James V. Smith Jr.'s Blog: Blog for Sinners, page 2
August 28, 2015
Chapter 004 of St. Ant Knee, A Novel for Sinners
If this is your first visit to the Blog for Sinners, you may want to start reading St. Ant Knee, A Novel for Sinners, at the link for Chapter 1. At the end of each chapter, you'll see the link to the next chapter. Enjoy!
4
Appearance
“If an appearance is as unseen as a tree falling in the forest . . .”
MAYBE I SHOULD EXPLAIN shouting. Saints don’t actually shout in the same way as you people do. It’s more a flash of awareness. Yes, I think that explains it. Christopher, do you think of it more as a flash—?
“Put it in a footnote or something,” he says.
He treats me as if I’m nothing but a scribe to him, a PR flak, a note-taker.
“Think of yourself more as a journalist.”
You take that back.
“A bit owly, aren’t we?”
It’s true. Descending into this vale of tears does have its downside, not to pun on it.
“And we are here because . . .?”
He wants me to come to the point.
“Indeed.”
We’re recruiting, but Christopher feels he has to perform a few miracles on the side. A politician goes to the wreckage of a hurricane and promises deliverance in the form of money in exchange for the top spot in the newscast and votes. Christopher brings me along to document miracles and testify when he calls for publicity. Me? I’m just a nobody like Joe Biden or Brian Williams.
“Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You’re playing an important part in the afterlife of your favorite saint. You tell me, Antonio, how many times does somebody get to say that?”
Christopher never stops saying it in fact.
He harrumphs.
“Watch and learn. And put it on the record.”
He takes a deep breath. Purely for effect because he does not require air and says, “Viola!” Just to spite me, he pronounces voila wrong for the second time in this story.
“Funny, huh?”
My sides are splitting.
On viola, the music from the Corvette’s CD player switches to Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy” again, a simply divine anthem inspired by heaven, music in on the first male vocal of the final movement.
The young woman ejects the CD, flips stations. The “Ode” plays on, louder. She bangs on the dash, drops her cigarette on her legs and slaps at it. She grabs at the steering wheel of the careening car before she sweeps the lit butt to the floor. And curse? Her streak is blue, only one phrase will I repeat to advance the story.
“Do. Please.”
“For Christ’s sake,” she blurts.
Christopher shrugs. “Close enough, Antonio?”
As I’ve said, we’re always looking for a prayer, any prayer, as our invitation to work with you people. In fact, Mother Teresa did use those very words as her pet prayer, turning an unpleasant saying into a heavenly invocation. In this woman’s case, by the tone of it, she isn’t exactly of the same mind as Mother Saint T, as we call her, sainted in heaven although still progressing through the Vatican bureaucracy here on earth. Still, Christopher wants to give her the benefit of doubt.
“Antonio?”
Yes?
“Close enough?”
If you say so.
“Are you going to pout?”
Are you going to be so snippy? The sin of snippy mean anything to you, Christopher?
“The sin of snippy?”
Technically—
“Hey! Trying to make a miracle here.”
Christopher appears.
That is, he assumes human form, decked out in white. His cloak and tunic are so-o-o white they diminish the brilliance of the snow on the peaks outside the car. Christopher likes the white-haired, white-bearded look of the holy cards, nothing like he looked in life. He’s quite tall and muscular, too muscular for a guy in his seventies, an over-the-hill professional wrestler on steroids.
I notice his sandals are a mere size 13. Come on now, Christopher, are we being realistic? If he were true to his past life form he’d wear toboggans. His nose is a mere size 10, half its original bulk.
He scowls at me.
Oh, and look, he’s got an oak staff as a prop. Now that’s going a bit too Moses, isn’t it?
The beautiful woman doesn’t notice his earthly presence. Her eyes are full of tears, and she’s still smashing buttons on that CD player.
I wonder. If an appearance is as unseen as a tree falling in the forest, is it an appearance at all?
Christopher scowls, but keeps his silence. It won’t last long.
He raises an eyebrow at me, giving me the business. I give it right back.
The silence.
Will not.
Last.
. . .
