Christopher C. Starr's Blog, page 22

Take A Stand: Why Noah Murphy Is My New Hero

I like to call myself an "at-risk Christian." It's not that I don't believe or have faith or live in doubt. I don't. I just don't do what seem to be the Christian things to do: I don't post sermonettes on Facebook or tweet testimonials or the forward the latest "show you believe in Christ" email. I'm not ashamed: it's just not my thing.

I guess my political views don't necessarily equal traditional Christian values either: I don't believe gay marriage undermines my own marriage. I support a woman's right to choose. I don't get my news from Fox News. I think I'm smarter than the average bear: I can research an issue and don't need my political issues boiled down to sound bites and spin.

You see what I did right there? Segued from religion to politics? These days, that's how it works. Who we are as Christians—or as Muslims or Jews or Buddhists or any other religion for that matter—seems inextricably linked to the fringes of politics. True or not, all Muslims are branded as terrorists, all Christians part of the conservative right. It's stereotypical and inaccurate and infuriating and it happens all the time. You know how it goes.

Personally, I hate labels and group identifiers because none of us fit the mold, none of us fall neatly inside these lines that have been drawn for us. My Christianity is really between me and my God, not something that needs to be validated or defined by anyone. I'm neither fully Democrat nor Republican either, though I registered as a Democrat so I could vote in the primaries when Obama ran in 2008. Truth is, none of us are wholly one thing or another—we are free-thinking individuals. We're all independents. We're all unique.

I've been following Noah Murphy on Twitter (yes, I Tweet!) for a little while. Noah is the author of K23 Detectives–a series of thriller novels set in one of the most complex and fascinating steampunk/cyberpunk/fantasy worlds I've ever seen. You check them out here. Honestly, and he doesn't know this yet, I'd love to write fan fiction for his world someday. It's that cool. Over the last few months, Noah has been taking a stand with his personal views as a writer and the directions of his stories. This stand has been at the expense of hundreds of Twitter followers and could potentially alienate a portion of his fanbase for making all the humans in his stories brown-skinned.

Now, for many of you, this doesn't mean much. So what if you lose a few hundred followers? What happens if you make the characters in your world people of color? How much does it matter? When you're an unknown or self-published author, every single pair of eyes on your words count. Every positive impression someone has of you and your work can translate into a potential sale, into notoriety and promotion and advertising. Word of mouth is still the best form of advertising and the right mouth can create a viral effect for your work. Alienating someone, anyone, is risky.

Noah doesn't care because those people weren't who he was after anyway.

Those people don't reflect who he is.

Noah figured out something that I hadn't. That many of us hadn't. He figured out that what we write won't speak to everyone, nor should it, and we should be okay with that. We should actually champion that idea. I call myself an at-risk Christian because it's a little bit funny and because my worldview puts me slightly askew from common representations of Christianity. I ask questions and pursue alternate theories and seek to understand the nature of doubt because I accept nothing at face value and I think those gray areas are worth exploring. And that's okay. My writing reflects that perspective and it's not for everyone. It's not for everyone. I'm not for everyone. And that's okay too.

The point here is "be who you are." Be true to yourself; speak in your true voice. There are over 7 billion people on the planet now; the ones you are speaking to will hear you and listen. The ones who aren't interested will vote with their feet. I believe if you write well, someone will always listen. And if they're truly listening, the right ones will stay.

Those are the ones you want.

You can find Noah at his blog (K23detectives.com) or on Twitter (@K23Detectives)

I Triple Dog Dare You

It's the end of the year, time for New Year's resolutions, right? Wrong. Resolutions suck. These are things we resolve to do. There's no accountability, no measurement, no plan for achievement. Just those nebulous, pie-in-the-sky things we want to do or see different in our lives. I need something more tangible, more concrete.

In my Day Job, I work in the talent management space. That means I've learned the value of creating SMART goals with timeframes and measurable outcomes. I bought into the whole 7 Habits of Highly Effective People "a goal is a dream with a deadline" and all that jazz. For what I want to do, what I need to do, resolutions don't get me there.

