, my titles were Senior Editor and Head Writer.

On top of that, as an experienced and award-winning writer of plays, TV, film, short stories, and long-form fiction, I’ve got a lot of experience in writing in other voices. That’s what writers of fiction do — we speak as other people. And so one of the biggest talents I think that I bring to the corporate world is exactly that: the ability to write as someone else. Give me your voice, I’ll imitate the hell out of it.

But I refrained from saying anything during the bootcamp because, after all, it’s his and Sharyn’s show, so I’ve got no place in rocking the boat (or, as we say in improv, not “Yes, Anding” them), but then after he said it, I started to think a bit more on the concept, and realized that we’re sort of both right in different ways, especially as he explained his reasoning.

See, most of the people at this seminar were entrepreneurs — small business people, either running their own show or with a very small staff. And that does make a difference in establishing a corporate voice because they are most directly the voice of their own corporation or company. Why? Because when they go out to recruit or meet potential clients, it’s just them. It’s not their CFO, or CEO, or Marketing Team, or Social Media mavens, or copywriter because those people do not exist in their organizations. And, so, if all of those blog posts sound one way but, in person, they sound another, clients are going to rightfully sense the difference and nope right outta there because the person they met online and the person they met IRL don’t mesh up, so the person IRL sounds inauthentic.

Brand killer.

That was my own a-ha moment. Keep in mind that I can get tetchy when anyone says, “Hey… anyone can write!” My knee-jerk reaction is, “No. False.” But, you know what? It’s partly true, but let’s go through all the steps.

We all grow up using language. It’s what humans do. And, honestly, it’s what a ton of animals and birds do. Most primates, most cetaceans, pretty much every mammal, parrot, crow, octopus, and even some trees and fungus, whatever. Linking together a bunch of signals — whether words, sounds, images, smells, or chemicals — and having those linked signals relay a message from one entity to the other… that’s pretty much what all intelligent life does.

Boom. Communication. That is what language is. If you can successfully tell that driver, “Hey, hit the damn brakes so you don’t run over my baby,” whether you do it with words, screams, frantic hand waves, a sudden bouquet of smells or hormones, or a well-timed text, then you have communicated very effectively.

But… there’s a huge difference between “effective” and “well,” and I think this is where my feelings and Hank’s feelings on it both part and converge again.

Yes, everybody has their own unique voice, and that has to do with words they use and patterns of speech, and so on. But… the really important part is how all of those separate phrases and sentences and what not add up into a coherent story. And this is where what I do comes in.

If you’re an entrepreneur, should you write your own blogs? Oh, absolutely, but only sort of. Absolutely because, honestly, if you can talk, you can put words down in a written medium. Even if you can’t talk — most humans learn how to communicate with words, whether it’s in spoken language, sign language, or even just written down.

What most humans don’t learn is how to structure the mass of those words into an interesting and compelling story. This is where I come in, and where Hank and I came back into agreement not long after.

He phrased it the best, although I paraphrase it now, in terms of attorneys. “The man who represents himself has a fool for a client.” He followed that up with, “The person who edits their own writing, likewise,” and I could not agree more.

And that’s really what I do — I’m the third eye on your manuscript, I’m the midwife who makes sure to clean up and swaddle your baby before we dump it in your lap. I’m the guy who jumps in the way before you step out into traffic and shoves you back onto the curb, and I’m also a pretty big history and science nerd, so I will stop you from looking silly by knocking the anachronisms out of whatever you’re writing and polishing up the science. Final bonus points: I was raised by an amazing grammar-Nazi English teacher, so I’ll give you the same.

I’m not cheap, but I’m worth it. Trust me. If you want to raise your marketing antlers above the herd of crap that’s all over the place out there, then drop me a line. Rates are negotiable, and depend a lot on subject and page count. Hint: If you’re doing history or Sci-Fi, or your word count is under 40,000 let’s talk discounts. Scripts, plays, and screenplays also considered. But if you want to invest in your future and get some returns, then invest in me first, because I will definitely steer you there.

Pursue what scares you because it will make you stronger

After a month off for the holidays, it’s nice to be back on the improv stage again, and in tonight’s match I was captain of the blue team and we won, 25 to 20.

If that terminology for improv seems strange, let me give a brief explanation. I do improv for ComedySportz — the Rec League, the starter rung, as it were, of their performance groups. They also have the Sunday Team and the Main Company. It’s an international franchise, founded in Milwaukee Wisconsin in 1984. The L.A. company opened in 1987 and it’s the longest-running comedy show in town.

If you don’t know what the term “improv” means, then you might recognize it from shows like “Whose Line Is It, Anyway?” It’s basically comedy that is made up on the spot by the performers with a lot of possible games, which generally divide into two broad categories: Scene games, in which the players are performing a scene about characters with specific relationships in a particular setting with the goal of finding a conflict and a resolution; and non-scene games, in which the goals revolve around things like wordplay, puns, or rhymes.