To continue reading, here's the link to Chapters 5, 6, and 7. Also On the header at the very top right of this post, you'll see the Goodreads link to the next post. After today, we'll go with that link, if you don't mind. Thanks.
4
Appearance
“If an appearance is as unseen as a tree falling in the forest . . .”
MAYBE I SHOULD EXPLAIN shouting. Saints don’t actually shout in the same way as you people do. It’s more a flash of awareness. Yes, I think that explains it. Christopher, do you think of it more as a flash—?
“Put it in a footnote or something,” he says.
He treats me as if I’m nothing but a scribe to him, a PR flak, a note-taker.
“Think of yourself more as a journalist.”
You take that back.
“A bit owly, aren’t we?”
It’s true. Descending into this vale of tears does have its downside, not to pun on it.
“And we are here because . . .?”
He wants me to come to the point.
“Indeed.”
We’re recruiting, but Christopher feels he has to perform a few miracles on the side. A politician goes to the wreckage of a hurricane and promises deliverance in the form of money in exchange for the top spot in the newscast and votes. Christopher brings me along to document miracles and testify when he calls for publicity. Me? I’m just a nobody like Joe Biden or Brian Williams.
“Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You’re playing an important part in the afterlife of your favorite saint. You tell me, Antonio, how many times does somebody get to say that?”
Christopher never stops saying it in fact.
He harrumphs.
“Watch and learn. And put it on the record.”
He takes a deep breath. Purely for effect because he does not require air and says, “Viola!” Just to spite me, he pronounces voila wrong for the second time in this story.
“Funny, huh?”
My sides are splitting.
On viola, the music from the Corvette’s CD player switches to Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy” again, a simply divine anthem inspired by heaven, music in on the first male vocal of the final movement.
The young woman ejects the CD, flips stations. The “Ode” plays on, louder. She bangs on the dash, drops her cigarette on her legs and slaps at it. She grabs at the steering wheel of the careening car before she sweeps the lit butt to the floor. And curse? Her streak is blue, only one phrase will I repeat to advance the story.
“Do. Please.”
“For Christ’s sake,” she blurts.
Christopher shrugs. “Close enough, Antonio?”
As I’ve said, we’re always looking for a prayer, any prayer, as our invitation to work with you people. In fact, Mother Teresa did use those very words as her pet prayer, turning an unpleasant saying into a heavenly invocation. In this woman’s case, by the tone of it, she isn’t exactly of the same mind as Mother Saint T, as we call her, sainted in heaven although still progressing through the Vatican bureaucracy here on earth. Still, Christopher wants to give her the benefit of doubt.
“Antonio?”
Yes?
“Close enough?”
If you say so.
“Are you going to pout?”
Are you going to be so snippy? The sin of snippy mean anything to you, Christopher?
“The sin of snippy?”
Technically—
“Hey! Trying to make a miracle here.”
Christopher appears.
That is, he assumes human form, decked out in white. His cloak and tunic are so-o-o white they diminish the brilliance of the snow on the peaks outside the car. Christopher likes the white-haired, white-bearded look of the holy cards, nothing like he looked in life. He’s quite tall and muscular, too muscular for a guy in his seventies, an over-the-hill professional wrestler on steroids.
I notice his sandals are a mere size 13. Come on now, Christopher, are we being realistic? If he were true to his past life form he’d wear toboggans. His nose is a mere size 10, half its original bulk.
He scowls at me.
Oh, and look, he’s got an oak staff as a prop. Now that’s going a bit too Moses, isn’t it?
The beautiful woman doesn’t notice his earthly presence. Her eyes are full of tears, and she’s still smashing buttons on that CD player.
I wonder. If an appearance is as unseen as a tree falling in the forest, is it an appearance at all?
Christopher scowls, but keeps his silence. It won’t last long.
He raises an eyebrow at me, giving me the business. I give it right back.
The silence.
Will not.
Last.
. . .
To continue reading, here's the link to Chapters 5, 6, and 7. Also On the header at the very top right of this post, you'll see the Goodreads link to the next post. After today, we'll go with that link, if you don't mind. Thanks.
