The Spark

Yes, I know, I promised myself I would concentrate on only one book at a time. Oh well. It all started with the NaNoWriMo thing, which I foolishly signed on for during the same month we were moving from our duplex to a lovely house here on the Lake (don't even ask me how we did this on unemployment. Suffice it to say we're paying less rent now than we were before - thanks largely to my lovely wife and her friendships).

Anyway, I started a new manuscript. Probably working out some post-election angst, but also addressing a story idea I've conceived of for quite some time now. It's a trilogy about a second American Civil War, in which the battle lines are drawn not geographically, but ideologically. For the most part, such a war takes place guerrilla-style, until at some point the country erupts in a conflagration which is, at first, confused for mass riots and so forth, but continues to the point of a total societal meltdown.

Anyway, the first story in the trilogy is called The Spark, and I've included an excerpt from the first chapter below. Enjoy!

“It’s evil.”

“It’s the lesser of two evils.”

“It’s still evil. You can’t fight evil with evil. You know that.”

“So what are we supposed to do? Nothing? Sit around and wait for something good to drop out of the sky?”

I pulled away from the window and sat on the ledge. Martin glanced up from the easy chair, one leg draped lazily over the armrest. In his blue jeans and T-shirt he looked harmless enough. Not weak, though. Definitely not weak. Martin’s arms were knotted muscles from four years in the army, two of them fighting terrorists overseas. He smiled broadly, if only to keep me from mistaking his tone. He wasn’t mad at me. He was just mad.

His eyes. His eyes were dangerous. And I strongly suspected he would move this conversation from the theoretical to the practical if I lost the argument.

I had to try harder. “It’s not that you wait for something to ‘drop out of the sky.’ It’s that you wait for God to act. And you trust that He will. It’s called faith, Marty.”

He kept smiling and turned away, picking up the half empty bottle of Killian’s on the end table. He’d already ridden my case for not buying American beer. I pointed out that it was still bottled in New Jersey, but he just shook his head. It was his way of saying I didn’t get it.

“You ever heard of a Deus Ex Machina?” he said.

“God of the box.”

“That’s what playwright’s relied on when they wrote themselves into a corner.”

“Yeah, I know what it is.”

“The gods would just show up at the end, rising up from a trap door in the stage and make everything all right. Modern writers don’t use it anymore. Hell, you couldn’t even get a book or play or movie considered if you took that approach.”

“Is this about my writing career?” I hastily tried to change the subject. He was backing me into just such a corner where that kind of theophany would’ve proved useful. “‘Cause I’ve still got a real good shot at finding an agent.”

“You know why writers don’t use that technique anymore?”

He wasn’t going for it. I’d hoped the beer would’ve kicked in and help him jump the tracks onto a new line of thinking. Commenting on my thin chances of making it as a writer was one of Martin’s favorite subjects. At least it felt that way, sometimes. “My little brother,” he’d say. “World famous author. Oh wait! You’re not! How many books have you written now? Five? How many have you had published? Zero! What’s Einstein’s definition of insanity?”

Any moment now I hoped he’d start. Instead, he said again, “Why don’t they use that technique?”

It was not a rhetorical question, and I knew it. His tone demanded an answer. “‘Cause it ain’t realistic,” I mumbled.

“It ain’t realistic. I am not against faith, Peter. I carried a King James Bible with me every time I went into combat. Right here.” He patted his chest. “Wore it over my heart just in case something tore through the Kevlar. And if that bullet wasn’t stopped by my Bible, then at least it would carry its words and embed them in my heart. I can’t think of a better way to die than that.”

I nodded. “You’ve told me.” At least a hundred times.

“I am not against faith. But I am against using faith as an excuse for non-action, as a cover for cowardice.”

“That’s not fair. Just ‘cause I didn’t sign up—”

“I didn’t say that. I ain’t talking about you going in the service. It’s an all volunteer army. You wanted to pursue your ‘writing career.’ Can’t do that when you’re getting shot at, can you?”

I glared at him. He sipped his beer, bemused. Then all levity left his eyes. “I am asking you to consider for a moment whether or not God isn’t waiting for someone to step up and take action. Like Edmund Burke said. ‘All that is required for evil to prosper is for good men to do nothing.’”

“It wasn’t Edmund Burke.”

“Well, who was it?”

I shrugged. “No one really knows. It’s always been attributed to Burke, but no one knows for sure.”

“So he might’ve said it. So what? The question is: are you still gonna do nothing? Are you still gonna wait for your Deus Ex Machina? Or are you finally gonna say ‘enough is enough’, and pick up a weapon to defend what’s right?”

“I’m not saying we should do nothing.”

He stood up and faced me, one hand on his belt, the other holding his beer. Beneath his Cincinnati Reds ballcap, cold blue eyes took my measure, as if weighing whether or not I was even worthy of his time. I felt like our entire relationship hung in the balance. I shivered. He spoke quietly and firmly. “Then what should we do?”

I tried to meet his eyes, but found I could not. I tried a different tack. “Marty, we have elections in this country.” He sneered and walked away, presumably for another beer. “Free and fair elections,” I called to his back. “We’re supposed to be a government of the people, by the people, for the people.” He came back into the room with two beers. He handed one to me. “The people have spoken. Just because we don’t like the results doesn’t mean we have the right to force them to choose otherwise. Freedom to choose must mean the freedom to choose wrong.”

He sat back down, this time on the armrest. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and uncapped his beer. “Ever hear that governments rule by consent of the governed?”

“John Locke.”

“That means that every government is ‘chosen.’” He put ‘chosen’ in quotes with his fingers. “Hitler was ‘chosen’ by the people. They elected a tyrant. Lenin was ‘chosen,’ if only in the sense that the Russian people were sheep, and they ‘chose’ to let him oppress them. King George was ‘chosen,’ or at least until we decided to choose differently, and took up arms against our oppressor. The American people are sheep, Peter. Just dumb sheep! They’ll follow anyone who promises to keep them warm and well-fed. This man we’ve elected is a Marxist. He can’t support and defend the Constitution, ‘cause he doesn’t believe in what the Constitution says. He doesn’t believe in the rights of man. He doesn’t believe in the right to life, ‘cause he kills unborn babies. He doesn’t believe in the right to liberty, ‘cause he wants to take our guns away, which is our very source and protection of that liberty. And he doesn’t believe in the right to property, ‘cause he wants to redistribute the wealth, instead of letting hard-working Americans keep what they earn.”

He rose from the chair and came over close, leaning into me, his eyes searching. I could smell the beer heavy on his breath. “Do you remember what Dad made us memorize?”

“Jefferson.” I shrank from the word, from him.

“He knew this day would come. I’ve thought about this over and over again. I can’t tell you how many times—when they were shooting at me over there—and I’d get back, and I’d hear what those liberals were saying over here. His letter to William Smith.”

“I know it, Marty.”

He quoted it anyway, measuring the words in his tone, making them his own. “‘God forbid we should ever be twenty years without such a rebellion. The people cannot be all, and always, well informed. The part which is wrong will be discontented, in proportion to the importance of the facts they misconceive. If they remain quiet under such misconceptions, it is lethargy, the forerunner of death to the public liberty. And what country can preserve its liberties, if its rulers are not warned from time to time, that this people preserve the spirit of resistance? Let them take arms.’” He beat the window sill with his open palm accenting his point. “‘The remedy is to set them right as to the facts, pardon and pacify them. What signify a few lives lost in a century or two? The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time, with the blood of patriots and tyrants. It is its natural manure.’”

I sighed and pushed away from him, ducking under his outstretched arm. “I-I don’t know, Marty. Assassinating the President? How are we supposed to pull that off?”

He smiled. Satisfied. I realized then he’d won the argument. The questions were no longer theoretical. He put a comforting hand on my shoulder. “Just leave that to me.”

I swallowed the beer, and felt numb.

So there it is. Right now I have about 11,600 words done. It's moving along in what I hope is an exciting direction.

My story The Autographs is also coming along quite well. I have better than 60,000 words on that, and I'm getting closer to finishing it. I'm confident I'll have it done before a year has gone by. Not too shabby, actually. I'd like to be able to crank out at least one book a year. More, if I can stay on task and keep to one novel at a time. Given that I have so many in the works right now, and that I haven't actually given up on any of them, I may be able to do better than that regardless.

Okay, back to work.

Keep Your Fingers Crossed

This past week I went to a book signing by author Thomas Philips here in Penfield, NY. Nice guy. Good chance to discuss writing in general, and Christian fiction in particular. Of course, the entire point of meeting him was to pick his brain about how to break into the world of 'published author,' and also hope, of course, that he'd a) give me good tips or b) give my writing a read and tell me whether or not he thought I was ready.

He told me "It's luck. Getting your work to an agent or editor at the right time, when they are in the right mood to read your submission."

The upshot of it was this: he agreed to take a look at my first chapter, query, and synopsis. After reading them, he said this:

"Hey Michael--

I read it all. I cannot believe no one has picked it up. Smooth, tight writing. The first chapter is wonderful. Gripping. Compelling. The synopsis seems just fine, and I love the query letter.

My suggestion--just keep submitting."

I thoroughly appreciate his comments, if only because it confirms my belief that I'm on the right track here.

But he also told me about how he got published through Whitaker House, and suggested I give them a try. Correspondingly (hah! A pun!), I've sent them a query with my synopsis and first chapter enclosed in the body of the email. I also dropped his name as the source of encouraging me to write them. Hopefully, this will get my toe in the door--and maybe, just maybe, I can break through to published.

Keep your fingers crossed and heads bowed in prayer for me.