I also know you shouldn't start any journey, whether for self-improvement or mental health or business success, without an honest assessment of where you stand. You have to know where you are. I'd like to say 2011 sucked. I got the sorriest sports-related injury ever, my Christmas was funky, and the Day Job Dragon bit me in the ass. A lot. This year sucked. Royally. That's what I want to say. But, in retrospect, that's not entirely true. This year I did launch my writing career. My writing career. That's a heavy concept for me. I became a professional writer this year: published my first novel, built a publishing company and made a whopping $36.88 in royalties.

You can laugh. Seriously. I did. It isn't much but it's something. It's a place to start.

I got an email about setting writing goals and while I don't like resolutions, I couldn't resist chiming in with my own: it felt like a dare.

I can't resist a dare. Never could. I don't care what it is—eat a mouthful of uncooked rice, drink that entire bottle of Cisco, try to have a serious discussion with the kid who stutters AND keep a straight face–provided it won't kill me or put me in jail (because I'm too pretty for jail), I'm game. For the record, don't eat uncooked rice unless you have a good dental plan; a whole pint of Cisco is stupid—if you have a job, you should just know better; and stuttering, unfortunately, is my kryptonite…I failed on this one.

One of my favorite movies, especially at Christmas time, is A Christmas Story. Not because Ralphie is trying to get the Red Ryder BB Gun but because of all the other stuff that goes on in this movie. One of the best scenes is the tongue-to-the-flagpole scene. I like it because a dare is serious business and once you're in, you're in. No backing out.

I'll let Ralphie, Flick and Schwartz tell it: Christmas Story "I Triple Dog Dare You"

My writing career goals for 2012 are below. I share them because once they're out there, they're real. Tangible. You can hold me accountable to them. I challenge you to set your own. I Triple Dog Dare you.

Happy New Year!

2012 Goals

These are broken into my goals as a writer and as a publisher. As a writer, I can commit to:

• Blog post every other day

• 2 book reviews a month

• 1 Blog tour in 2012

• 1 script through Script Frenzy

• 1 novel through NaNoWriMo

On the publishing side, I'd like to:

• Sell 10,000 copies of The Road to Hell (90% digital, 10% paper)

• Obtain 10 reviews

• Obtain 5 author quotes

• Sign 2 additional authors

• Publish 2 books (1 novel, 1 anthology) through Sanford House Press

How the Grinch SAVED Christmas

It's no secret that I've had a tough time this Christmas. For me, the spirit was gone (If you missed it, check out Friday's post). But friends and family encouraged me to find the good in the season, to remember what it was really about. They said watch movies, wrap gifts, have hot chocolate. I listened: I watched How The Grinch Stole Christmas.

The Grinch is my hero because he was mean. I'm not talking about the Ron Howard/Jim Carrey movie where they gave the Grinch a backstory and rationale for his actions. Nah, that's crap. Go back to the original cartoon or even the book: the Grinch hated Christmas because he didn't like the songs, the happiness, the joy. The Whos were too loud singing their Christmas songs. He hated it—hated them—because they were happy. Because they were smiling. I think only the Evil Queen from Snow White had a worse reason for being a villain.

While I was in college, I worked full time in a bank vault. I think between school and work I was leading 18-19 hour days. I still remember my answering machine message (yes I had an answering machine): "Hey, this is Chris. I'm either at school or work, sleeping or studying. Leave me a message." In short, I was beat in those days. EXHAUSTED. Anyway, I worked with a pretty, bubbly blond named Dawn. One day, Dawn came in, exuberant as ever, big smile and saying Hi. My response: "I hate a happy mother@%?!. Shut up!"

Now that was mean. It really was. And Dawn's face fell. And then it got funny. I laughed! And I laughed because it was mean.

I know, I know, you're already at "Damn, Chris, that was cold!" Yeah, yeah, yeah, I'm also the guy who made Lucifer my hero. But, yes, it was mean. And it was delicious! Mean resonates with us. We don't like Voldemort for his fashion sense (he has ONE robe, people! ONE) or Vader for his prolific vocabulary (it's all Something, Something, Something Dark Side) or Eric Cartman because he is so cool. Each one of us has a mean streak: we've all wanted to push a kid down at the park or snatch someone's Halloween candy or snickered when somebody fell (or maybe that's just me). Mean is okay. It is real and human and okay.