August 27, 2015
Chapter 003 of St. Ant Knee, A Novel for Sinners
If you've been following St. Ant Knee, A Novel for Sinners, this is the third installment. If you'd like to read this free book from the beginning, here is a link to Chapter 1
At the end of Chapter 1, you'll find another link to Chapter 2
And here is Chapter . . .
3
Transistence
“If you’re a Trekkie, it’s beaming up and down without the tractor beam.”
ON THE INSTANT, Christopher has left the mountaintop to occupy the front seat beside the woman as she sits there cursing. Cursing in amazement that she lives. Mind you, not thanking God for her survival, but cursing.
“Tell the nice people how I came to be here.”
How to explain our saintly power to be anywhere we want to be.
“Why don’t you start by telling what we call it?”
Indeed. It’s transistence, meaning existence across boundaries of time and space, if you will. It’s the non-visible form of Trans-Imagery Appearance, TIA for short, or simply, appearance. You people might call transistence the ultimate in multi-tasking, only multi-being. It’s quicker than instantaneous, actually. It’s more . . . simultaneous, wouldn’t you say, Christopher?
“Get on with it.”
The woman cannot hear him by the way.
“Again, how I came to be here.”
How would a human explain it? We appear, sometimes, the visible manifestation, and sometimes just assume the invisible existence, the visitation in spirit only.
“Too technical, Antonio.”
Fine. If you’re a Trekkie, it’s beaming up and down without the tractor beam. If you’re a fan of Calvin and Hobbes, it’s transmogrification without the cardboard box. And forget about the invisibility cloak. You don’t need a cloak to travel where we go. It’s faster than light, faster even than thought, just this side of the speed of the Power of the Holy Spirit. Satisfied?
“The Power of the Holy Spirit? Oh, that explains a lot. You’re talking to people who can’t run their televisions without four or five clickers. How are they going to understand PHS when most of them don’t even know Who the Holy Spirit is?”
Perhaps I should explain.
“Save it for your next book. Perhaps you should get on with transistence in this one.”
Yes, well, to begin again. We’re inside the Corvette car because we willed ourselves to be here. We’re not here as humans . . . not in human form anyway. We’re here in spirit, the simple but elegant transistence. If I were human, I’d be crammed in the back compartment amid all the woman’s luggage and empty wine bottles and damp cigarette butts and whatnot. Besides, if I wanted to, I could put myself anywhere, say, in the very bucket seat that Christopher has taken for himself.
“Like to see you try.”
I could put myself in the console. On the head of a pin with a thousand angels singing to glory, which is what they do best.
“The only thing they do best.”
If I wanted, I could even be in the glowing orange button of that black cigarette of hers and not feel a thing. Understand, I’m not boasting here. I’m just—
I realize Christopher is staring at me.
(I said looking earlier and staring just now, which to be honest is a lot closer to glaring, but of course, we don’t require eyes in our state. It’s more like he’s raised his level of awareness of me, if that makes sense to you people. If it doesn’t, sorry. Most of you will never grasp the transcendent power of the spirit. You’re all into the notion of saving the world from global warming, with no clue to your own powerlessness.)
“Hey!” he shouts. “My miracle?”
To continue reading, here's the link to Chapter 4.
At the end of Chapter 1, you'll find another link to Chapter 2
And here is Chapter . . .
3
Transistence
“If you’re a Trekkie, it’s beaming up and down without the tractor beam.”
ON THE INSTANT, Christopher has left the mountaintop to occupy the front seat beside the woman as she sits there cursing. Cursing in amazement that she lives. Mind you, not thanking God for her survival, but cursing.
“Tell the nice people how I came to be here.”
How to explain our saintly power to be anywhere we want to be.
“Why don’t you start by telling what we call it?”
Indeed. It’s transistence, meaning existence across boundaries of time and space, if you will. It’s the non-visible form of Trans-Imagery Appearance, TIA for short, or simply, appearance. You people might call transistence the ultimate in multi-tasking, only multi-being. It’s quicker than instantaneous, actually. It’s more . . . simultaneous, wouldn’t you say, Christopher?
“Get on with it.”
The woman cannot hear him by the way.