There’s also short-form and long-form improv, the latter known as a “Harold,” but what I do is strictly short-form. The ComedySportz twist is that each match, which consists of a number of games, is performed by two competing teams, Blue stage right and Red stage left, moderated by a referee and with an announcer keeping score. Matches usually have two halves, which open and close with a head-to-head or team vs. team game, then alternating single-team games. Sometimes, there will also be another head-to-head game in the middle of a half. This is all in keeping with the sports (or sportz) analogy — and if you’re wondering why it’s “sportz,” that goes back to the mothership in Milwaukee, a city with a strong Polish-American heritage, and a lot of Polish words either end with or have a Z in them.

But that’s not the point of this story. The point is a note that I got about a non-scene game that we played to open the second half of the match. This is a rhyming and singing game in which we line up alternating red and blue team members, then sing a particular song using a suggested name from the audience. The first person gets to just use the name. The second person has to use a rhyming word. The third person has to come up with three rhymes that haven’t been used yet. So, for example, if the name is “Jon,” the first person uses “Jon,” the second might use “gone,” and the third could use “con,” “non,” and “pawn.” The pattern repeats, so that every third person has to come up with three rhymes.

Needless to say, the more times around it goes, the harder it gets for that person in the three-rhyme spot to hang on, and people are eliminated if they hesitate, break the rhythm, or repeat a rhyme. Homophones are okay, though, so if the original name were Jim, for example, the words gym and gem would be acceptable, provided that the differences were clear in context: “He goes to the gym,” and “his ring has a gem,” for example.

And when I first started learning improv, although I loved to watch this game, the idea of doing it scared the holy crap out of me. And, in fact, every single time I tried to play it in class or when I first joined the Rec League, I would be (clap clap) “out of there” during the first or second pass because I’d either repeat or totally freeze up.

But the entire reason I’d started taking improv classes in the first place was because I loved the art form but it scared the hell out of me to actually do it. And the more classes I took the more I realized that I liked it, so a big note I gave myself when I actually started performing for people was this: Play the games that scare you silly.

This was one of them, and by forcing myself to keep playing it, I’ve managed to go from “person who gets thrown out on the first or second pass” to “guy who keeps winning it.” That’s not an attempt to brag, by the way. It’s just the lesson I’ve learned. You can absolutely get good at something that terrifies you if you put the fear aside and do it. And what is that fear about, really? It’s the fear of failure. And yeah… every time I used to play this game, I would fail badly and get called out early. But as soon as I put aside that fear, a funny thing happened. If I got called out early, so what? And if I didn’t, I was just having fun, and the more fun I had the easier it became to keep on going to the end.

A really nice personal culmination to all of this came tonight when we got notes after our first match of 2019. The note I got basically boiled down to, “You’re really great at this game, but please don’t be so great when your team is ahead at the start of the half.” In other words, intentionally fail at what you’re good at so we can keep this as more of a horse race. Which, in a strange way, is really kind of the next level thing I need to latch onto in my improv progress: Failing spectacularly in this genre is just as good as winning it all.

So, note to self: Keep playing games that terrify you while not being afraid to fall on your sword when it will make the other team look good.

I would have learned none of this, by the way, had I not gotten over my initial fear of actually doing improv and starting classes in the first place. If you’re interested in doing improv and have a ComedySportz franchise in your city, look them up. Especially if you’re interested in doing it but also scared to death of trying because, trust me, three or four classes in, your fear will be a thing of the past.

Quartets on the Deaths of too Many Children… Part 1

Sometimes, I write poetry. Sometimes, it’s inspired by real-world events and not who I’m in love with that week. This is one of those sometimes. Feel free to share.

Thoughts and prayers do nothing, you know
Except make you feel no guilt
One more shooting, and one more blow
This is the world you have built

How many children, how many deaths
How many guns do you need?
Suffered enough of their terminal breaths?
When will we learn to take heed?

You’d think we’d be better than that
Learn to transcend our animal past
But we kill like a hungry house cat
So our species ain’t destined to last

The secret is this, the secret is love
The secret is learn how to share
Take other people and put them above
Learn how to tell them you care

This planet is old, our species is not
But all life that lives here is kin
Learn to be happy with what you have got
Learn how to let all life in

The problem, I think, is that words interfere
Let’s tackle emotions instead
Settle on being in the now and here
List’ and react to what I just said

So here are my quartets
And here are my words
Take ‘em or leave ‘em, ta-da
Breaking the format
To bring you this point…
Smile and hug me… voila!

Look — an interview!

Meet Jon Bastian of The Word Whisperer in Sherman Oaks, courtesy of Voyage L.A.