Back on the Dole

Once again I find myself filing unemployment. My last gig was a temp job here in Rochester. It came to an end when the company started hiring full time employees who actually have degrees in marketing.

Sigh.

The economy is in the toilet right now. Unemployment is growing. This means there are a lot of qualified people out there looking for work, and who's going to hire an underemployed minister who happens to have computer and typing skills?

I whined to God a bit this morning, something along the lines of "Where are all these blessings I keep reading about? Where are the plans to prosper me and not to harm me? When is this future hope going to be realized?" God's answer was "Don't worry about it. I'm going to take care of you."

And once again I have a choice: do I trust Him? Or do I not trust Him? The question isn't as easy in depth as it is on the surface. The surface answer is: of course you trust Him! He's proven His good character time and time again!

Deeper, though, I find myself pondering His trustworthiness, towards me in particular. It helps to remember my times are in His hands, and a good life isn't about having a good job, a nice home with a white picket fence, and everything wrapped up and handed to me with a nice, neat little bow. I know God will come through for me. Every one of His promises will be fulfilled--if they haven't been already.

But I get so frustrateed when I feel like I'm on the edge of seeing His promises realized, only to find my way is blocked yet again. Ever since coming out here to Rochester, I've felt I was on the very cusp of seeing all my lifelong dreams realized: home of my own, church plant, published author, etc (and no, I don't include family in there for two reasons: a) I already have a family, and b) I don't look at them as a goal to be achieved.). And yet, just as I'm about to reach for the brass ring, I find myself slamming into a glass ceiling, and I can't seem to break through.

I talked to a friend about this yesterday. She suggested--through her own experience--that having your dreams realized can be just as disappointing, when they turn out to be a mirage. But I think I'd rather have that happen, so I can move on, than to keep banging my fist against the glass ceiling trying to get through. At least then there would be some resolution to this.

For now, all I can do is either give up or keep trying.

And if I can help it, I never give up.

Grrr!

The other night I received yet another rejection letter. Sigh. I hate getting the constant rejection letters. The bright spot was this agent said, "you're almost there." That's nice. Smooths the sting out a little bit.

But still. It flat out sucks. Especially when I know The Coppersmith is a good story. Good premise. Good writing. Good beginning, middle, and ending.

I admit I probably haven't written a best seller. What do you want for a first novel? But I know the story is good, and the writing better than a lot of what has been published out there (yeah, I know. This complaint is heard a lot. I can prove it though. Just read Dwellers. You'll see what I mean.).

It's almost as though I can either tone down the Christianity to make the story palatable for secular markets, or tone down the dark suspense to make it palatable for the blue-hairs that Christian agents seem to think comprise the Christian market.

Or, I can try to edit the book to push it past all expectations for a first novel and break new ground. That's appealing, of course, except that I'm tired of trying to rewrite the darn thing. I just want it to be accepted already.

Or, I can just shove it in a drawer (virtual, of course) and fuggedaboutit. Write something else. Try something else. And there's real appeal to this. I think I sorta need to move on. I have too many other stories to write and tell. Putting out another novel will broaden my experience and strengthen my credibility. Not to mention improve my writing through practice. Stephen King was rejected on his first two novels before he broke through with Carrie (if memory serves). That may be the course I have to take.

The Autographs is about half done, by word count. I need to finish it and start trying to publish it right now. And just keep trying. One of these novels is going to break through. There are still more to write.

Busy Writing Day

Well, this has been exciting for me. Got to go and spend a day at Canandaigua Lake with the family today. Took the laptop in lieu of a book, and in the hours under the sun, when I wasn't in the water, I worked steadily on The Autographs (note the new title. I'll explain in a minute). The net result is I finished chapter fourteen and made substantial progress on chapter fifteen, such that I am about a third done. I put in a little more than 1500 words today. Wow. If I did that consistently, I could write a complete novel in two and a half months (taking time off for weekends, of course) ;)

So, the new title: A few weeks ago, while driving south to visit Stony Brook State Park near Dansville, NY, I was thinking about the storyline behind Autograph. Essentially it has revolved around what happens when someone discovers the autograph of St. Paul's letter to the Galatians. Most of the story takes place in Turkey (it's kinda fun, if a little hard, to write about a place I've never been to. Thank God for Google). But I've wanted to develop the story more, see if it couldn't take me to other places as well.

Then the epiphany. What if the scroll they discover in Turkey isn't the autograph itself, but rather a map, or rather a letter or list of some kind that tells of the location of the autographs. The mythology behind this is drawn from 2 Timothy, where Paul tells Timothy, in verse 13, "When you come, bring the cloak that I left with Carpus at Troas, and my scrolls, especially the parchments." I want to suggest Paul himself was compiling a canon, and the scrolls and parchments were the original autographs of what he and possibly some others had written.

Anyway, now I have my characters hopping all over Turkey, Syria, and possibly Lebanon, before coming back to the United States. It's pretty exciting. Additionally, they're taking on their own lives and beginning to do some rather unexpected stuff.

I'm feeling pretty good about this story. I'm looking forward to having the finished draft in my hands.

Writing Sins

I've just come from a rather tumultuous discussion over at the Absolute Writer's forums concerning writing about sin in a Christian book, and I must confess I'm a little troubled by the approach to sin I must sometimes take in my writing, and how I must defend it (the approach, mind you, not the sin) to other believers.

A little theological clarity from me may be in order:

Ahem.

I am a conservative evangelical Christian. I am not a fundamentalist, but a conservative evangelical. I believe the Bible is inspired of God, and that only God gets to dictate what is and what ain't sin.

I believe homosexuality, for example, is sinful, because the Bible says it is. Some people will try to coerce the Bible into saying something it doesn't, or into not saying something it very clearly and (in the case of homosexuality) repeatedly does say. I choose this last sin precisely because I address it in both The Coppersmith and in one of my newest novels, St. Jude, which is excerpted
below.

But when it comes to writing, I believe honesty is the best policy. That being said, I want to write about homosexual characters in a way that depicts them as human beings, not a sinful straw men that I can set up only to knock down to prove some theological point. I want to write about sinful characters being, well, sinful. Sometimes quite comfortably and without any consequence in this world, because that's how the world is.

Doesn't make the sin right or okay. It just depicts it honestly.

In the case of The Coppersmith, I have a maniac running around killing pastors, and one of the pastors he kills is Episcopalian. Some Episcopalians have endorsed homosexuality as "normal," as does the priest my maniac kills. Of course, The Coppersmith isn't going to stand for his endorsement of sin, and so rightly condemns the belief, while at the same time being someone who himself is worthy of condemnation because of his intensely radical legalism.

This might give some people the impression that I endorse sin. Nothing could be further from the truth. I don't endorse sin, I just depict it honestly (and no, I don't go into detailed descriptions of people engaging in sinful acts).

I guess part of the problem, as I see it, in our cultural wars, is the whole us versus them approach the far right and far left are taking with each other.

I see the radical left declaring anyone who believes homosexuality is a sin a homophobic bigot on the same lines as a rascist or a Nazi.

I see the radical right holding up protest signs that say things like "God hates fags," or protesting the funerals of American soldiers because they believe the war on terror is God's judgment on the nation for gays.

It really drives me kinda nuts, you know? I've known homosexuals (not biblically, mind you). I've been friends with them. Do I believe they're sinning? Yep. But I still have the responsibility to love them as Christ loves them. This, I believe, is sharing the Gospel with them. This creates opportunities for me to tell them about right and wrong and the cross without shoving it down their throats.

And the same can be said for any other sin our world endorses but which God's word still says is sin. I believe that, by writing honestly about sinful characters, and by depicting them as human beings first, I can build a bridge of understanding between the non-believer and the Christian worldview. That is the motive behind my writing.

Excerpt from St. Jude

All right, so here it is: the long-promised excerpt from St. Jude. To set up, this is a conversation between a lawyer, Justin Tower, and his wife over morning breakfast. I'll let it roll from there...

“You care more about your paper than you do me.”

He feigned hurt. “That’s not true! How could you think such a thing?”

“It is true.” She ran a finger by her nose, as if wiping a tear.

And so it began. The best advice he gave his clients was this: you’re innocent. Don’t let them make you feel guilty. He practiced it diligently.

“No, Muffin. You know I could never love anything the way I love you.” He held onto the paper.

“That’s not saying much.”

A touch! A palpable touch, he thought. But it was humor. And it was best he quit while he still had the chance. “Well, there you may have a point.” He folded the paper and set it down.

She smiled slightly, obviously not too proud of her victory. “I was saying the Ferguson’s have invited us to dinner on the fifteenth.”

“Oh, Mary. Not the Ferguson’s!”

“Well why not? We hardly see them anymore.”

“Well that’s because John Ferguson always hits me up for advice about his ongoing lawsuit. I told him months ago he should’ve settled out of court.”

“They’ve had a rough time of it.”

“I know. Everyone knows. They’ve made sure of that.”

She took a sip of her coffee. “I’m sure it’s just his way of making conversation.”

“I’m sure it’s just his way of hitting me up for free legal advice. Perhaps I should take up tort. Then we can go to their house for dinner and bill him for it all at once.”

She threw a napkin at him. “You’re incorrigible!”

He didn’t answer. Marilyn watched him pick up the folded newspaper slowly, frowning. He stared down at the article. It was just a small item, barely an announcement.