“Again, how I came to be here.”
How would a human explain it? We appear, sometimes, the visible manifestation, and sometimes just assume the invisible existence, the visitation in spirit only.
“Too technical, Antonio.”
Fine. If you’re a Trekkie, it’s beaming up and down without the tractor beam. If you’re a fan of Calvin and Hobbes, it’s transmogrification without the cardboard box. And forget about the invisibility cloak. You don’t need a cloak to travel where we go. It’s faster than light, faster even than thought, just this side of the speed of the Power of the Holy Spirit. Satisfied?
“The Power of the Holy Spirit? Oh, that explains a lot. You’re talking to people who can’t run their televisions without four or five clickers. How are they going to understand PHS when most of them don’t even know Who the Holy Spirit is?”
Perhaps I should explain.
“Save it for your next book. Perhaps you should get on with transistence in this one.”
Yes, well, to begin again. We’re inside the Corvette car because we willed ourselves to be here. We’re not here as humans . . . not in human form anyway. We’re here in spirit, the simple but elegant transistence. If I were human, I’d be crammed in the back compartment amid all the woman’s luggage and empty wine bottles and damp cigarette butts and whatnot. Besides, if I wanted to, I could put myself anywhere, say, in the very bucket seat that Christopher has taken for himself.
“Like to see you try.”
I could put myself in the console. On the head of a pin with a thousand angels singing to glory, which is what they do best.
“The only thing they do best.”
If I wanted, I could even be in the glowing orange button of that black cigarette of hers and not feel a thing. Understand, I’m not boasting here. I’m just—
I realize Christopher is staring at me.
(I said looking earlier and staring just now, which to be honest is a lot closer to glaring, but of course, we don’t require eyes in our state. It’s more like he’s raised his level of awareness of me, if that makes sense to you people. If it doesn’t, sorry. Most of you will never grasp the transcendent power of the spirit. You’re all into the notion of saving the world from global warming, with no clue to your own powerlessness.)
“Hey!” he shouts. “My miracle?”
To continue reading, here's the link to Chapter 4.
August 26, 2015
Blog 002, Marketing to Sinners: St. Ant Knee, Novel for Sinners
**This is the second chapter of St. Ant Knee, A Novel for Sinners. Welcome.
2
In the Beginning
“How will it look if the patron saint of travelers lets the woman sail off a cliff like Thelma and Louise?”
WE STAND ATOP EAGLE PEAK near Lookout Pass, looking out at the red smear of a Corvette skiffing the concrete waves of I-90 from Idaho into Montana. To you humans, the Corvette is nothing to see but a red flash against a background of black-evergreen pines and the Shrek-green larches of spring. But in fact, you could not even see for the snowstorm between us and the sporty ride. We see right through the horizontal snow squall at this altitude. Just as easily as we see through the intentions and inventions of you people.
There’s a story ahead of this driver, a story as old as the Old Testament: In the beginning a beautiful woman scorned steals her boyfriend’s most precious red Vette and streaks across state lines, smoking, cursing, drinking and texting while flying into Montana at warp speed, barely half an hour ahead of a posse of lawmen of every stripe and badge, she, trying to outrun romance and rejection, unwittingly hurtling down the road to Perdition.
“Practically Genesis 1:1.”
That’s my companion, Saint Christopher. He’s being sarcastic.
“I prefer ironic.”
He’s not actually talking, but reading my thoughts and answering with his own. I’ve put his words into quotes, so you Muggles . . . er mortals can distinguish between our thoughts by punctuation.
“Forget punctuation, Antonio. People only care about superpowers.”
Which we call miracles.
“So you’ve said. They want a miracle. And soon. Or else they’ll tune out.”
No.
“They’re humans. Weak minds, tiny attention spans. They need chases and car crashes to keep them awake. Tell them we’re only minutes away from a spectacular car crash. Maybe it will pique their interest to keep reading.”
Really, Christopher.
“People don’t care about anything but themselves. And car crashes.”
They care about the young woman on the brink of death. Surely.
“Can you name one person who cares?”
Sadly, I can’t. This young woman is not the best example of one to be cared about.
