Ande Edwards's Blog, page 2

The Seventh Angel, Prologue

The demon led Titus into the study where Lucifer waited. An overflowing ashtray sat on the desk still smoldering from a cigar freshly extinguished. The room was full of the holiest of all books, it was evident to Titus that Lucifer was searching the Word for something.

“My Liege,” Titus offered in greeting kneeling on the expensive Persian rug before his Prince.

“I assume you have a good reason for coming uninvited to my home, for interrupting me, and for usurping your position,” Lucifer drilled. But Titus was not concerned by the harsh tone. He knew that what he brought would be pleasing to Lucifer. He would not have taken the risk otherwise.

“Yes, my Liege,” he answered humbly. Being confident did not mean he need be arrogant. While Titus understood the value of the gift he brought Lucifer, he also realized he was in a precarious position. Lucifer was the Prince of the earth; he was not to be trifled with. Titus would proceed with deep respect never overtly revealing his betrayal of Morax or his own personal quest for power.

“Get up!” Lucifer snapped at him, irritation, and disgust evident in his voice.

“I bring you news of Platitude,” Titus offered as he stood.

“Platitude? The King’s college we are taking over?” Lucifer asked as if he didn’t already know.

“Yes.” He paused briefly observing Lucifer for any signs of anger. He saw only annoyance.

“What is your report then?” Lucifer prompted fighting visible agitation.

“There was a prophet at the college,” Titus once again paused giving Lucifer plenty of time to process the information. He cunningly laid his cards out for Lucifer to see and was instantly rewarded. A small ripple of excitement pulsed through Lucifer chased back by a hint of fear that Titus would never acknowledge seeing. All who were wise feared the King. It was only right that Lucifer should as well, after all, who knew better than Lucifer what the King was capable of?

“Go on,” Lucifer asked in a slightly softer tone, his interest piqued.

Lucifer listened as Titus filled him in on the critical elements of the battle in Platitude. Titus did, of course, leave out many key facts, facts he was sure would work against him. He would leave that bit for Morax. Lucifer listened intently asking only what had become of each of the humans. Titus relayed what he knew which wasn’t much.

“Find them and destroy them all. But bring me the prophet alive,” Lucifer ordered.

 

God has indeed heard the cry of his beloved daughters.

Nearly two years ago I penned this discussion between God and the angel Aegeus, in The Prophet:

“Aegeus, many of my daughters have felt rejected by the church. The Strongman and others like him have persecuted them and twisted my words for their own selfish purposes. Through their persecution, my children have started many home churches, and word of me has spread. What the Strongman intended for evil, I have used for good.

“My daughters have clung to me, but they cry out for deliverance. I have heard their cry, Aegeus, and I can bear it no longer. They must understand how much I love them. The eleven in the town will serve as a voice for my daughters. The battle has only begun.”

At the time I wrote this, the #MeToo movement was not yet a thing, Paige Patterson was not a name most of us knew and the evangelical community was not being shaken to their core.

I did not start out to write a book about the role of women or the treatment of women or really anything about women. I started out to write a book about spiritual warfare, and it just took on a life of its own.

I remember reading back over a section one day and feeling stunned that I had written it and wondering how on earth it would ever be accepted by readers and wondering if we were ready for that conversation, if I was ready. I deemed that I wasn’t. I wasn’t’ ready to really sit down and have the discussion because it was too difficult.

And yet, here we are. I am stunned and shocked to see so many of the very same topics now playing out on the national stage.  I can only come to the same conclusion that Beth Moore did in her Tweet this week, revival is coming. God has indeed heard the cry of his beloved daughters and the battle has only begun.

The Beauty of a Sunrise.

I am pleased that the Twelfth’s husband suggested spending the summer in Maine. The family has rented a small cottage nestled in the mountains. Moose come early in the morning to drink from the pristine lake that brushes the edge of the property. It is the clearest water I have seen on earth, although I hear there is a place in Austria where the water is as clear as the water in heaven. Having never been to Austria, I can’t know for sure but what I do know is that this spot in Maine is majestic.  A beautiful reminder of the King’s creativity.