So I listened to everything my friends and family said Friday night. I took my daughter to church to see a live nativity scene, petted a camel and some goats, and talked to her about Jesus' birth (I might be mean but I still have a soul!) Then we dropped the kids off and my wife and I got coffee and took a drive looking at Christmas lights. We weren't looking for the good, elaborate ones mind you: we found the tackiest, pathetic, sorriest displays we could, including our own (though I did finally get the lights to work…on Christmas Eve). And we laughed! Then we came home and watched Gremlins. And it was a good Christmas.

Bah Humbug! More like Blah Whatever…

About 36 hours ago, I gave up on Christmas. I feel like the Christmas spirit skipped my house this year.

I tried to force Christmas by pulling my family together. I got a plane ticket to get my mother to come out to spend Christmas with us but, in the process, I upset my sister and alienated my brother. And it was my own fault. Then my mom got too sick to fly out anyway.

So then I tried to buy Christmas. I went waaaayyyyy overboard on presents and the reality of that is going to haunt me next year. My kids can't seem to understand why they can't just have it all right now and have made it their mission to pester my wife and I until we cave. It's like living with two addicts and we keep dangling the crack in front of them, just out of their reach. I can't afford an intervention…

Then we tried to bake Christmas but we ate all the cookies. We tried to decorate the house Griswald-style but half of my lights won't work.

Shit.

Then I got an email from Carey Casey, CEO of the National Center on Fathering, about the meaning of home for holidays. He told me "creating a 'home' is about creating traditions and bonds that tie the family together," and to "be flexible in where, when and how you celebrate."

I wanted to wallow in my disappointment and the shroud of inevitability next year would bring. I wanted to turn my back on not getting what I wanted, on the holiday itself, and this cat is telling me to 'be flexible' and to create traditions regardless of where family is. And he's right.

Dammit.

You know, it's different when you're a dad, when you're responsible for other people. There are things you really can't do because someone else is basing their actions, and their responses to adversity, on what you do. Curling up in a ball is not a good look for me and doesn't send the best message to my son. Crying my eyes out over not getting what I wanted for Christmas is kinda pathetic and doesn't teach my daughter how to handle disappointment. Neither approach is particularly sexy to my wife.

I asked my Facebook family (we all have one) how to get the spirit back. Someone told me "remember what the holiday is really about."

What it's really about? "For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life." (John 3:16)

I'm reminded of that O'Henry story, The Gift of the Magi. It tells the story of Jim and Della, a young couple who practice selflessness to give to one another. Each has something precious them: Della has long, beautiful hair; Jim has a pocketwatch that belonged to his father and grandfather. In a beautiful turn of events, Della sells her hair to buy a platinum chain for Jim's watch; Jim sells his watch to obtain ivory combs for Della's hair.

That's what it's really about. Not Christmas lights and plane tickets, but selflessness and sacrifice, about giving of yourself to those who matter to you in a tangible expression of love. In ways they can see, and feel and touch. Children see fathers honoring their mothers with gifts. Those same children are encouraged to think of others, to be selfless, at a time when greed runs rampant.

So fine, I will be flexible. I will laugh at the fact that my freaking lights will not work (I'm secretly bitter), that we keep eating the cookies faster than my wife can bake them. I'll Skype with my mom and put her gifts in the mail and see her for my birthday. I'll make nice with my brother and sister. And it'll be the best Christmas ever because that's what it's really about.

Gotta run—it's time for me to taunt my kids with presents they cannot have…yet.

Merry Christmas!

What the Hell was I thinking? or Why I made Lucifer my hero

Someone called me a Satanist recently.

He'd read my book and was making a joke in passing. I know him, I love him—wasn't a big deal. But it did get me thinking: how do I justify writing a novel where Lucifer—the Devil—is my protagonist? And who the hell would want to read it?

My novel, The Road to Hell, is the story of Lucifer's fall, the war between the angels, and the creation of man. My Oprah answer is that the book is meant to be an allegory about humanity, about our own worth and what we must have cost God to make us. It's supposed to make us evaluate ourselves a little better, maybe make us think about us, about each other, in a different light.

And Michael was supposed to be my hero. It was supposed to be his story.