“People are too busy texting to care anyhow. Most of them wouldn’t know a miracle unless it jumped out of an iPhone. Even so about half of them would claim it was a Photoshop fake. They’re probably going to call her Saint Ain’t.”
Seems a bit harsh, don’t you think?
“Suppose we get back to my miracle, Anthony.”
Ah, yes, miracles. The day itself is a miracle, a poetic opening to our story. The warbling of spring meadowlarks migrating north, the fluttering flush of the resident spruce grouse, the whisper of a bald eagle’s wings in flight, a cow elk mewing as she nourishes her newborn calf—
“The rock music ripping holes in the elk ears. The squealing tires. And the cursing going on inside that car? It’s a sin, Antonio. And don’t tell me it’s not.”
I wouldn’t presume—
“You presume all the time.”
According to some, I suppose.
“According to all who outrank you.”
I should explain. Christopher is an extraordinary being, a spirit of a very high order—
“Higher than you.”
Which is what outrank means.
“And don’t forget it.”
As I was saying, a spirit of a very high order, one who not only reads thoughts but who can also anticipate thought and quite able to see through this high altitude white-out between us and the bucolic scene below. He can also hear what’s going on inside the Corvette miles away —at this very instant 6.2832 miles to be precise, exactly two times value of pi to the fourth place, if you’re fond of mathemagical coincidences.
“People don’t care about pi unless it’s peach. Tell them what’s going on in the sports car.”
The young woman driving is distraught—
“Details, Antonio. They want the nitty-gritty.”
She’s swearing most vile.
“And?”
She’s weeping.
“Bawling like a branded calf. Cursing in howls. Her throat hurts. Her nose is running, and she’s wiping it on her sleeve. She hasn’t showered for days.”
As I say, she is quite distraught.
“She quite stinks.”
There is such a thing as too many details, Christopher.
“Stinks like a slice of pizza left out all night in the box.”
Ugh!
“Anchovies and rancid pepperoni.”
Christopher!
“In grease-damp cardboard.”
Enough, Christopher, we get it.
“And she’s smoking.”
Those long, black cigarettes. What do you people see in them?
“And drinking.”
Very intoxicated.
“Drunk.”
Indeed. But shouldn’t you be doing your miracle, Christopher?
“First build the drama, Anthony. The best miracles are full of drama and suspense. Tell them what she’s doing now.”
She’s speeding. Over ninety at times.
“Under ninety at times, to be precise about it.”
Very dangerous.
“Suicidal, in fact.”
Which is exactly a point for us to act. We really should intervene before the drama ends. Now? Christopher? Don’t you think? Just once I’d like to work with one of these people alive.
“In time, Antonio, in time.”
This isn’t about to be another of your just-in-the-nick miracles, is it?
“Like people, we have rules. Unlike people, we obey ours.”
True. But. How will it look if the patron saint of travelers lets the woman sail off a cliff like Thelma and Louise?
“She has to pray. It’s the rule.”
You bend rules all the time, Christopher.
“One measly word. Would it kill them to pray one word once in a while?”
The Corvette goes into a skid, spinning toward a quite precipitous bit of topography.
“A cliff, Antonio, a cliff. Always use the familiar.”
She shrieks, “For Christ’s sake, no, no, no-o-o-o-o-o. Sweet Jee-e-e-zuz.”
“Close enough, Antonio?”
If you say so.
The woman slams on her brakes to no effect, since the Corvette is in a spin. The music she’s playing is Gloria Gaynor’s classic oldie, “I will survive.” An ironic choice, I’d say.
“Stifle. Trying to work a miracle here.”
I hate it when he pulls rank.
“Hate, Antonio? You know it’s a crime here on earth?”
I didn’t mean hate exactly. I just — Good Lord, Christopher.
“Amen.”
Amen, but . . .
The car is airborne.
We’re too late.
“Give it a rest, will you? Watch and learn . . . Viola!”
Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy” overpowers Gloria Gaynor.
Miraculously, the Corvette rights itself, landing hard, but cruising once again smoothly down the interstate. Another death averted, courtesy of Saint Christopher.