Each morning the sun peeks over the top of the mountain splashing the landscape with beautiful colors. The image of the mountain reflects perfectly in the still water turning the lake various shades of pink and purple.  The cabin has a small pier where I like to sit and watch as the colors bath the mountain and bounce off the lake. Each sunrise is a precious event unique to the earth, a subtle reminder from the King that the day and all that is in it belongs to him. There is no sunrise in heaven and it is my favorite experience on earth.  Take time to treasure the little things, the holy things, the immense beauty the King has put before you. Do not allow the Evil One to blind you to the beauty before you.

-Adiel, Warrior of the King

FREE Kindle Copy of The Prophet

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A Day In the Office

I was sitting on a street corner begging for money. I know it seems beneath a demon of my caliber, but it was the job Lucifer assigned me, so I sat, and I begged and hurled insults as those who passed by hoping I could harden their human hearts. Lucifer arrived in a limo and with great fanfare, I stood up and tucked my cardboard sign under my arm.

Oh, I made a production of picking up the old hat I had been using to collect the spare change and dollars some people had given me. I took the money from the hat and shoved it deep into my pocket, I then tossed the hat back onto the street and climbed into the limo.

I imagine the sight of it will not soon be forgotten by those passing by. I hope it will cause them to hesitate to help others.

“I see you are starting to rediscover the joy in your work,” Lucifer said with a grin when he saw my display.  This too pleased me, no need to be on Lucifer’s bad side. Of course, I suppose all his sides are bad.

With delight we headed to the more affluent. Fame and fortune are difficult things that so many of the hairless rats idolize and worship. They don’t realize that it brings about its own problems. The rich and famous are easy targets for pride, arrogance, loneliness, and despair. We took their hands and led them down the road of addiction, fornication, greed, and depression if they have no anchor.

When we were done there, we headed to Hollywood where we influenced producers and directors to push ideas that increased the bottom line and tainted the moral fibers of the people. It is one of our most powerful tools, allowing us to normalize sin, put images and ideas in front of your eyes so often that you become accustomed to seeing it, hearing it. We keep everything subtle, non-threatening just the way we prefer it until we don’t.”

When we were done with the rich, we targeted the masses.  We joined a church protest that will be on the news later. We carried picket signs and screamed out lies and hatred cloaked as tolerance and love.

There is often no need for us to be extreme or entice pure evil, pure evil is too easily detected by most. Besides, pure evil tends to perpetuate itself, Lucifer is not needed for that. Instead, we prefer to serve as the catalyst. Once we start people down the direction we want them to go, they usually stay the course with a little help from low level yet powerful demons. Natural consequence also tends to lend itself to our purposes and keep things moving in the direction we desire. If we can then convince you to conceal their sins, we gain even more power.

Lucifer prefers we stick close to the truth convincing people they were doing the right thing. We feed on their sense of pride or make them too impatient to wait on the King. In most cases, his plans work best when they are subtle. He prefers we be the voice whispering into the ear of the church secretary telling her not to worry, it isn’t really gossip. Or the voice encouraging a small lie today that would make it easier to tell another one tomorrow. He prefers we sit beside the grieving, the lost, and the lonely helping them justify their anger and feed their pain. We find joy in blurring vision and muffling ears so that you can not see or hear the truth.

We work nation by nation, home by home, person by person. We visit homes and make cleaning up after dinner more important than listening to your child tell you about their day. We stroke egos and whisper into ears making concern over what the neighbors would think more important than what your spouse thinks. We never present it that way of course or it would be recognized for what it is and rejected. No, we keep the rats from seeing the truth but their inability to see it for what it is, does not change the facts.