If you don't know Michael the Archangel, he's the warrior angel who crushed the rebellion and ultimately had to exile Lucifer from Heaven. Michael was my main character. I loved him. I cared about him. I wondered how tough it must have been to truly have the responsibility for tearing Heaven apart. For knowing how it would end and having the resolve to do it anyway. Sure Lucifer was the catalyst, but Michael was the hammer. I wanted to see the story through his eyes. And it was personal. I was going through this crisis of faith and I gave Michael that cross to bear. His story was my story. It was a tale about the loss and reclamation of faith in the face of adversity, even when Heaven was falling down.

But it was boring. Sure, there was action in it and there were passages that were some of the best writing I'd ever done. When I reread it, I smiled, I laughed, I cried. I loved Michael but he was "flat" (that's what my friends said.) He was a flat two-dimensional character that was more cliché than compelling. But Lucifer! Now here was the most vibrant, interesting voice in the book. He was fun to write, he was funny, mean, focused—and there was nothing I couldn't do! He's the Devil! I had all the latitude my imagination could conjure up.

Here is the point where the storyteller in me conflicted with the author who desperately wants to be successful. I knew my market; I knew I wanted to reach the Christian audience. While the story might be slightly unorthodox, I knew I was hitting all the major themes of redemption and faith and obedience. But the story sucked! I wasn't breaking new ground, not with this approach. John Milton, Wendy Alec, Brian Schaefer, Stephen Brust and others had already done it. Sub-par story, flat characters—it wasn't worth it.

In the end, this is what this post is about: being a storyteller vs. being in the business of telling stories. I don't knock a single soul who has the guts to put their prose out there for the world to see. Whether you are in it for the money, for the story or for some combination of them both, I have mad respect for you. I have dreams and hopes and delusions of grandeur too. I daydream about getting my book optioned or seeing royalty checks with more zeroes than I can imagine or discussing the narrative themes in front of crowds of people. But I can't live with a substandard story. I can't. And I can't believe that that route gets me to those things that haunt my dreams.

So I listened. I listened to my gut and my family and friends. And I listened to my characters. Michael wasn't some sad sap of an angel wallowing in his lot in life. You don't kick the Prince of Darkness out of Heaven by being a punk. That's not how it works. That's not what made sense to me. So I recast him into a much darker, brooding, angry rendition of himself who was decidedly on the side of righteousness regardless of the circumstances.

And Lucifer…well, he was the most compelling one of all.

So why did I make him my hero? How could I resist? Here is an angel, a brilliant, beautiful, majestic angel who waged a rebellion against God. Think about that. Whether you buy into the religion or not, the story is fascinating. This is a character that found Heaven—Heaven—so distasteful under God's rule that he convinced one-third of the population that his way was better. You don't go from Beloved to Betrayer without one hell of an emotional arc. He was begging to tell his side of the story. How could I resist?

My point is simply this: tell the story you are meant to tell. The one that truly resonates in your gut. The one that wakes you up from your sleep, that has you whispering the words of your characters when you think no one can hear you. Tell that story. The world has millions—literally—of writers who tell the stories they think we will buy, the ones they pray will sell. Hell, I'm one of them. But somewhere in the midst of the platform building, social networking, tweeting, Facebooking madness, we are storytellers. Let us resolve to tell the stories that deserve to be told. How can you resist?

Check out the story in The Road to Hell. Available at Amazon and Barnes and Noble. Now only 99¢!

Something from Nothing

Check out my Christmas memory on Mysti Parker's Unwritten blog. It's my first guest post!

http://mystiparker.blogspot.com/2011/12/christmas-memory-with-author.html

And so it begins…

I first met them in a lounge on the top floor of the BP building in downtown Cleveland about 10 years ago.  It was a unique place, a penthouse slash pool hall slash men's lodge.  A wide, open space, dimly lit, bound by floor-to-ceiling windows.  They called it the Upper Room.  It was quite some time before I understood the irony.  I wasn't sure why I was there—they'd called me but I couldn't remember how or why.  I knew where to go, when to meet them, what to look for.

There were four of them then and a more disparate group of comrades could not be found.  There was Michael, a gruff hulk of a man, constantly clad in the deep blue kimono of a samurai—sword included—with his thick mane of dreadlocks pulled into a high ponytail.  He spoke little, usually in a series of grunts and growls, and played pool religiously.  Michael had a penchant for breaking sticks.  Somehow, there was an endless supply of them and I never saw him replace a single one.