“First miracle of the new Earth day.”
“You might mention our abrupt change of venue, Antonio.”
Indeed. It’s called transistence.
. . .
There it is, the second chapter. I worry at times about the two voices in conversation. Too confusing? Let me know. And . . .
Here is the link to Chapter 3
2
In the Beginning
“How will it look if the patron saint of travelers lets the woman sail off a cliff like Thelma and Louise?”
WE STAND ATOP EAGLE PEAK near Lookout Pass, looking out at the red smear of a Corvette skiffing the concrete waves of I-90 from Idaho into Montana. To you humans, the Corvette is nothing to see but a red flash against a background of black-evergreen pines and the Shrek-green larches of spring. But in fact, you could not even see for the snowstorm between us and the sporty ride. We see right through the horizontal snow squall at this altitude. Just as easily as we see through the intentions and inventions of you people.
There’s a story ahead of this driver, a story as old as the Old Testament: In the beginning a beautiful woman scorned steals her boyfriend’s most precious red Vette and streaks across state lines, smoking, cursing, drinking and texting while flying into Montana at warp speed, barely half an hour ahead of a posse of lawmen of every stripe and badge, she, trying to outrun romance and rejection, unwittingly hurtling down the road to Perdition.
“Practically Genesis 1:1.”
That’s my companion, Saint Christopher. He’s being sarcastic.
“I prefer ironic.”
He’s not actually talking, but reading my thoughts and answering with his own. I’ve put his words into quotes, so you Muggles . . . er mortals can distinguish between our thoughts by punctuation.
“Forget punctuation, Antonio. People only care about superpowers.”
Which we call miracles.
“So you’ve said. They want a miracle. And soon. Or else they’ll tune out.”
No.
“They’re humans. Weak minds, tiny attention spans. They need chases and car crashes to keep them awake. Tell them we’re only minutes away from a spectacular car crash. Maybe it will pique their interest to keep reading.”
Really, Christopher.
“People don’t care about anything but themselves. And car crashes.”
They care about the young woman on the brink of death. Surely.
“Can you name one person who cares?”
Sadly, I can’t. This young woman is not the best example of one to be cared about.
“People are too busy texting to care anyhow. Most of them wouldn’t know a miracle unless it jumped out of an iPhone. Even so about half of them would claim it was a Photoshop fake. They’re probably going to call her Saint Ain’t.”
Seems a bit harsh, don’t you think?
“Suppose we get back to my miracle, Anthony.”
Ah, yes, miracles. The day itself is a miracle, a poetic opening to our story. The warbling of spring meadowlarks migrating north, the fluttering flush of the resident spruce grouse, the whisper of a bald eagle’s wings in flight, a cow elk mewing as she nourishes her newborn calf—
“The rock music ripping holes in the elk ears. The squealing tires. And the cursing going on inside that car? It’s a sin, Antonio. And don’t tell me it’s not.”
I wouldn’t presume—
“You presume all the time.”
According to some, I suppose.
“According to all who outrank you.”
I should explain. Christopher is an extraordinary being, a spirit of a very high order—
“Higher than you.”
Which is what outrank means.
“And don’t forget it.”
As I was saying, a spirit of a very high order, one who not only reads thoughts but who can also anticipate thought and quite able to see through this high altitude white-out between us and the bucolic scene below. He can also hear what’s going on inside the Corvette miles away —at this very instant 6.2832 miles to be precise, exactly two times value of pi to the fourth place, if you’re fond of mathemagical coincidences.
“People don’t care about pi unless it’s peach. Tell them what’s going on in the sports car.”
The young woman driving is distraught—
“Details, Antonio. They want the nitty-gritty.”
She’s swearing most vile.
“And?”
She’s weeping.
“Bawling like a branded calf. Cursing in howls. Her throat hurts. Her nose is running, and she’s wiping it on her sleeve. She hasn’t showered for days.”
As I say, she is quite distraught.
“She quite stinks.”
There is such a thing as too many details, Christopher.
“Stinks like a slice of pizza left out all night in the box.”
Ugh!
“Anchovies and rancid pepperoni.”
Christopher!