CONVICTED SEX OFFENDER RELEASED. Wellsleyville, NY. Convicted Sex Offender Jude Potter has been released, according to a statement issued by the New York State Department of Correctional Services. Mr. Potter completed an eight year prison sentence on Thursday. When asked about Mr. Potter’s whereabouts a spokesman for the Department of Corrections declined comment, saying only, “Mr. Potter has been informed of his responsibility to register as a Level II sex offender.”

“What is it, dear?” Marilyn asked.

He said nothing, but tipped up the headline so she could read it. Her eyes flared. She twisted the napkin she held into her fist and glared at him. He shook his head. “It’s not him.”

She released the napkin and fumbled with her coffee before spilling a few drops onto the linen table cloth. The liquid soaked into the white and stained it dark. He set the paper down and came over behind her.

“It never ends.” She glanced up at him and patted his hand. He bent down and kissed her forehead.

“I know.” He sat down next to her. “I’d take it all back if I could.” She said nothing. Both glanced up as their son entered the room.

“Hey Sport,” Justin said. “Good morning.” He quickly folded the newspaper article and set it face down on the table. Marilyn glanced warily at her husband, then met her son’s eyes.

“Mornin’.” Sean Tower leaned over and kissed his mom, and snuck a slice of bacon from her plate.

“I saw that.”

Sean slipped the bacon into his mouth and took a seat between his parents. He helped himself to some of the eggs and pancakes in the center of the table.

“So,” said Justin, “what’s on the docket for today?”

Sean dropped a pat of butter on his pancake and smeared it in. “Don’t know. Thought I’d wing it.”

“Don’t you have practice today?”

“Yeah. I wanted to talk to you ‘bout that.” He dabbed his pancake in the syrup. “I’m—I’m thinking about dropping out.”

Both parents exchanged glances. Justin said, “Why would you want to do that? You love football.”

“I dunno. I’m just not into it.”

“Well, what about going for scholarships? We talked about this. Football can open a lot of doors for you, Sport.”

“I don’t know if I want to go through those doors, though.”

“Well—I still think you should keep your options open. You’re still seventeen, Sean. You’ll think differently when you’re twenty.”

“Dad—”

“Keep the football. Finish out the season. And then we can talk about it over the summer.”

“What’s to talk about? You’re gonna force me to do it.”

“Sean—” Marilyn chided.

“I don’t want to! Why can’t I do what I want to do? It’s my own life!”

A muffled rendition of George Michael’s I Want Your Sex rang from his coat pocket. He reached in and muted the cell phone. “I gotta go.”

“Who was that?”

“Nobody.” He pushed away from the table.

“Was that that Thomas character?”

“What if it was?”

“I don’t like the look of him.”

“You don’t know him. You don’t even know him, and already you judge him. Why? ‘Cause I like to hang out with him? You already control what I do. You gonna control who I hang out with now?”

“Just sit down.” Justin’s voice was firm. Sean shoved another piece of bacon in his mouth and pushed past his father.

“Sean!”

Sean shrugged him off.

“Sean!” He called after him. “You’d better be at practice today!”

There was no answer but the slamming of the front door. Deflated, Justin sank back into his chair. He ran a hand over his mouth. “We’re losing him, Mary. We’re losing him and it’s all my fault.”

“It’s not your fault. He doesn’t blame you, and I don’t either.”

“I blame me. I should never have taken that case.”

“You couldn’t have known. Justin Tower, you are the best defense attorney in the county. Warren Meeks asked you for a favor.”

“I should have turned him down.”

“You were doing your job.”

“My job was to be Sean’s father. And I failed to protect him.”

She was silent for a moment.

“I’m sure this will all work out. He’s just confused right now.”

He stared after his son, his heart aching to chase him down and make it right, but knowing it would only make things worse. “I know,” he said.


Sean flung himself out of the house, feeling the eyes of his parents bore a hole in his back. Why did he have to say anything? Why not just keep his trap shut and head down? Why? Three steps off the porch he turned and pushed his way up the sidewalk. He doubted he could move much faster without breaking into a run.

A familiar face peered back at him from a lithe figure leaning against a tree. A grin spread over his face, and he did break into a run.

“Thomas,” he said. He chugged up next to him.

Tom peered at him from half-lidded eyes. “Hey,” he said. He wore a light shirt under the dark leather jacket Sean had picked out for him last Christmas. It still fit him like a glove. Sean traced the curve of his torso with his eyes, following it down to the blue jeans and worn loafers. He felt overdressed in his varsity jacket, khakis and blue oxford.

“You look good.”

Tom answered by flicking his tongue over his upper teeth and winking. Sean’s pulse quickened. “Come on.”

Tom tossed his head, throwing his reddish bangs out of his eyes. “What? No kiss?”

Sean glanced back nervously. “Not here. ‘Rents.”

Tom snorted. “’kay. I’ll try not to take that personally.” He pushed away from the tree and joined Sean on the sidewalk, letting his left hand fall to where Sean could take it when he felt safe.

Not that he ever would.

Computer Crash!

Oh, this has been a fun week! It started on Tuesday morning, when my laptop began freezing up, then refused to boot up entirely. Mercifully, God resurrected it one last time - enough for me to suck all of My Documents onto the hard drive of my server downstairs - before it crashed and burned for good.

So now I'm writing this on the new church laptop, a rebuilt Acer model I bought for $325. Can't beat the price, but it's been fun reinstalling Windows and all my programs. Up until late last night I didn't even have a sound card driver installed (which is scary, given that we rely on computer generated music for our church on Sundays. No worship leader yet. Got to go MIDI.).

Anyway, I'm still getting used to the new machine, and this is on top of needing to start a new teaching series based on the book of Judges. The weird thing is this computer has one of the new wide screens, which is great, I guess, for video, but still makes everything look kinda squished.

At least I was able to save all the documents. And find all my disks to install needed programs (touch and go there. I almost didn't find the wireless network driver, which would mean no internet, no network, no nothin'!).

Ah well. Gotta love the computer age!

Back to Work!

It has been a busy past week and a half. In addition to now recording our Sunday messages and being able to upload them to the church website, as well as uploading a weekly blog entry on the site, I've also been gearing up for a new series we're doing called The Justice League - a series of character studies from the book of Judges. I'll play off of similarities between some of the more famous Marvel and DC Comics superheroes (no, I'm not going to distinguish between who belongs in which universe. All you comic-book purists can just deal with it!) and some of the more famous Judges from that period of Israel's history.

Additionally, I finally have a job interview! It's a bit less than what I was making at the paper, but assuming I'm hired, I can supplement our income by delivering papers or some other side job until we're able to pay bills through writing and/or church work. At least it's a foot in the door.

And at last, the real reason I've been somewhat absent from my blog and from the forums... (drumroll)... I'm writing! Woohoo!

At this point I am actively working on both St. Jude and Autograph, which I'm enjoying immensely. I've done some more work on the screenplay, but it isn't holding my attention right now the way these two novels are. St. Jude is delightfully dark and moody, and Autograph is fast-paced and fun - kinda like Indiana Jones meets The DaVinci Code. Yes, when it comes time to sell the book, I'll have to find some other comparison. No agent wants to hear a writer say, "My book is the next DaVinci Code." I've heard that a number of times already.

I don't have any earthshaking expectations for Autograph. I'm mostly writing it 'cause it's fun. Yes, it deals with forgiveness and even biblical archaeology, but it doesn't have a larger point to make other than a fun road trip. It's mind candy.

St. Jude, of course, is all about making a point. It's a sermon on grace, without being a sermon, of course. I'll post an excerpt for y'all to take a look at in the near future. As always, feel free to comment on it.

But since the day is short, and since I don't have much of this unexpected vacation left, I'm going to sign off for now and get back to work! Later!

Venting Frustration

I just sent off my third resume of the day. If you haven't picked up on it yet, I've been unemployed for about three months now. God said He would provide for all my needs (Philippians 4:19), so I know we'll be okay, I just don't know when or how. The church isn't able to help out (just a handful of people as it is), but we're getting along fine on unemployment (except that we keep dipping into our savings a little bit each month to make ends meet).

My frustration is this: WHAT DOES IT TAKE TO GET HIRED AROUND HERE?!?!?!?

Ahh. That feels better. I have updated my resume and I've been sending it out to every company imaginable that's looking for administrative or marketing type work (I'm a wiz with the Microsoft Office program group, type 60 wpm, and have spent the last two years working for a major marketing firm here in Rochester). You'd think I could at least score an interview.

And I don't think it's enough to say, "Well, it's a tough economy." There are jobs available. That's why I'm sending the resume. They just ain't calling me! GRrr!

I know, I know. No one has to hire me. A job is something of a privilege (even though it's a necessity as well). And I am making good use of the time otherwise. I've looked into internet marketing (not for me, I think. Can't figure out what to sell or who to sell it to.). I've looked into writing articles (and why does my inspiration always come in the middle of the night? I should really just get up and write the stuff down - except I'd wake the wife), but can't figure out what to write.

What do I want? I want full time ministry again. I want to write and sell my books. In the meantime, I want to be able to work a regular job and feed the kids until one or both of those things takes off and becomes a paying gig.

I just feel like I'm stuck in some kind of box. It's hot and sweaty and kinda cramped, but I can't seem to get out. I keep praying, "Hello?! I know You're out there, God! Can I come out now?" But the box remains shut.

...to top it all off, I'm outta coffee....

Okay, now that's just cool!

This has been an exciting day.

Umm... (disclaimer:) for those of you with any tech saavy at all, please don't laugh...

I just figured out how to add links to my website for church. Don't go all "Duh!" on me now. Wait a second.