Raphael was clearly the youngest—slim body with a middleweight boxer's build framed in linen.  Piercing blue eyes often unnerved me as though he could see into me, through me.  His demeanor was soothing, hypnotic and he welcomed me with an embrace every time I arrived, as though it was the first time he'd seen me.  Calling him a man, though, was a travesty: Raphael could walk on walls.

The third was Gabriel and he was every bit as huge as Michael, a towering bulk with eyes that could not see.  Hands clasped behind his back, blind man's staff at attention, Gabriel stared out the windows constantly, at everything and nothing at the same time and did not turn when he spoke to me.  Gabriel was cordial enough, almost overwhelmingly so and addressed me as a knight.  I didn't like him—his eyes hid too much.

I met Lucifer first and found him in a darkened corner of the Room.  The area was raised and apart from the others and bathed in shadow.  Impeccably dressed in a dark suit constantly ordained with a crucifix, Lucifer never let me see his eyes, hiding them behind a pair of impenetrable shades.  Hair, if you could call it that, was pulled back and varied from black to blonde to iridescent, depending on his mood.  Lucifer was who I came to see.

"I'm sure you want to why you're here," he said and his voice sounded like silk and smelled like brandy.

I nodded and watch the snifter refill itself with dark fluid.  "What…?"

Lucifer interrupted, "This idea of why, it's a defect in all of you.  You can't just accept anything, you have to know the why of it all."

"You don't think I have a right to know?" I said, feeling the indignation rise.  I heard Michael stifle a laugh as he made his break.

"A right to know?  You think you have rights?"  Lucifer leaned forward now, animated.  "You think the dust of the earth is worthy of rights, of consideration?  You hardly have a right to life."

"Lucifer," Gabriel warned and continued staring.  "He's not here for this."

"I called him; I know what he's here for, Watcher."

Raphael was pacing on the ceiling.  "Gabriel's right.  Tell him."

"Fine.  You must excuse me.  My colleagues have fared somewhat better than I when it comes to your 'whys' and 'hows.'  Forgive my indignation."  He shifted in the dark and offered me a seat.  I accepted.

"You know my name," Lucifer said, "and yes, I am that Lucifer.  Fall from Heaven, Garden of Eden, ruler of Hell, blah blah blah. I am that one you have condemned without, what do you call it? A fair trial.  Forget what you think you know.  Call me Lucifer."

I caught my breath.

"Not what you expected, huh?  We'll fix that.  That," he pointed at Michael, "is the Angel of Death, the slaughterer of the firstborn, the butcher for Israel.  The Captain of Army of Heaven.  If you must speak to him, call him Michael.  I'd be careful what I say, though, he doesn't exactly have a soft spot for humanity."

Pointing up, "You know Raphael.  You've seen him on the street, in your dreams, just over your shoulder.  He looks out for you—all of you—because he is a pathetic ass-kisser.  He's the one who told Mary about her bastard-son, the savior.  You've known about him for a long time."

"Lucifer is a little bitter," Raphael said.  "Hell does that."

"Clod," Lucifer said under his breath.  "And that is Gabriel the Watcher.  He doesn't do anything.  Never has, never will."

Michael growled across the table and snapped his stick.  I watched it grow out of his fist.

"Fine fine fine.  Gabriel has the eyes of the Father—everything you've ever read about any of us, he's dropped into the laps of willing humans.  This is why you have a story at all.  But humans being what they are, the story never stays the same or consistent or even true.  That's why you're here."

"Wait," I said, standing, "you are angels?  Like real angels, not 'Touched by an Angel' angels but the real thing?  You're the Devil?"

"Sit down," Michael said.

I didn't.  "This is ridiculous.  Aren't you at war?  Wasn't, isn't there some war going on for our souls?  What is this?  You guys are sitting here like you're friends."

Michael faced me now, brandishing his pool stick.  "I said, sit down.  Now."

I sat.  He knocked the 4 into a side pocket.

"Yes, there's a war," Lucifer said, "but you are not the prize.  I don't want you, I never wanted you."  He stood now.  "As far as friendships go, let me explain something to you.  We are forever.  We've been here since the beginning, not the beginning of this pile of garbage you call a planet, but the beginning of time.  We are old, our war is old. But before we were warriors, we were brothers.  Understand?"

Lucifer sat and his drink refilled.  He sipped it.

"What do you want with me?" I said.