-Morax

 

In the Land of Ordinary

There was a small boy who lived in the Land of Ordinary.  If you asked the boy, he would say he was the most ordinary of all the boys in the land, but his mother knew this was not true. His mother knew that he was quite extraordinary.  She saw that the boy was different, and she fostered those differences. Sometimes, other children would tease him for the differences and he would plead with his mother to help him change, to help him be more ordinary.  His mother would wrap him in her loving arms and shush away his whimpers. But never, did she work to change him, for she knew what he did not.

Time passed and the boy grew into a man.  He remained close to his mother and often sought her advice. The boy worked an ordinary job and married an ordinary woman and they had ordinary children. Everything in his life seemed to fit in perfectly with the Land of Ordinary. But he wasn’t ordinary.

One day, food in the village began to run out. Children began to starve. People began to eat dirt instead of the lush bounty they had had before. The boy’s mother sought him out and told him now was his time. The boy, unsure of what she meant, pondered her words as he watched those around him suffer and wither.

In time, the boy began to build a bridge. The bridge was magnificent. The bridge led the people to life, to food, to the extraordinary.  With excitement he rushed to the town square and called out to all that they could be saved if only they would cross the bridge, they could leave the Land of Ordinary behind and find the extraordinary.

But the people were too busy. They did not have time to travel across the bridge. Most had time only to give a fleeting glance toward the bridge and mutter an insignificant compliment intended to acknowledge that they saw it. But they did not care to cross it.

The boy plopped down in the dirt near the edge of the bridge, his heart full of sorrow.  Why would no one even look at his bridge? Why did they refuse to cross it? Just as he gave up hope, an old man approached him.

“Can I cross the bridge?” the man asked, his smile revealing rotted teeth. The old man’s clothes were worn and dirty, his hair was matted and filled with bugs. The boy was unsure if the man was even strong enough to make it across the bridge, but he jumped up with excitement and pointed the way,  joy flooded over them both.

Before long, another vagabond approached and asked to cross the bridge, and then another and another. They were not who the boy expected, but he was no less pleased to see them.  His mother stood at a distance and watched with great pride as her son fulfilled his calling. She knew that the bridge was special, that it was reserved for those who were willing to move from the Land of Ordinary to the Land of the Extraordinary.

Once upon a Time…

Once upon a time, there was a girl who lived in a bustling village full of people. Each person in the village worked very hard day after day, doing their best to provide for their families.

Over time, some of the people in the village decided to venture out and try something new.  The other villagers yelled at their efforts and turned their backs on these entrepreneurs.  But not the girl, she encouraged them in their efforts. She used the last of her feeble income to help support them, to see them grow.  And they did.

Soon more people began to try new things. The villagers did their best to ignore them, to turn their backs, to scoff. But the girl worked longer hours in the field so that she could contribute to their efforts to improve, fore she knew that one day, she too would try.

Finally, her day came. Excitedly she journeyed to the bath house in preparation for her chance. But when she stepped out into the market square she was met with hostility from some and ignored entirely by others. But the girl held her head high, for she knew in her soul that all those she had supported would step in and support her. She knew that if she just held out long enough, they would come.

But they never did.  The villagers began to hurl mud and dung at her and while she tried to stand firm like a warrior, eventually night fell and she grew weary.  Dirty and exhausted, she returned to her humble home, giving up her dreams.

The next day, she sat among the ashes, full of sadness and feeling worthless. She had failed. Where were the others?  Lucifer, who had been sitting quietly in wait, slid into the ashes next to her.

Lucifer, who had been sitting quietly in wait, slid into the ashes next to her.

The King, however, watched from a distance, hoping she would step out of the ashes. Hoping she would reject the lies and see the truth. But she did not.  But she saw him in the distance, and she ran to him, pouring out her anguish, eager for him to comfort her.

“Why did you help the others,” he asked gently.

“So that when it was my turn they would help me,” she answered honestly.

“If you only helped them so that they would later help you, was that really done with the right heart?”

And suddenly she understood. She dusted off and walked slowly back to the village.

What I have learned – Part 2

Now that my book is out,  I have learned a whole host of new things. Here are the things I think are most helpful.

