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?

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?