"You have questions. We have answers," he said.

Raphael told me, "For thousands of years, the Father has chosen men to tell His side of the story.  They were the prophets.  We need you to do the same for us."

"You want me to be a prophet?" I said.  "Why?"

"We want you to tell our side—the truth—before it's too late," he said.

"Because we all have blood on our hands!" Lucifer said.  "No one is innocent, or purely good or purely evil.  Because what you know is a lie!"

Gabriel turned and I saw his eyes: they did not exist.  Puddles of black fluid, steaming, rippled in his eye sockets.  "The end is coming," he said.

Lucifer leaned forward, "We thought you might want to know why."

Read the rest in The Road to Hell. Also available at Barnes and Noble

On The Road Again…

I live in Seattle. It's a place that, even now, has a frontier-like quality. If you were awake in 8th grade history, you know that it is the final destination of the Lewis and Clark expedition, the western edge of the Louisiana Purchase. If you've visited there (during the summer months), you know it's one of the most physically beautiful places ever. If you live there, you know that it's a city in a constant struggle with the rainforest that surrounds it. It's both oasis and outpost.

It's home. For me. For now.

A couple weeks ago, my wife woke up and said she wanted to move to Kentucky. Kentucky? Seriously? Seriously. Just like that. I should come to expect these bombshells by now, to be able to feel the pulses of changes drumming in her and in me. 7 years ago we started this wagon trail by leaving Cleveland for the promised land of Colorado. 2 years later we were traipsing over the Rockies for Seattle. We get restless; we seek adventure and new places and new chapters. It is our rhythm honestly, the one that started our relationship and, hopefully, one that will continue for years to come. I'm not moving to Kentucky. Not a chance. But I do know that I am moving. I do know my story doesn't end in Seattle, as much as I love it. I guess it's time to turn the page.

The last 7 days have been one story unraveling on top of another. This Thanksgiving holiday I hung out with my in-laws in Cincinnati. I visited the Natural History Museum in Cincinnati's Union Terminal and saw a stunning model railroad display of the city in different decades since early 1900s. They recreated a 1800s-era dock with storefronts and a real steamboat floating in a lagoon. They told the story of explorers, of farmers and artisans and craftspeople, making something out of nothing.

My father-in-law lives in a 120 year-old house. It has a basement and attic, nooks and crannies, secret passageways. My daughter, the honey badger, has been itching to explore—she's been opening doorways and sneaking up unused staircases, creeping down crooked basement stairs with low-hanging ceilings, chomping at the bit for a run in the attic. She's doing what kids do, what we do, seeing what happens next.

I guess the need to explore is innate. At least it is for me. It is for my wife, my daughter, and millions of our forebears. It is what pushes us beyond the boundaries we see today, led us to challenge to flatness of the earth and the strength of its gravity. It sounds lofty and noble but, for me, it comes down to the story itself. It's just not over yet. There is more adventure to seek, more plot to uncover, more characters to introduce. The only thing that changes along the way is why—our motivations influence the plotlines of our lives just like they govern the whims of the souls we populate on the page. A story is a story is a story.

I've often said that my wife is a walking Lifetime movie. While I staunchly believe she is the strongest person I've ever met, she didn't get there quickly or easily. She's the product of plenty of family drama, abusive relationships, a hard head and a quick tongue. Such resilience is contagious: her extended friends and family look to her as a center, an anchor, to ground their own fears and grief and trepidation about the future. They lost their mother recently and a family without a matriarch is like a flock of birds with no leader: aimless and lost. They need her as a platform—as context—to write the next chapters in their own stories.

I'm realizing we're not alone in this, my wife and I, and this Restless Leg Syndrome is as human, and as American, as walking on two legs. It is what we do. What we're meant to do. For my wife, she is answering the call of those closest to her, those whose own stories depend on her. For my daughter, the taste of a new adventure draws her to a new frontier: she has no idea what to expect but she walks toward the future wide-eyed. I should mention my son has no interest in this madness—his is an epic tale of deep roots and longevity (which is a nice way of saying he doesn't want to go). For me, it's the story itself that beckons me. I don't care where we go (even Kentucky). I just want to see how it ends.

For Veterans' Day…

I've never done anything for a veteran before. Not intentionally. Maybe let a serviceman or woman cut in line at the airport, whispered a "thank you" under my breath, gave up the window seat on a flight. But really nothing of value. Nothing worth noting.