“In grease-damp cardboard.”
Enough, Christopher, we get it.
“And she’s smoking.”
Those long, black cigarettes. What do you people see in them?
“And drinking.”
Very intoxicated.
“Drunk.”
Indeed. But shouldn’t you be doing your miracle, Christopher?
“First build the drama, Anthony. The best miracles are full of drama and suspense. Tell them what she’s doing now.”
She’s speeding. Over ninety at times.
“Under ninety at times, to be precise about it.”
Very dangerous.
“Suicidal, in fact.”
Which is exactly a point for us to act. We really should intervene before the drama ends. Now? Christopher? Don’t you think? Just once I’d like to work with one of these people alive.
“In time, Antonio, in time.”
This isn’t about to be another of your just-in-the-nick miracles, is it?
“Like people, we have rules. Unlike people, we obey ours.”
True. But. How will it look if the patron saint of travelers lets the woman sail off a cliff like Thelma and Louise?
“She has to pray. It’s the rule.”
You bend rules all the time, Christopher.
“One measly word. Would it kill them to pray one word once in a while?”
The Corvette goes into a skid, spinning toward a quite precipitous bit of topography.
“A cliff, Antonio, a cliff. Always use the familiar.”
She shrieks, “For Christ’s sake, no, no, no-o-o-o-o-o. Sweet Jee-e-e-zuz.”
“Close enough, Antonio?”
If you say so.
The woman slams on her brakes to no effect, since the Corvette is in a spin. The music she’s playing is Gloria Gaynor’s classic oldie, “I will survive.” An ironic choice, I’d say.
“Stifle. Trying to work a miracle here.”
I hate it when he pulls rank.
“Hate, Antonio? You know it’s a crime here on earth?”
I didn’t mean hate exactly. I just — Good Lord, Christopher.
“Amen.”
Amen, but . . .
The car is airborne.
We’re too late.
“Give it a rest, will you? Watch and learn . . . Viola!”
Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy” overpowers Gloria Gaynor.
Miraculously, the Corvette rights itself, landing hard, but cruising once again smoothly down the interstate. Another death averted, courtesy of Saint Christopher.
“First miracle of the new Earth day.”
“You might mention our abrupt change of venue, Antonio.”
Indeed. It’s called transistence.
. . .
There it is, the second chapter. I worry at times about the two voices in conversation. Too confusing? Let me know. And . . .
Here is the link to Chapter 3
August 25, 2015
Blog 001 RE: St. Ant Knee — The Novel for Sinners
In journalism school, we heard it a thousand times, this advice about checking your facts. If your mother says she loves you, check it out. That seemed like good advice to me, since I got my education at St. William School, where they did not merely teach religion. They hammered it into your head. Often enough, in my case, with a knuckle to the skull from Sister Blister of the Holy Order of the Sanctified Head Knockers. Knuckles notwithstanding, I had my doubts.
It seems that Sister Blister's brand of theology was a kind of Old Testament vengeance of the Lord thinly veiled by You can love your neighbor, but keep your hands to yourself. I mean, come on. An eighth grade kid is going to hell because he was spotted holding hands with Carol Egan from half a mile away? Hell was wasted on me because it was overused on me.
Instead, I've always rather suspected that God, being God and all omnipotent in all things, must surely have the greatest sense of humor in the cosmos. It stands to reason. So I dared to write this book, casting some of my favorite saints and their outlook on spirituality, religion (which is an entirely different thing from spirituality), heaven, the deity, saints, sinners, bloggers, and all the rest. You sinners might enjoy the saintly point of view, which in many cases entirely opposes that of Sister Blister.
Here goes:
1
Saint Ain’t
“Think Harry Potter and Hogwarts, the school for wizards, but with no schoolhouse, no wizards, no witches, no magic, nor dragons.”
We are two saints come to earth to recruit and induct one of your own kind into the School of Saints.
And what is this School of Saints? You ask.
Think Harry Potter and Hogwarts, the school for wizards, but with no schoolhouse, no wizards, no witches, no magic, nor dragons. And forget that nonsense game of Qidditch, which nobody on earth understands and nobody in Heaven cares to.