Book stores will most likely not carry your book.  You see, you are a nobody.  They don’t typically carry the books of nobodies. Don’t take this personally, your publisher isn’t lying to you, this is just the way it is.  The way it works is that your book will be offered online first. IF your book sells “enough” copies online, they will move physical copies into the store.  When you become a “somebody” then this will no longer apply to you.
You cannot proofread enough. I feel like I proofread a trillion times, a million people edited and reviewed it, and still, STILL there are errors. Sigh….perfection isn’t obtainable.
Marketing is a bear. I have no clue on that one but I will keep you posted on my discoveries. Still trying to crack that nut.

Practical Advice to Aspiring Writers:

I am not an expert. Not even close. In fact, I am a novice. But it that very fact that gives me the perspective I have.  I am roughly a month from the publication of my first book and here are some things I learned along the way:

1)Book covers are important. Do your homework. Look at other covers, pay attention to colors, style, content. Then jot down some ideas of what you want.  Try to have multiple ideas. Find pictures that represent the style of art you are looking for so that when you talk to your cover artist, you have examples of what you like, and multiple ideas to work from.  If you are working with a publisher, look at the covers of the books they have designed. It will give you a good idea of what they are capable of.

If you are self publishing and have no artistic talent, find a GREAT tattoo artist.  They can do amazing work, design to your specifications and are reasonably priced. Make sure having a digital version of the work is something you ask for.   You will end up with something unique and beautiful and normally you can get something within a month.

2)Don’t sweat the small stuff. Every publisher formats things differently, so don’t stress out over formatting while you are writing.  Also, every editor will proofread for grammar and punctuation – so don’t freak out about that either, let them do that.

3)Have a reader group! When you have finished your manuscript, (I know, it’s NEVER really finished) give it to people you trust to read.  Have at least 3 people read it. Choose them wisely. Don’t pick three grammar Nazis (refer back to #2), one is enough.  Have people with varying professions, backgrounds, educational levels, interests, strengths, etc.  You need them to tell you where you went wrong.

Is your protagonist boring? Does the story fall apart in chapter four?  Do you have inaccuracies? You need them to tell you this. Ask your readers to tell you what they love, what they hate, what they feel like they needed more of, what they don’t understand.  Soak in their feedback, value it, savor it, bathe in it. It will be hard, but it will make your book better.

4)Wait. This may be the hardest bit of my advice, something I was told and ignored completely. Don’t make my mistake!  Let the manuscript simmer. Get your reader feedback, make adjustments, repeat, and then, let it rest.  You seriously need time away from it, time to let it get stale in your own mind.  I know you have read it a bazillion times, but trust me, letting it dry out will change how you see it.

Letting it simmer gives you perspective. You read it fresh. Ideas and improvements will grow in your mind. You will see ways to polish the writing. Wait, at minimum, a month. Then, read the whole thing again, making improvements as you do.  You could do this several times – if you can get yourself to be that patient.

5)Eventually, you will hate it.  You will be quite sure that it is the worst thing that has ever been written in the history of man. You will want to burn it, bury it.  This is the moment that you become a writer. Hating it and doubting yourself, is normal. Embrace it. Don’t burn your manuscript, because we both know that it is your soul poured out on paper.  You have something to share with the world, so when you doubt yourself, when you doubt the value of what you have written, know that that is normal. You are normal and your manuscript is something to be treasured.

 

Chapter 1 from The Prophet

The Prophet, in stores, Summer 2017.

Chapter 1 

Aegeus strolled toward the meeting spot. He walked slowly as one who had eternity on his side. He let his hands drop to his side and brush across the stalks in the wheat field he was ambling through. The grain heads felt soft on his fingers. And for just a moment, he continued to walk forward with his eyes closed as he savored the delicate brush of the plants across his hands. He had the hands of a warrior, solid and sure, rough from thousands of years of battle. The gentle touch of the wheat against his hands was made all the sweeter because of it.