See, I built the website in PowerPoint. I don't know enough html to build it from scratch so I use a what-you-see-is-what-you-get type interface to make it look like how I want it to look. PowerPoint probably isn't the best choice (I downloaded a freeware version I found, but I can't figure the darn thing out), but it works for me.

The problem has been putting files and blog and audio files and such up, as I haven't been able to figure out how to make the links point to the proper file on my web server.

Today at last!

So anyway, now I have a second blog up and running off of my church website. You can visit it here: www.crosswalkcoc.com, and just use the link in the upper right corner to go to the blog. I'll be updating weekly with the various ramblings I usually subject my church to each Sunday.

Gotta go eat dinner now before prayer meeting. Later!

New Story Idea

So my wife had a dream last night - nightmare, actually. In the nightmare, she said I was a serial killer (go figure), and that I had been hiding bodies in the basement, and eventually, the detritus from their decay began to seep out onto the floor, which is how she kept finding the bodies.

She tells me the dream this morning, and I instantly think, "What a good idea!"

No, not the killing people part and hiding them in the basement. Bad idea. Bad, bad!

No, the part about a wife discovering her husband is a serial killer. What if a woman is married, and after becoming a Christian, begins to 'hear God warning her about her husband.' Everyone else suspects she's crazy, schizophrenic. She's starting to wonder herself. Meanwhile, she keeps discovering more evidence that her husband might, in fact, be a serial killer.

Anyway, I've decided to call this particular book Revelation. Don't worry, I'll still keep working on the other stories I have.

See, this is why I think I'm really supposed to do this. I keep getting new story ideas all the time. I have so many stinkin' ideas right now, I have no idea when I'll find the time to write them all. But I'll keep at it.

Anyway, this will be a fun way to explore the difference between hearing God's voice and going crazy (and isn't it wonderful how our modern culture assumes that if you talk to God, you're a saint, but if God talks to you, you're crazy.).

Meanwhile, this will be deliciously dark and foreboding. Another theme to touch on will be the contrast between Biblical submission, the quasi-religious cultural version of submission which is really suppression, and the modern cultural response of "liberation" which only produces chains instead (naw, I'm not thinking literally here. Too easy).

I'm inspired by my wife's nightmares. B-yoo-ti-full!

Further Along

So last night (well, actually a good part of yesterday) I buckled down on my screenplay Age of Reason, and managed to push out another fifteen pages or so of writing. I'm rather pleased with myself right now, thank you very much.

The only problem I see with the story at the moment is that the movie will be too short. I'm told you can expect about one minute of film per page of screenplay. I will have about 60 pages as the outline stands currently. An hour is respectable, but not enough. I was hoping for a decent hour and a half.

I don't want to pad the movie unnecessarily, but this has caused me to wonder what else in the story line needs further development. I don't want the story to go off track from the main thrust, and yet I think I can probably accomplish both ends by showing how the crisis of faith has affected more people than just two families.

In fact, I just realized I have two additional characters (one of whom serves as an antagonist) for whom I've shown practically no developing scenes whatsoever. Now I just have to figure out what to write and how to weave it into the outline.

I've been using a USScriptSmart Gold template for Microsoft Word for the screenplay. It's useful in that it helps with the formatting while being completely free of charge (hey, I'm still essentially unemployed. Free is very important to me). The downside is that it makes inserting anything new into the script very difficult, as it doesn't automatically adjust for page breaks. I'll have to spend a significant amount of time reformatting this document once it's done to satisfaction. Oh well. Someday (when I have money to spend) I'll invest in a decent screenwriting software program.

In the meantime, I'm just about better than half done. Cool. Soon, I'll just have to worry about selling the script. Woohoo.

Excerpt from Age of Reason

Okay, this is something completely different. I've been working on a screenplay I'm calling Age of Reason for a few months now. It's a totally different way of writing. In this story, a researcher in Israel believes he has found the ossuary of Jesus (yes, I know about the James Cameron fiasco movie). The bones in the box have been crucified, and DNA testing has revealed a match to blood taken from the Shroud of Turin.

A TV special has revealed all this to the general public, and now the members of a local church are dealing with the wreckage to their faith. The whole movie hinges upon Paul's statement in 1 Corinthians 15:14, 19 "If Christ has not been raised, our preaching is useless, and so is your faith.... If only for this life we have hope in Christ, we are to be pitied more than all men."

So here is the excerpt:

INT. CHURCH CONFERENCE ROOM - NIGHT
Pastor Tom, HARRY LAWSON, and KEN JOHNSON are seated around a conference table in a heated discussion. Tom’s face is drawn and worried. Harry Lawson is a compassionate, middle-aged man with thinning hair. He is dressed casually. Ken Johnson is slightly older, with silver hair and an intense expression. He wears a white collared shirt with a loosened tie and the sleeves rolled partway up. The room is an adult classroom in the church. They each have a pad of paper and pens in front of them, on which they occasionally scribble notes.

KEN JOHNSON
This whole thing is nothing but a sham! People have got to see through this.

HARRY LAWSON
Ken, I know what you’re saying. And I’m inclined to agree with you. But I think we need to address the question: what if it’s not?

KEN
I can’t believe you just said that--

TOM BOSWELL (INTERRUPTING)
Hang on, Ken.

KEN (CONTINUING)
I mean, where is your faith?

HARRY (TERSELY)
My faith is right where it’s always been. But I won’t deny for a moment it’s taken a thrashing tonight.

TOM (TRYING TO PACIFY THEM)
At this point we don’t know--

KEN (INTERRUPTING)
Oh yes, we do!

TOM (GLARES AT KEN)
We don’t know how people are going to react to this. And we need to formulate a response. But we need to respect the fact that people are going to be struggling with it.

HARRY
That’s what I’ve been saying!

KEN
I don’t disagree that people are going to be struggling with this. That’s precisely why we need to be rock-solid in our response. They need to see we are steady in our faith, that we’re not shaken by this

(beat)
fallacy!

Tom and Harry exchange glances. Neither looks as confident as Ken claims to be.

INT. BOSWELL BEDROOM – NIGHT.
It is dark. Tom has changed into pajamas and is now slipping into bed next to his wife. He lies down, facing away from her.
Camera cuts to her side of the bed, where she is still wide awake. During their conversation, camera continues to switch between their two sides.

DIANE
How’d it go tonight?

TOM
You’re still awake?

DIANE
Can’t sleep.

TOM
Ah. Things went about as well as could be expected, I suppose. Ken’s all over it. Calls the whole thing a hoax. Harry’s not sure what to think.

DIANE
And you?

TOM (HESITANT)
I don’t know. Just kinda numb, I guess. I don’t know what to think. I want to look into it more, see what’s behind it all.

(beat)
Thing is, I just can’t chuck my faith ‘cause of one TV special.

(beat)
On the other hand....

DIANE (AFTER A MOMENT)
On the other hand what?

TOM
I just can’t figure out why God is doing this to us. I understand a test of faith. I get that. But this? This just seems a little-I don’t know-over the top. It leaves me to wonder.

DIANE
What?

TOM
Whether or not God is doing it. What if it’s not God? What if He’s not even there?

Diane doesn’t respond. On her side of the bed, we see her begin to cry.

Another Coppersmith Excerpt

This one is a bit darker, less action oriented. I think it nicely sums up what I consider dark, edgy Christian fiction to be. I'd love to hear your feedback on it.

Marshall opened his eyes, staring momentarily at the swirling pattern on the ceiling and the paisley design that covered the walls. He listened for a moment, hearing nothing but the twittering of birds outside. Pale light illumined the silk curtain that cascaded in graceful folds from the top of the window to the floor. A digital clock on the nightstand said 9:17 a.m. He pulled the comforter off his naked body and sat up, looking around. Nothing was familiar. The dresser, bedposts and nightstand were all polished maple. A collection of jewelry boxes, hair brushes and pill bottles occupied most of the top of the dresser. Set near the clock with its glaring digits was a half-completed sampler. Throwing his feet over the bedside, he felt the cold, hardwood floor smooth against his soles as he stood up.

He walked to the closet, pulling the bifold doors open to reveal a packed collection of dresses, blouses, shirts, pants, and skirts. On a hook on the side was a fuzzy pink bathrobe. He pulled it out and slipped into it. The bathrobe barely reached his knees, left most of his forearms exposed, and smelled of stale perfume. But at least it was warm. Leaving the bedroom, he went to the bathroom and relieved himself, then down the hall to the living room and kitchen. The house was quiet, but its unfamiliarity and traditional décor made him feel unwelcome, as if the very structure were crying out, protesting his intrusion, his violence.

He entered the kitchen and searched until he found a can of coffee stored in the freezer and the internal apparatus to an electric percolator. The filters eluded him, so he settled for a paper towel from the rack under the cabinet. He prepared half a pot of coffee, plugged it in, and listened as the water began to churn from the heat. From the bread box he grabbed a couple of slices for toast, and found some eggs and butter in the refrigerator. Soon he’d whipped himself up a plate of eggs over-easy, toast and coffee.

As he enjoyed his breakfast he became aware of another smell mingling with the taste of his eggs. Reluctantly he put down the fork and entered the living room. She lay still on the couch, eyes closed and sunken. Her face showed distinct bruising from where he’d punched her. The color of her skin was pale, almost gray. A distinct, malodorous aroma lingered about her frame.

Marshall crouched down in front of her and sipped his coffee, trying not to breathe through his nose. He was repulsed and drawn. This was the first time he’d ever been this close to a dead body. Even the pastors he’d judged hadn’t died right away.

Most of them were so wounded by their trial they died soon after. But even for the one or two who’d died immediately at his hand, he’d never stuck around long enough to appreciate it.

