The Spark

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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

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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

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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!

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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

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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

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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

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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!

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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!

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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

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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….