His senses soaked in the glory that was heaven. Light warmed his olive skin; the sweet smell of lilac filled the air; it was one of his favorite smells. He breathed in deeply, letting it penetrate through him. He turned his face toward the throne room, the light and power of the King washing over him, beckoning to him.

Standing in the middle of the field, he closed his eyes and listened to the voices of a thousand angels singing the praise of the King. He stood straighter, taller, reaching his full height of seven feet two inches. His wings were tucked into the compartments on his back where they fit when he did not need them. His chestnut-colored hair was loose and blew gently in the breeze. His brown eyes, the color of toasted almonds, reflected the peacefulness he felt. Aegeus savored the rush of love and overwhelming joy that could only come from the King. He felt the light brush of power caress his skin as if every particle of his being was getting charged.

In the distance, he could see the glimmer of the city. Reluctantly, he headed in the opposite direction, toward a large tree in the center of the field. As he walked, he took in every scent, every color, and every texture along the way. Savoring each precious one for the gift it was.

The tree stood tall and proud where it had stood for all time. The bark of the tree was rough and cracked in a way that was beautiful. If you took the time to look closely, you could see subtle carvings in the bark just below the surface. It whispered secrets of the past and the beauty of the future. It spoke of redemption and hope to all who would listen. Its limbs extended in every direction, long strong branches. The leaves fluttered in the breeze sounding like ocean waves. They called out their praise to the King.

As he reached the tree, he was pleased to see the others were not yet there. He enjoyed the quiet stillness of the tree, the peace it brought as you rested near it. He had heard it would provide other feelings as well, but Aegeus had never experienced anything but peace when he was near it. Perhaps because peace was what he most valued.

Warriors tended to be more stoic than other angels. Although there were certainly exceptions to that, Aegeus was not among them. In fact, he was more stoic than most. But he had not always been that way. There had been a time when Aegeus invested in those he was sent to fight for—when he had fought with his heart, not just his strength. But that was long ago and mostly forgotten, at least by Aegeus.

The battle of Pas-Dammim had changed everything for him. He had returned to the tree after the battle, collapsing beneath its limbs and pouring out his anguish. The tree had absorbed it all, replacing it with the peace he so craved. Aegeus’s grief was so great that the very fruit on the tree had turned gray and dull. The King had heard the call of despair and had come to attend to Aegeus and to the tree. All of heaven had grieved under that tree with Aegeus, but most especially the King.

Aegeus learned the wrong lesson from Pas-Dammim. He had decided he could not afford to care too deeply. He knew that allowing himself to feel too strongly for any but the King could prove perilous. Humans were unpredictable. Warriors had to be willing to fight both for and against them. He believed that caring about them could cause clouded judgment, something a warrior could not afford. He had spent thousands of years constructing the wall around his heart.

He was not unkind. To the contrary, underneath, Aegeus’s heart was tender. But he was a warrior through and through. He stood tall with broad shoulders and strong, solid muscles. He fought with a ferocity that had moved him quickly through the ranks. The other angels trusted him; if you were going into battle, Aegeus was the warrior you wanted with you.

He did not allow his detachment from the humans to interfere with his duty. He showed them compassion and kindness, but he did so in a clinical manner that got the job done without risking attachment. For centuries, this had worked wonderfully. After all, warriors were not on the earth for long stretches of time. He had little opportunity to interact with humans.

Aegeus walked lazily about the tree, exploring the type of fruit that was on it today. He took his time admiring each option and then opted for a yellow one with small purple dots. This one was new. He smelled the fruit; it smelled sweet, like angelo—one of his favorites. Around the tree was a soft grassy knoll greeting all who came to sit beneath its shade and lean against its trunk. Aegeus sank into the lush green grass and leaned back against the tree listening to it whisper.

Sweet nectar burst from the fruit and flowed down his chin when he bit into it. He wiped the juice from his closely cropped beard with the back of his hand. There was no end to the King’s creativity; Aegeus reveled in the joy of being able to experience it. He retrieved his wineskin and took a swallow of wine that perfectly complemented the fruit. It was nice to be home.

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