The elegance of death.

It was really quite beautiful.

The Levitical code forbade him from touching a corpse. He was beginning to understand why. Something so serene, so sacred, should never be violated by human contact. It occurred to him that he’d handled her body last night when he’d laid her on the couch. He wondered if it made him unclean. Odd he’d never considered it before.

“No,” he whispered. “Surely not. It was too soon. The life is in the blood, and her blood had not yet left her.”

Nothing defiled him.

He rose to his feet and returned to his breakfast, opening a window to release the smell.

It grew worse through the day.

Marshall took a shower, and took care of his laundry in her washer and dryer. He redressed. He watched T.V. He made himself lunch.

Flies collected on the woman, crawling about her face and in through her nose and open mouth.

As the day grew long he returned to check on her, fascinated by the macabre progression of decay. Another thought entered his mind, one too compelling to dismiss.

It was the finality of it. The absolute, irrevocable inevitability of death. The way of all flesh to stop breathing, grow cold, and dissolve.

Perhaps that’s all there was. Nothing more. Nothing hereafter.

He pushed it to one side. Focused on the mundane tasks of the day. The Sabbath drew to a close. He washed up the dishes, although he didn’t know for whom. He made the bed and straightened up from the night before as best as he could, though it bordered on work.

What if there was nothing more?

He concentrated on what he was doing, forcing the thoughts away from his mind. There was life after death. There just had to be. Otherwise….

Otherwise it was all for nothing.

He shook his head. What did he know to be true? He knew that Jesus had raised himself from the dead. He had the power to do so through his perfect obedience to the law of God. Marshall would do the same. Would earn the power of resurrection. As Jesus himself said, “Many are called, but few are chosen.”

He was chosen. He would not be subject to the slow decay of years. He would rise again.

Unless.

He rushed to the living room, staring at the corpse on the couch. The woman before him might be an augury of his own future.

Could God be so cruel?

Congratulations to CFOM!

Kudos to Michelle Sutton at Edgy Christian Fiction Lovers and the Christian Fiction Blog Alliance on the launch of their new online magazine! I'm looking forward to signing up for it!

Saint Jude

For some reason, I needed to create the cover art for Saint Jude.

I know, I know, the author rarely, if ever, gets to choose the cover art for a novel. This is really just for my benefit, to remind me of what I'm working on. I may end up designing possible covers for a number of my novels, if only so when I print them out to share with a critique group, I'll have something cool to look at instead of a plain white page. That's why I made a cover for The Coppersmith.

I'll be working a bit on chapter two tonight. Chapter one ended a little further into the story than my outline anticipated, but I don't think it'll mess me up too much. I hope to have better than 6,000 or even 7,000 words by the time I hit the hay.

Later!

Call Me Scatter-Brained

It's a quiet night. The kids are tucked into bed. My wife is upstairs reading a novel, and I'm downstairs contemplating a bowl of ice cream before we watch a rented flick. Tomorrow is Sunday. I'll be preaching on trusting each other. The thrust of my message is that we can pretty much trust each other to mess up in our relationships, but we should choose to be vulnerable anyway as an act of love.

I've started yet another new book. I'm beginning to suspect what I've known for a long time. I have a hard time finishing novels. This time I'm working on Saint Jude. Saint Jude is the story about what happens when an ex-con, a convicted pedophile in this case (I tried to imagine the worst possible sin I could), moves back home and wants to start attending church. It'll be an interesting contrast in grace versus law, I think. I'm not sure about the beginning just yet, but I'll keep working on it. At the moment I have 5,136 words.

So here are the stats:
Topheth - 27,910 words
Jezebel - 6,486 words
Autograph - 24,475 words
The Novem - 26,289 words

Gee, if I'd have just concentrated on one book, I'd have (gets calculator) 90,296 words. A second finished novel in addition to The Coppersmith. My only consolation is that if I keep this up (and don't add any more new novels!) I'll be able to knock out a series of books to sell in a short period of time. I don't know if that will be a good thing or not.

On the other hand, I prefer to spend time working on multiple stories. I can switch back and forth whenever I get stuck or bored, and keep writing without any real issues with writer's block. Oh well. As long as I'm enjoying the process.

Excerpt from The Autograph

This is an excerpt from The Autograph, a story I'm currently working on. It's a little long, but I hope you like it.

“Brother Demetri, your garden looks well.”

Demetri Antonescu turned to his unexpected guest, surprised and somewhat pleased to have a visit from the Abbot. He immediately grit his teeth against the surge of pride forming in his heart, and fought for an appropriately humble reply.

“It is the blessing of the Lord that makes it so. He sends the sun and rain, and gives the increase to these simple tomato plants.” He fingered a leaf on one of the plants, then picked up his clipping shears and snipped off a large, round tomato from the vine. He held it up for the Abbot. The Abbot took it with a smile.

“You tend it with a faithful hand, Brother.”

“Thank you, Father.” The sun was bright today, and the breeze blew fresh from the Aegean over the peninsula, gently caressing the leaves in his garden and filling his heart with a warm contentment. “It is my task.” He turned back to the tomato plants.

“I have another for you.”

Demetri paused, hand still holding the clipping shears. There was something in the Abbot’s voice that quelled the peace in his heart. His fingers tightened on the shears, and for a moment it felt familiar, reminding him of the gun. He set the clippers down and stood to face the monk. Drawn to his full height of six foot two, two hundred and twenty pounds, he towered over the smaller Abbot, and in his black cassock and brimless kamilavkion cut an intimidating figure. In his previous life in the Romanian Securitate, he could take a man like the Abbot and send him to God with a single strike to the Adam’s apple, or heart, or any of a dozen other vital targets on the human body. Such thoughts troubled him now, and why he should have them toward his spiritual mentor—a man who had shown him nothing but kindness—filled him with sorrow. He’d come to the holy mountain two years after Comrade Supreme Commander Nicolae Ceauşescu’s execution in Târgovişte on Christmas Day 1989. It had been almost twenty years since he’d taken a life. He’d spent a decade reliving the faces of those he’d killed, his willfully deaf ears now awake to their pleading. He hated himself for the monster he’d become, and he marveled at the grace of a God who could forgive such a man as he. His spiritual training at Mount Athos purged him of the nightmares he’d earned enforcing the Romanian dictator’s will. But there was a deeper training, one ingrained from a generation of hunting down dissidents and foreign operatives which rose to the surface now. There was something in the Abbot’s voice which called to it.

“How may I serve?” he asked, praying to God his instincts were wrong.

The Abbot smiled, oblivious to his torment, and invited him inside the skete. Demetri swallowed, staring up at the thatched roof and cinder block walls of the skete. It had been his home for more than a decade, but now it felt foreign. A fragment of scripture trailed through his mind. ‘Eu sînt străin şi venetic printre voi.’ ‘I am an alien and a stranger among you.’ The three pillars of monastic life were poverty, chastity, and obedience. He’d willingly given up material possessions to serve God. He’d never had much to begin with. Long ago he’d lost interest in sex, except for the occasional indiscretion. Here on the holy mountain women were forbidden, and he deliberately allowed the feel of a woman’s body to fade from his memory. And obedience? His years in the Securitate taught him to obey without question—a virtue here on the mountain.

And yet, he hesitated. The Abbot poked his head out of the skete, a puzzled look on his face. Demetri fondled the clippers, then flipped them in his hand so he clutched the sharpened blades, with the handles pointed safely downward. He ducked through the door and set them in their place on the shelf, next to his Romanian Bible and book of prayer.

The Abbot swung the teapot over the coals of the fire pit in one corner, tossing a few more briquettes into the glow and stirring it with the simple poker by the hearth. Demetri picked up a pair of cups from the shelf and set them on the low table by the only window in the skete, draping a single tea bag in each one. The Abbot took his seat across from Demetri, leaving him the chair closest to the door. He sat with his back to it, trying not to feel uncomfortable.

“Where to begin?” said the Abbot, folding his hands. “Are you familiar with the Domo tou Bibliou?”

Demetri furrowed his brow. He’d heard of it, once or twice in idle conversation—speculation among the monks about relics yet uncovered. Always it was dismissed as a legend, on par with those who sought the Holy Grail.

“It is a myth,” he replied.

“It has been found.”

He laughed nervously. “Surely, Father, you have made a joke—a story to play sport with me.”

The Abbot poured his tea. He looked at Demetri from over the kettle, his eyes veiled by the steam. “Dear Brother, I would not trifle with you. The legend of the Domo is true. This most holy relic was entrusted to a simple priest by the Bishop Crescens, before he left to join his brothers in glory at the hand of the pagan Caesar Trajan. The priest carried the secret with him to the grave. Even his name has been forgotten. But in nineteen centuries of sleep he did not fail to keep this sacred trust—until now. A week ago the Protus learned an unbeliever has disturbed his rest.”

“The crypt has been found?”

“It has.”

“Then it is lost?”

“No brother,” the Abbot shook his head. “The Lord has smitten the unbeliever. But the man was an archaeologist and would have told others of his discovery. We must protect it, my friend.”

Demetri stopped in the act of sipping his tea. He swallowed and set the cup down. His instincts had been right. “You wish me to leave the mountain.” It was a statement, not a question.

The Abbot sighed. “We have prayed about this mightily, my friend. There is no one else here who possesses the skills needed to accomplish this great work.”

“Skills?” he stared down at his hands. “Father, do you know what it is you are asking of me? To go back to that life? To become that which I have crucified? Eighteen years I have tried to forget these ‘skills!’” He put his head in his hands, trying to flush the memories from his eyes. “Long ago I beat my sword into a plow. Please do not ask me to remake it.”