As I move now from writing the book to rewriting and editing to get it ready, I won’t be having the regular chapter updates. But I do have this bit to share: an interview I did recently for the website Voyage  L.A. Check it out! And while you’re at it, don’t forget to check out the book, beginning with the Prologue.

Chapter Fifteen

With Chapter Fifteen, we come to the end of the line. This is where I reveal the lesson of the safety pin from the prologue — but not in this excerpt!

Closing the circle

And so we have made it to the final chapter together and, I hope, you’ve already begun to see some progress. For me, it’s always helpful from time to time to think back to August 25, 2016 — who I was, what I had become, and how I have changed since then.

I wasn’t happy with myself then, and hadn’t been for a while. I had ballooned up to a ridiculous weight and had been living in such denial that it took my scrotum blowing up to the size of a cantaloupe just to get me to the doctor — despite having excellent health insurance. I smoked at least a pack a day, could barely walk across a room, and pretty much only left home to go to work, pick up my mail, or buy groceries. Dating? Not even a remote possibility.

A brush with death will definitely change you, but it wasn’t until afterwards that I started to realize that my uncle’s heart attack had affected my parents a lot more than it seemed at the time. Not only did my dad go on a diet to help prevent heart disease, but my parents got me a social security card at the time. For non-Americans, this is effectively a national ID number although it’s technically not supposed to be used for identification (spoiler: it constantly is). It’s how your employers track you and report your wages and income taxes, and it’s how you collect retirement benefits from the government after you’ve spent a working lifetime paying into them.

In the 1980s, the rules changed so that infants had to get social security numbers, mainly because a certain political party went through one of its frequent moments of anti-immigrant muscle-flexing, but combined with the legitimate need to keep people from creating fake babies to use as tax deductions. When I was a kid, though, it still wasn’t necessary to get a social security number until you were about to get a job — unless you were going to collect someone else’s benefits, i.e., a deceased parent’s pension and death benefit.

So yes, my parents took my dad’s brother’s heart attack quite seriously. It was also not long after this that my dad started taking me to the movies — usually science fiction — which totally changed my life. Again, I never made the connection between “specter of death” and “spend more time with your son” until I’d gone through the same thing myself. Minus the son part, of course.

It’s funny how adult eyes can change your perception of things your parents did. For example, my parents decided to try to sell the house I grew up in and buy something bigger and better, although that never happened because the seller’s market was bad at the time. Again, though, it wasn’t until years later and as an adult that I realized they did this almost immediately after my dad’s youngest son from his first marriage turned 18 and my dad didn’t have to pay child support anymore. (Alimony must have been a thing of the past, because his ex-wife had remarried almost as soon as he did.)

But I do digress.

In my case, almost dying gave me a second chance, and almost six months after I wound up in the hospital — just in time for my birthday! — I was very happy with myself. I was thinner than I’d ever been as an adult except for one brief window when I was about 26, I had discovered that my fear of doctors and hospitals was largely an illusion, based on past experiences that just didn’t apply anymore, and not only had I quit smoking (saving over $260 a month), but I now found the habit to be beyond disgusting. I was athletic and energetic again, had started taking improv classes, and noticed an incredible difference in the way people treated me — friends and strangers alike. My social life took off and, although I didn’t get back into dating quite just then, I did start to meet a lot of new people in 2017.

Since I like statistics, here are some as a reminder, because I’ve told you this before. My top weight was 277.6 lbs. I brought that down to 167.8. My measurements were 44-42-48. Now, they’re more like 36-30-34. My shirt size went from XL to less than S, and the one belt I own that had gotten too tight at its loosest I now regularly crank down to the last hole. Yeah, I guess I should buy a new belt.

Certain body parts always stay the same size, so now my head, hands, feet, and… other bits all seem enormous — there’s your diet incentive right there, guys! The smaller you get, the bigger it looks. It’s funny, because there’s kind of a stereotype that it’s always the skinny guys who are the most well-endowed, and now you know why that seems to be…

* * *

Read an excerpt from Chapter Fourteen or start with the Prologue.

Chapter Five

We all have irrational fears — but the only way to find out how irrational they are is to get over them. I explain in this excerpt from the next chapter of “The Amateur’s Guide to DIY Miracles.”

Strap in for this ride…

When I was seven years old and on a trip to visit my mom’s family back East, my dad took me to one of those rinky-dink pop-up carnivals. You know the type. They show up in public parks and church parking lots seemingly overnight and generally consist of a few shady sideshow games and a few shadier rides, all run by even shadier people.

At this carnival, my dad took me on a roller coaster — my first, actually. As a roller coaster, it wasn’t much to speak of. It was a single loop that covered the area of maybe two semi-flatbed trailers, and a single circuit couldn’t have lasted a minute, if that — probably more like thirty seconds. The tallest point on it was maybe twelve feet.