Until this Tuesday.

I was part of a community service project that donated time and labor to a Veterans Hospital in Los Angeles. Some of my peers fed wounded vets, others spent time at bedsides. Some painted curbs and washed cars. I worked on helping restore a Japanese Garden donated by vets to vets in the 50s.

The Garden butted up against a golf course and our hosts, 3 grizzled vets, told me about a much older vet, now 93, who frequented the course. They told me the older man recalled sitting in those same Japanese Gardens in the early 60s, legs amputated, pondering his future, his masculinity, his humanity. Now the old man refused to use a golf cart: he preferred to walk the grounds on his prosthetics. The vets said they reclaimed the Garden for him, this older peer: they wanted to give the opportunity for current wounded vets to reclaim their lives, their humanity.

But the Garden hadn't been touched since 1985.

1985. Think about that. I was 12 years old. Back to the Future was out. Reagan was in office. The Challenger hadn't exploded yet. The Cold War was still being waged. 6 weeks before we arrived our hosts cleared out much of the garden, chopping, slashing, digging. They'd cut down bamboo that was 30 feet tall, cleared fallen logs that were 10-15 feet long, banished coyotes. Fountains had been reclaimed from 3 feet of mud, cleaned and repaired. A concrete creek was retrieved and reactivated. All they wanted us to do was move the branches, the bamboo, the piles of brush, leaves and vines—the evidence of neglect—from one end of the garden to another. We were cleaning up after them.

My time at the Garden was one of both humility and outrage. I'd watched these men, the servants of our beloved country, battle nature to take back something that was given to them. And they'd done it without complaint, without backhoes or woodchippers or a crew—hell, without trashcans until 20 minutes after we showed up—they just did it. They did what was necessary when the rest of us didn't. They did what millions of service people have done since before our country was a country: they made it happen.

They made it happen in an era where military service is used as a tool or a pawn in political games but rarely given the respect it is due. They made it happen in a time when hundreds of thousands of veterans live on the street and millions live in poverty; when nearly half of returning veterans need help finding employment,; when their active duty pay was threatened, during 2 wars, by a political game of chicken. They'd done it despite of their own injuries sustained in service to our nation.

So I moved mounds of dirt and bamboo stalks 6 times my height. I dragged branches and tree limbs from one end of the Garden to another. I did whatever my hosts told me to do. I didn't say a word, didn't sound a single complaint, and after a hot, sweaty, dirty two hours, I left.

And these great men had the audacity to tell me thank you.

My first review: Progeny by Shawn Hopkins

Progeny by Shawn Hopkins

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

The first 4 verses of Genesis 6 introduce the rationale for God's flooding of the earth: angels—the sons of God—were making wives out of the daughters of men. And having children with them. "There were giants in the earth in those days; and also after that, when the sons of God came in unto the daughters of men, and they bare children to them, the same became mighty men which were of old, men of renown." (Genesis 6:4). The contention is that God caused the flood to wash away the remnants of this corruption to return humanity to its pure roots. In Shawn Hopkins' Progeny, the practice never stopped.

In a story I can best describe as The DaVinci Code meets Stargate, Hopkins weaves fallen angels, the gods of ancient mythology and the Bermuda Triangle into an intricate tale whose true focus is in the power of redemption. In a quest to find his missing brother, ex-Ranger John Carter is transported (literally) into a world of secrets and bloodlines, angels and demons. And giants. Big, nasty, bloodthirsty giants.

Carter's quest is a much about his brother as it is about his own identity and the ties that bind. Hopkins knows his stuff and it is evident, though a little heavy-handed at times. His proficiency in scripture, the Book of Enoch, and ancient civilizations makes this novel credible and a little frightening. Hopkins describes the similarities between ancient mythologies and Old Testament tales with academic dexterity and makes them central to the plot of the story. Where his skill lies is in pulling you, through John's experience, into the disconcerting realities his research suggests and the sinister conclusions they hold.

Progeny is equal parts religious thriller and action-packed roller coaster ride. Hopkins may write Christian-themed fiction but he doesn't play it safe: it's a gritty, bloody tale that will make you think, question and cringe from one page to the next. Did I mention the giants?

View all my reviews