The Abbot rose and came around the table to place a kindly hand on the monk’s shoulder. “Dearest Brother, we would never ask such a thing. And if you do not wish this assignment, someone else may go. Someone far less likely to succeed, I am afraid, and perhaps at greater cost.”

Demetri turned and looked hard at the Abbot. “Who?” he asked. There were more than sixteen hundred monks in the twenty monasteries of Mount Athos. He knew of none who could do what the Abbot proposed.

“Consider this, my friend, with all that you are, and all that you once were, whether or not you were saved for such a time as this. Perhaps it is God’s will.”

God’s will. He folded his hands and rested his chin on them. So much he had tried to forget. Could it be? Might God even redeem his past for His service? His eyes wandered to the window. Outside the sun shone on the leaves and trees—a field of green rushing endlessly down to the perfect, forgetful blue of the Aegean Sea. Maybe he wouldn’t have to be the man that he was. Maybe this time would be different. He turned around and looked up at the Abbot who leaned against the doorframe, watching him with silent, patient eyes. When Demetri spoke, his voice was even and smooth—a ready soldier willing to lay down his life for his Captain.

“What would you have me do?”

Standing for Truth in a Truthless Age

"What is truth?"

It's one of those questions I wish Jesus had answered Pilate verbally, rather than simply standing there in front of him, giving him the opportunity to see the One Who Is Truth before Him.

I believe fully in the principle that Jesus Is Truth. He is the definition of truth, the One Who defines truth and falsehood, right and wrong, life and death, by the fact of His very being.
But we live in a generation that has forgotten about truth. And in many situations, has gleefully forgotten about Facts as well.

It's frustrating as someone who's been trained in the modern school of apologetics, which focused on demonstrating the truthfulness and factualness of Scripture and the claims of Christ against those who declared them to be untrue and non-factual. There are a host of arguments ready-made for this sort of discussion (with big fancy names like The Ontological Argument, the Cosmological Argument, the Teleological Argument, the Historical Argument, etc) gathering dust in a drawer somewhere, because the battle has shifted away from the familiar turf of "What is real or true?" to the far less familiar turf of "what is entertaining or at least interesting?"

Indeed, the most pressing question on the minds of Post-modern Americans today has less to do with what is true or factual than it does with whether or not something is an interesting belief or story. The frontline in the cultural war has to do with Making A Good Impression. I am convinced Americans have fallen prey to all kinds of disinformation, distortions, propaganda, and outright falsehood only because the fiction is told with a little more flash and flare than the facts.

And yet, if this is where the battle is now to be fought, then it is also where Christians have the best chances of winning. If only because we have the best stories to tell.

Part of the problem, though, is that we've allowed our stories to become obscured by the passage of time. We've lost the sense of passion, the color and wonder such stories once engendered, and like the images of the Sistine Chapel above, the beauty of the stories has been marred.

I believe this is where the Christian fiction writer has an opportunity to present these stories again. We can change the names of the characters, the settings, the events, and so forth--but stay true to the themes in the best possible way--and if we do so, we can tell a better story of Truth than can possibly be imagined by anyone else.

My prayer is that God will so expand our imagination that the best stories come forward, and we can win the battle of the impression as well.

A Dose of Hard Reality

Time for some numbers. Why? Because like a lot of writers, I want to be able to make a living from my novel writing. So what's it gonna take?

Here are the numbers. A single sale on Bookhabit nets me about $1. If I sold my books through Parus Press, at $15 per hard copy, I would retain about 7% from each sale - or $1.05.

In other words, I get about a buck from every book. That's a real easy number to remember.

But if I want to make a living doing this... yeah, that's a lot of books to sell. Per year.

I can try to write one bestseller, or I can try to write many books that might do okay. If I can sell better than 10K per book per year, then I have a shot at making a living this way. Otherwise, it just won't happen.

Of course I'm going for it! What kind of question is that? I just want to be upfront about what it will take. I have so many stinkin' novels in me I have to write them, and the more I'm able to write and put out there, the greater chance I have of selling more of all of it. But that's what it will take.

Yeah, there are a lot of easier ways to make a buck. That's not why I'm doing this. I'm doing it because I love writing - and who wouldn't want to get paid for doing what they love?

Balance

So now I'm active in at least three forums (which is a drop in the bucket, of course), and I'm getting emails throughout the day responding to various comments I might leave in different locations. Hmm...

Not much writing getting done.

I took some time the other day and worked a bit on Autograph. I have my doubts about finishing it (although I think sheer stubborness will win out), if only because I haven't really found myself liking the book so far. I like the concept, and I even like the story I came up with in my outline. Just not the writing. It isn't even style or grammar. I just don't like it that much yet.

I'm going to give it some time, though. I may yet find the story's voice.

The real difficulty in balance is in having so many conflicting priorities. I have to look for a steady job (which is irksome, 'cause I'd rather get paid to be me - or at least to write). I have ministry to do (I don't get paid for that usually. I have a little support coming in, but nothing to live on). And, of course, my wife wants my expertise on putting together her homeschooling reports. Sigh.

I know that sometime today I will be prayer walking the neighborhood. I'm convinced this is how God wants me to gather His people together - if only because nothing else has worked!

And maybe part of the problem is having so many stories I want to write - stories I have started and just not been able to finish yet. Heck, I have more of them coming to mind all the time.

Unfortunately, there's no magic wand I can wave to make this all happen. I have to work at it all slowly and steadily, all the while acknowledging that none of this may go anywhere except for my harddrive. On the other hand, the truth is I'm not really writing for everyone else. I write because I want to. I tell the stories I'm interested in.

And I remain confident that all of this is going to make sense - even bear fruit at some future date.

I planted a garden the other day. We have these woods and underbrush behind our house. I cleared away about 60 square feet, tilled the soil, and planted about seven rows of corn. I'm told most people don't succeed with corn. I just about broke my lower back working with the shovel and rake (no pick axe or motorized equipment. Just a shovel and rake), not to mention the blisters on each hand. I've also contracted a nice bout of poison ivy all up my hands and arms (should've seen that coming.).

And now I have this barren patch of earth behind my house. The seeds are in the ground. It's good soil. The sun is shining, and the rain falls. And in about two months time, I might see some corn. Right now I just get to trust that all my hardwork and pain will pay off.

Now my wife wants me to plant some squash...

Excerpt from The Coppersmith

Okay, so since I keep talking about The Coppersmith in this blog and on various forums so much, I thought I'd give you an excerpt from one of my favorite chapters. Enjoy!

He stared over the surface of Onondaga Lake, marking the small whitecaps as the wind pressed against the water, shoving it repeatedly against the shore like some abusive step-dad. Ahead he saw the white facing of the Carousel Mall, its teal roof and spire pushing ahead into the air, the kitsch steeple of a mega church to consumerism. The city of Syracuse sprawled out to the right toward the end of the lake, a vast display of commercial and industrial warehouses decaying through time and disuse. Deeper in, the city showed signs of life and urban renewal, especially in the inner city near Clinton Square and the various government buildings, and also in Armory Square, with its bars and cafés appealing to the student body of Syracuse University. But the residential side streets of south Syracuse were garbage strewn and graffiti stained, graphically highlighting the street gang problem city officials had long denied. The city’s renaissance was less a rebirth than a refusal to die completely. A combination of political maneuvering and inherent cynicism stifled the entrepreneurial ambitions of even the most ardent developers. The consequence was the city, like many in the United States, lay exhausted on the ropes of twenty-first century progress, not willing to concede the bout, but unable to score a knock-out either.

He breathed in, filling his lungs. The vague fishy smell of the lake mingled with the cool dampness of the air. A storm was on its way, probably lake effect sweeping down from Ontario in one of its frequent reminders of the great lake’s presence to the northwest. A small prayer of unknown tongues slipped through his lips, and the interpretation that pressed itself upon his mind was thanksgiving for the weather. The storm would hold out long enough for him to accomplish his mission. Torrents of cleansing rain would wash away the evidence of his passing and obscure his retreat. Slipping his hands inside the fingers of the work gloves, he stepped in the boat and examined his cargo.

Pastor John Ellingworth glared at him from where he sat in the bow, not quite as fearful as he’d been when Marshall first tackled him in the lavatory at the Full Gospel church on Salina Street, but not confident, either. He was secured across his ankles, knees, arms, and hands with duct tape. A final piece was fastened across his mouth. He continued to work at the tape with his jaw and tongue, but it showed little signs of loosening. Marshall had pressed his hands together and wrapped them in tape. A mocking posture of prayer. He further strapped them both across his neck and behind his knees with several layers of tape. It kept his hands in an uplifted position but prevented him from standing up.

Marshall inspected the bindings, then patted him on the head while he returned to the stern. He sat down beside the motor and filled the tank from the gas can on the floor of the boat. He took what remained of the gas and began sloshing it liberally around the deck and sides of the boat, pouring a generous portion over the top of Pastor John’s head. John squealed beneath his tape. He leaned to one side, examining the water.

“Go ahead,” Marshall said to him. He sat bolt upright. “I really don’t care if you drown here or drown there, heretic. But it’d be nice if you’d stay with me a little bit longer.” He fired up the motor and grinned. “Helps with the message, you see.”