We strap in and the operator starts the ride. We get to the first insignificant drop, and my seven-year-old mind freaks out. I do not like this at all — the sensation of falling, and of being out of control.

We pull back into the station and I’m all ready to get off when the operator gives a look and a nod.

That wasn’t the only lap.

As I try to protest, we take off and run the course again. This time, it’s scarier, because I know what’s coming. This is sheer terror. I’m confined in a metal car, we’re careening down rickety tracks that are only not scarier because I’m too young to realize that they were probably slapped together by a disinterested minimum-wage crew on summer jobs. I hear other people laughing and hollering and having a great time — my own father included. How could he? And then we make it back and come into the station again and…

Oh, holy shit, the operator is giving me a big grin and signaling to me, “One more time.” He is the most evil man in the world. My seven-year-old mind turns to thoughts of homicide. They will never find his body!

The only reason I didn’t curse up a blue streak at him is because I didn’t know the dirty words yet. Around we went again, and I only don’t kiss that hot, smelly asphalt once my dad and I had gotten off of the death machine because, again, I was too young to have met that symbolic gesture yet.

From that day forward, I knew that I hated roller coasters and avoided them. And then, in high school, we were on a grad night trip to Disneyland — band friends Janet, Sam, Anne, Mike, and I, although I could be remembering the dramatis personae totally wrong anyway. The important part is that they all want to go on Space Mountain, and I don’t. Cue the peer pressure.

“You’ll love it,” Janet insists.

“Nah, I don’t like — ” I protest.

“Don’t be a pussy,” Mike chimes in. Did I mention that this Mike was kind of a dick?

“It’s really not that bad,” Anne adds in her quiet but confident way.

“There are lots of places to back out before the end of the line,” Janet explains, hopefully.

Well, in that case… what did I have to lose except my dignity and honor? After all, we were all graduating from high school in a few weeks and, as far as I knew, nobody I knew from Taft High was going to the same college I was, so what the hell? I let them lead me into that line, and I was as nervous as a first-time Oscar-winner giving an acceptance speech on the deck of a sinking Titanic during an earthquake in the middle of a tornado while watching their spouse and side piece run into each other and figure it out.

Or, in other words, I should have been wearing my brown pants. Ah, that’s the one — I was as nervous as a bad guy facing Deadpool.

But I made it through the line and past all of the emergency escapes — which I think Mike described as “pussy chutes.” Did I mention that I think he wound up working in his uncle’s gas station well into his 30s before I lost track of him? And then, fascinated by the design of the queuing area, I missed the last escape, and there we were, getting into the cars.

Oh, hell no.

Except that there I was, surrounded by friends, ride attendants hustling us forward, and the only thing I could do was get into that car, let them strap me in, and decide whether I was still religious. (Spoiler: nope). At least it was science fiction themed, though, and I love me some science fiction.

In retrospect, that may have been the carrot that got me past the stick, and then we were climbing up that long ramp into the dark and I had no idea what I’d gotten myself into, but it was nice to look at as we finally reached the top, circling in a moment of silence and peace, projected stars and galaxies above us.

“Oh,” I thought. “That’s pretty…”

And then the car tipped, turned, dropped, shot into the ride, and I learned something really amazing…

I totally love roller coasters!

Space Mountain had me hooked, and from then on I’ve looked forward to riding. The only exceptions are rides with steep vertical drops. I do not like those, but at least I figured that one out through the clear eyes of adult experience, and gave it a couple of tries before I decided that I don’t like that physical feeling.

But that decision came after some actual testing, instead of as a seven-year-old’s panic over nothing that turned into a pseudo-phobia that lasted over a decade.

I kind of had the same issue with doctors once upon a time, and that fear and reluctance nearly killed me. The biggest surprise? Once I put myself in their hands, I realized, “I’ve been afraid of nothing all along.”

That is the state that too many of us live in: Afraid of nothing all along. So my challenge to you is this: Figure out your thing that you’re very reluctant to do. It doesn’t necessarily have to be because of fear. You can call it disgust, or nervousness, or any negative emotion, really. Next, figure out where that reluctance came from. Is it something that happened in your childhood? Is it for some reason you can’t even remember? Is it because of one bad experience as an adult?

Now: Go do that thing. You only have to do it one time, but the important part of the exercise is confronting your reluctance and finding out whether it’s real or imagined.

The worst that can happen is you confirm you’ve been right all these years, but at least then you get to be justified in your dislike of something. But I’m willing to bet that most of those fears and distastes are imagined, and you might even discover a new thing that you really, really like.

Like I did with roller coasters. But I never would’ve found that out without taking one more ride.

* * *

Image: Benjamin D. Esham / Wikimedia Commons

Read excerpts from Chapter Four or Chapter Six, or go back to the Prologue.