John sank back down in his seat as the boat moved away from the pier. A shout caused them both to turn their heads. On shore, not a hundred feet away, a man ran toward them, pointing. Marshall’s breath came out in a sudden laugh as he gunned the motor, driving the boat into deeper water. John eyes went wide, fixed on the figure on shore, his nostrils flaring with every breath, unmindful of the acrid fumes that penetrated his nasal cavities. He glanced at Marshall, the corners of his eyes creased in what could only have been a grin. Marshall wanted to reach forward and slap the grin off his face, but to do so would require letting go of the tiller, and the boat would stall. He settled for glaring at him menacingly, and ignoring the weakening shouts of the man on shore.

John’s eyes reverted back to the shoreline, squinting under the burning of the fuel that dripped on his eyelids. The man pulled out a cell phone and talked into it, watching the boat disappear in the waves.

Soon they were in deeper water, though the shoreline was visible in all directions. John found the gasoline had loosened the glue of the duct tape, and by rubbing his face against his shoulder and the tips of his fingers, the flap of tape peeled away. It fell from his mouth, still clinging to the other side of his face. He rubbed the other cheek, but it hung there resolutely.

“You won’t get away with it,” he said.

Marshall glanced up, studying the pastor a moment. He shrugged.

“That guy on shore had a cell phone. He’s called the cops. You know they’re coming.”

“You’re probably right.”

“What do you think they’ll do to you when they catch you?”

Marshall smiled and looked away before answering. “It doesn’t matter what happens to me. This isn’t about me.”

“What is it about?”

“This is about what my Lord requires. I am merely the Lord’s instrument, dealing out justice to his enemies, and wrath upon those who prophesy falsely in his name. Whether he wishes me to stop now or see his gospel to completion is up to him. But I will not stop until he takes me.”

“Listen,” said John, “you don’t have to do this. You-you could find someone else. Just put me down on shore and get away before they find you. You could try again later, when they’re not watching.”

Marshall felt the urge to vomit rise in his throat. Worm, he thought. He said nothing.

John pressed his lips together. A twinge of conscience quietly informed him he was encouraging someone else to die in his stead. He angrily shoved the thought to one side. He was only trying to buy some time! If he could convince this lunatic to see reason, he could give the cops a complete description. He knew his face, his car, everything. They’d catch him before he hurt anyone else. Please, God! Jesus, please make him believe me!

“Is that what you’d like me to do then?” said Marshall. “Take you to the docks?”

John’s breath caught in his throat. Oh God, yes! Thank you, Jesus! He nodded his head. “Yes! Please.”

Marshall looked away, a small smile spreading across his lips. “Perhaps you’re right,” he said.

He angled the boat toward the end of the lake and pushed the throttle to full. John turned his head to see where they were going. Over the sound of the boat’s motor he heard another sound, loud and throbbing. Both he and Marshall looked up when a helicopter passed overhead. The chopper circled and came back, settling down low over the lake. A uniformed policeman put a bullhorn to his lips and shouted through it, “Shut down your engine and put your hands on your head!”

John stared at the helicopter, watching it grow larger as the boat sped toward it. His captor showed no signs of slowing down. John turned again in time to see Marshall hold up a large muzzled gun and point it at the helicopter.

“No!” he cried as his eyes were seared by a blinding flash of light. A glowing ball of pink flame arc toward the aircraft. The aircraft lurched in mid air and spun on its axis. The tail rotor whipped around ninety degrees. The copter barely missed the flare that whizzed toward them. In a second, the boat sped under the helicopter. John turned back to watch it. He saw Marshall reloading the flare gun with one hand. The other firmly grasped the tiller of the boat. With a gurgled cry he flung himself at Marshall. Marshall rose in one fluid motion and lashed out at his forehead, palm holding the weapon. It smashed into his face.

John’s vision exploded into a dizzying array of light. For a moment he thought the flare gun had gone off in his face. Then his vision cleared. He stared at the azure vault of the sky. The endless blue was broken by a dark bar that passed above him, then blue again. He blinked. His face throbbed with pain. The coppery taste of his own blood mingled with gasoline seeped past his lips to assault his tongue. He was on the bottom of the boat, and they’d just passed under a bridge. Behind them, closing fast, came the helicopter. Ahead, another bridge loomed. A green sign hung across it said Hiawatha Boulevard.

They were coming to the inner harbor. He pushed himself into a sitting position. His whole face ached. He was certain his nose was broken. Behind them, the helicopter came in closer, then inexplicably it rose again. In the distance the flashing lights of several police cars converged on the harbor. The second bridge flashed overhead, and the helicopter came down again, almost on top of them. Marshall glanced up to watch it for a moment, then back down at the man who cowered near his feet. “Don’t you just love being out on the water?” he exclaimed.

John blinked his eyes in disbelief. This guy was really nuts. Turning around again, he saw the final bridge before the harbor coming up fast. Bear Road, he thought. He looked back.

Marshall crouched on the boat’s aft bench. He winked at the pastor. “It’s time to pay for your sins, Paulist!” he said. John furrowed his brow. “I convict thee of breech of the holy Sabbath, teaching heresy, and blasphemy against the Most High God!”

Marshall rose partway to his feet as they neared the bridge. He pointed the gun at John. “No! No, wait!” John cried.

“And I sentence thee to death!”

The flare exploded from the gun, and Marshall leaped backward off the boat just as it passed under the bridge. The fuel caught fire. Pastor John Ellingworth quickly knew the searing heat of the Coppersmith’s judgment. He screamed.

What everyone else saw was a fiery craft of roiling black smoke careening toward the harbor. It veered toward the right as it chopped across the waves. It struck bow first into the pilings along the pier. The stern of the boat lifted clean out of the water, catapulting a flaming figure toward the wall before crashing down again. The body slammed against the wall with a resounding thud. It dropped straight down, disappearing beneath the water. The half-empty gas can exploded first, rocketing into the air, followed by the louder boom of the gas tanks themselves. Pieces of debris flew high up before dropping back down to land and water.

As rescuers dove into the water to recover what was left of Pastor Ellingworth, a slender form crawled out of the water beneath the Bear Road Bridge. He ran a hand over his forehead, pushing the water out of his eyes. He watched the glorious display of God’s power before climbing up the embankment beneath the bridge. He stripped off his coat and jeans and stuffed them in the plastic bag he’d kept in his pocket before stepping out into the sunshine. He climbed up the embankment to the sidewalk above.

“What was that?!”

He turned to the voice. A young man about his own age stared at the remains of the boat. “I dunno,” he said. “Looks like some crazy fisherman caught himself on fire and blew up his boat.”

The kid glanced at him. “What happened to you?”

He looked at his jogging shorts and T-shirt, still soaking wet. “Yeah. The explosion. I freaked out and fell in!”

“Wow.”

“Yeah, I gotta go change.”

“Peace.”

Platform Building Time!

Well, I've been pleasantly surprised by the amount of interest generated both from this blog and from posting on a couple of forums. I've found three so far that have been helpful in networking:

Absolute Write Forum
Christian Writers Forum
and Edgy Christian Fiction Lovers

My next couple of steps will be to write some brief classified ads and post them on Craigslist, USFreeAds, and ClickCity, among others.

Finally, I'll start writing articles and then interviews for various article sites like Squidoo, among others.

I want to be very upfront about all of this. I am attempting to build an audience. Hopefully, some will want to buy the book (currently available through bookhabit, but I'm seeking a publishing house as well), and we'll be able to go from there. The more people who know about any book I or anyone write, the more likely that book is to sell.

I'm confident additional opportunities to build a fiction platform will emerge as time goes on, but here's where I'm at. Feel free to ask questions or comment on my strategy.

Excerpt from Jezebel

Time for a new post. This one is from my story Jezebel, a second sequel to The Coppersmith. It takes place right after Topheth. Now that I have a couple of people reading this, I hope you like it (that, and it might distract you from the palm leaf).

One

“You’re not gonna believe this.” Bobby Fulton stepped up his pace to stay ahead of his older brother Ray. His breath came out in a wispy vapor. It flashed briefly in the morning sun before vanishing. Ray shook his head and lengthened his stride.

“What are you yammering about?” He took a puff from his inhaler and tried to be nonchalant. It was probably nothing. When his little brother approached him five minutes ago he was chatting amicably with Jessie Curran, one of the cooler boys in school. Always good to buff your image, he thought, just like his old man said. Ray never had been the most popular kid in school, a fact largely due to his chronic asthma. He’d spent most of his middle school career falling further and further down the social totem pole—a worry that plagued him relentlessly. Even the new cell phone he showed off after Christmas was met with a dismissive nod. That’s why striking up a conversation with Curran was such an opportunity. Jessie’d actually asked him how to get past the fourth level in Halo three, and Ray was more than happy to oblige.

Then Bobby was tugging at his coat and whining, “Raymond! You gotta come see this!”

He rolled his eyes and told Jessie it was probably a dead bird or something stupid like that. Bobby persisted, and he finally pulled away to follow him. It annoyed him that Mom insisted he watch his brother. He’d rather have been shooting hoops or scoring at the arcade—anything. Mom seemed possessed by this ridiculous notion that he and his brother should play together. There was five years difference between them. Playtime consisted of nothing more than a walk to Lincoln Park where Bobby’d clamber on the monkey bars while he sat and played with his Gameboy. Sometimes he’d watch groups of other kids gathering for a pick up game of football nearby—kicking up clouds of dust and shouts of action as one team pressed the other down the field. There’s no way he’d ever be allowed to join them. Even if he wasn’t under strict orders to keep an eye on his sibling, his parents would hit the roof if they caught him playing football with his condition. And his little brother had no compunctions at all about telling on him. He hated him for that.

Still, Bobby had his curiosity piqued.

They made a left turn down an alleyway and Ray grew wary. This was Chip Geller’s turf. Geller was an eighth grader who stood about a foot taller than everyone else in his class. It was widely reported he carried a real switchblade. Last year he’d beaten up a ninth grader with a baseball bat in the fields behind school. Ray wasn’t sure the story was completely true, but Geller was no one to mess with at any rate. In the football games he watched Geller always played quarterback. He’d have made a better linebacker with his size and strength and utter lack of a throwing arm, but nobody had the guts to tell him that—leastways not to his face.

He pulled his hands out of his pockets and searched the alleyway. Bobby went on confidently ahead, oblivious to the danger. He looked over his shoulder when he sensed his brother wasn’t following and urged, “Come on Ray! You gotta see this.”

.

Swallowing, Ray followed him into the shadows.

The alley was cooler than the street outside. With no sun to warm it the alley took on a damp quality in the early winter air—a chill that seeped through his jacket and pants and left him feeling like he wore nothing at all. Rivulets of water seeped from downspouts and pooled along the edges of the brick and mortar walls, soaking and staining the decaying remains of broken bottles and empty cigarette packs. Trash cans lurked beside the locked rear doors of shops and apartments, occasionally letting their pungent contents spill to the asphalt below.

He glanced nervously at the shadowed doorways he passed, half-expecting Geller to leap out from any one of them and—well, do something unpleasant—but nothing happened.

“Come on, Ray! Come on!”

“What is it, already?” His voice sounded whiney and impatient. He hated it. Hated Bobby for making him sound this way. Stupid kid.

“He’s up here.” Bobby pointed to a silver gray car parked in the side alley. The chrome and paint were both highly polished, reflecting the ice-blue of the sky even down here in the darkness of the alley, like a diamond glittering in mud. It clearly didn’t belong here. Raymond slowed as he approached the car, his brow furrowed. It was a Lexus. A new one, too. What was it doing here?

“He’s in there, Raymond. I just saw him like that.”

Him? Him who? Ray crept up to the driver’s side window, where the figure of a man was clearly slouched in the front seat. He put his hands on the glass and stared down. The man’s eyes bulged in their sockets, with pinpricks of brownish-red spots dotting the whites around his lids. His face was bloated and gray, and an ugly purple welt stained the flesh under his skin. His right hand clutched at his throat, claw-like. A part of Ray’s mind told him to look away. He shouldn’t see this. It was then he realized he couldn’t move.

.

“That guy’s dead, ain’t he?”

“Don’t use ain’t, Bobby. And yeah, he’s dead. We should—uh—we should call the cops or something.”

“Think there’ll be a reward?”

Raymond turned and stared at his little brother. Bobby stuck his jaw out. “I found him.”

Raymond turned back to the dead guy. “This isn’t like finders-keepers, Bobby! Sheesh!” He shook his head and pulled out his cell phone. He dialed 9-1-1, and waited for the operated to pick up the phone.

Bobby pouted.

Word Girl

I'm sitting here in the basement, and my children have decided this is the perfect time to watch television right behind me. Sarah (oldest) just excitedly dashed upstairs to get her siblings because "Word Girl" is on PBS.

I asked them what it was all about. She said, "It's our favorite cartoon. It's the only one on PBS with violence."

Yep. These are Pastor's kids. Sigh.

Christian Horror

Hello-o?! Hello! (hello, hello, hello). Echo! (echo, echo, echo).

Hmm....

Having a blog that nobody reads is kind of a surreal experience. It's akin to being on a deserted island with nobody around for miles. I mean, I could get totally naked on here and run around screaming, "Woohoo! Woohoo!" and no one would care.

Of course, the moment someone does start reading this, I'm putting on a palm leaf.

I joined the Writer's Water Cooler forum yesterday, left a couple of posts. It's a nice site. Lots of traffic. Some interesting things to read.

I wasn't overly surprised to see references to Frank Peretti and Ted Dekker on the site - but what was interesting was to see the interviews where they both disclaim the Christian Horror moniker. They prefer the title "Christian Thriller" or "Christian Suspense."

Maybe that makes sense from a marketing pov. I dunno. I'm not so sure I don't want to be known as a Christian Horror author. I think there are some incredible opportunities in that vein - certainly in terms of branding (the Christian Stephen King!), that sort of thing.

I suspect (know with high degree of certainty) that Frank and Ted (may I call you Frank and Ted?) are recoiling from the label of Horror because of its obviously evil (pronounced ēē'vîl) connotations.

I submit to you that Grace, the cornerstone doctrine of Christian faith, is itself a Horrific concept. We don't think so, as we tend to be on the receiving end of it. But look at it from Jesus' point of view for a moment. The doctrine of grace is this: punish the absolutely innocent with torture and death so the guilty can get away scot-free.

In any other context or story, we would be horrified by such a premise! And rightly so. It is a gross injustice. And without it, we are damned.

Let's take it a step further: if you were present at the crucifixion (and I'm assuming you have a modicum of Christian faith, or at least human decency), and the Roman soldiers handed you the hammer and nails, would you crucify the Son of God?

If you don't, you cannot be saved. You'll go to hell (do not pass Go!, do not collect $200). If you do, you are damned for crucifying the Son of God. It is only in damning ourselves that we can experience salvation.

Horrified yet? (or maybe just by my repetitive use of the word "damn"?)

I don't advocate gratuitous violence. The Coppersmith is a violent book. But it isn't gratuitous. The violence is integral to the story line, to show how bad evil is. The Bible is full of violent stories. What is worse, is the Bible's stories of violence is all true-crime. That my stories are fictional sanitizes the horror somewhat, by removing us from it a step or two.

Someone may well protest: fiction stories use adjectives and descriptions to show us the violence. The Bible doesn't.

I submit to you the Bible didn't have to. The people of Its day were well acquainted with blood and death. They saw suffering first hand. A simple word or phrase detailing what happened was enough to evoke the imagery. One of the simplest phrases in the Gospels is "They crucified Him." People who witnessed crucifixion knew exactly what that meant, and all it contained. By contrast, the prophet Isaiah described crucifixion in more detail, if only because his immediate audience wasn't as well acquainted with it.

Today, the word "crucify" means practically nothing. We use it to describe character assassination (heavens! Someone said something mean about me!). How different and removed from the actual horror. We've lost something in our civilized world (and no, I don't think we want it back - though I do believe it's coming back whether we want it or not).

So using description with horror works to overcome the distance - to bring the reader near and allow him or her to viscerally experience evil - so that we may be less accomodating of it in our own lives.

And that's why I write Christian Horror Suspense/Thrillers.

Excerpt from Topheth...

Fire blazes before him, roiling clouds of black smoke smelling of burning vinyl, fuel and rubber. Glass shatters and crackles as the flames press against the van’s windows. Inside is Ashley. Little Ashley. He screams to her but she doesn’t answer. He reaches for her but a wave of heat slams him to the ground. Ashley, Ashley!

Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust.

His sob broke the silence and he looked up, startled by the sound.

Let me go, Daddy.

No, Ashley. It’s time to come home.

Please, let me go.

Come home.

Daddy—

Now.

He picked up the bottle and the lighter, striding quickly to the front of the church. He splashed the fuel across the altar, the pulpit, and the new screen for the projector. He ran a line of it along the back bench of the choir loft, watching it dribble in sagging streams down the back of the pew. He dumped more on the carpet in front of the altar.

No, Daddy!

“It’s time to come home, now.” He bent forward and lit the cigarette lighter, holding the flame close to the fuel-soaked carpet.

“Obey your Daddy, now.”

A burst of orange and blue flame shot out along the carpet, flickering whimsically under the altar. It reached the line of gasoline that had fallen down the right leg and started lapping greedily up the table. He stared at the flame, fascinated by the demon’s pulsations. The fire climbed up the altar, and the line on the floor spread to the pulpit. Heat pushed against his face. It was a dance of hunger, a gyrating pulse of pure desire caressing, embracing, licking, gorging itself upon the wood.

Ashley.

The heat stroked his face, inviting. He gave himself to it, fingers of warmth his neck, his arms, his torso, his loins. He was aroused. Later, he’d feel guilty for this foreplay. Right now, he wanted to give himself to it, to let the spirit that claimed his daughter’s life bring him to climax. He pushed out a heavy breath and retreated to the far pew. He fished out a fresh cigarette and stuck it between his teeth. The heat hadn’t reached the rear of the church, and the back of the pew still felt cool to his touch. His desire subsided.

That was always the danger. The demon wanted him. It craved his flesh, to possess him body and soul—a lover whose embrace would kill. But the demon also carried his daughter’s essence. He could bring her back, but only through fire. The succubus brought her with it, dangling her presence, her smell before him, bait to lure him into the infernal coitus. It was a treacherous courtship, letting the demon woo him. He gave the spirit the churches instead, letting it satiate its hunger on those who’d wrought his grief.

He took a drag from his cigarette and leaned his head against his closed fist. God, how he missed her! Firelight flickered before him, brightening the church with its intensity. A clump of ash fell away from his cigarette, collapsing on the floor like a delicate, gray snowflake. A single touch would smear it into oblivion.

Something fell up front, sending a shower of sparks toward the ceiling. He started, looking up at the front of the church engulfed in flames. Outside the church, flashes of red pulsated against the windows. He’d stayed too long. Swallowing hard, he pushed himself from the pew and darted for the exit. He grabbed the handle and pulled, stunned when the door refused to budge. He tugged again, but it wouldn’t open. Behind him, he heard the demon laugh. He turned around, staring wide-eyed at the entrance to hell he’d opened up. The abyss of fire and smoke stood yawning before him. He turned and yanked on the door.