Voldemort? Go ahead. Say his name. Power-wise, he’s not even a gnat’s aspiration next to the devil’s advocates we face.
Why, the power of our powers would end the Harry Potter series two words into the Sorcerer’s Stone. But don’t call these powers “magic” or “tricks” or “wizardry” or “sorcery” or even “superpowers.”
For they are miracles.
One of which, you are about to witness.
. . .
Thus endeth the first, brief, introductory installment.
To go directly to the next chapter, here's a link: Chapter 2
From a purely exploitative standpoint, it should be fairly obvious that I'm marketing to, not just sinners, but grown-up readers of the Harry Potter books. That generation of eighty-six million might well have developed a taste for reading of similar content but from an adult perspective. I'd be interested in knowing from you. Am I wrong about that? Does this approach, even with its (warped) sense of humor, come off as entirely too irreverent? Leave your opinion in a comment below.
As a postscript: I made that remark about Harry Potter readers to my agent, and she told me that I could never compete with J.K. Rowling in writing young adult fiction. In other words, completely missing the point.
It seems that Sister Blister's brand of theology was a kind of Old Testament vengeance of the Lord thinly veiled by You can love your neighbor, but keep your hands to yourself. I mean, come on. An eighth grade kid is going to hell because he was spotted holding hands with Carol Egan from half a mile away? Hell was wasted on me because it was overused on me.
Instead, I've always rather suspected that God, being God and all omnipotent in all things, must surely have the greatest sense of humor in the cosmos. It stands to reason. So I dared to write this book, casting some of my favorite saints and their outlook on spirituality, religion (which is an entirely different thing from spirituality), heaven, the deity, saints, sinners, bloggers, and all the rest. You sinners might enjoy the saintly point of view, which in many cases entirely opposes that of Sister Blister.
Here goes:
1
Saint Ain’t
“Think Harry Potter and Hogwarts, the school for wizards, but with no schoolhouse, no wizards, no witches, no magic, nor dragons.”
We are two saints come to earth to recruit and induct one of your own kind into the School of Saints.
And what is this School of Saints? You ask.
Think Harry Potter and Hogwarts, the school for wizards, but with no schoolhouse, no wizards, no witches, no magic, nor dragons. And forget that nonsense game of Qidditch, which nobody on earth understands and nobody in Heaven cares to.
Voldemort? Go ahead. Say his name. Power-wise, he’s not even a gnat’s aspiration next to the devil’s advocates we face.
Why, the power of our powers would end the Harry Potter series two words into the Sorcerer’s Stone. But don’t call these powers “magic” or “tricks” or “wizardry” or “sorcery” or even “superpowers.”
For they are miracles.
One of which, you are about to witness.
. . .
Thus endeth the first, brief, introductory installment.
To go directly to the next chapter, here's a link: Chapter 2
From a purely exploitative standpoint, it should be fairly obvious that I'm marketing to, not just sinners, but grown-up readers of the Harry Potter books. That generation of eighty-six million might well have developed a taste for reading of similar content but from an adult perspective. I'd be interested in knowing from you. Am I wrong about that? Does this approach, even with its (warped) sense of humor, come off as entirely too irreverent? Leave your opinion in a comment below.
As a postscript: I made that remark about Harry Potter readers to my agent, and she told me that I could never compete with J.K. Rowling in writing young adult fiction. In other words, completely missing the point.
August 24, 2015
Marketing to Sinners 101
I've written way more books than I've published. Once or twice I didn't have the nerve to show them to my agent. Once I did have the nerve.
He said, "As usual, Jim, I really like the writer and the writing." Okay, that's a red flag right there. He goes on, "But I don't get it." Here it comes. "I don't know where I'd market it." He wouldn't pitch it to publishers.
I've been stewing about that for years. Until this summer, when a writing colleague mentioned he'd be out of touch for a couple weeks on a trip to the Caribbean. I asked if he'd like a beach book in manuscript form. He politely consented to accept it, with no promises of reading. It was a gentle brush-off, I thought.
Until he came back home and sent me a note that he absolutely loved it. Laughed until he cried. At first I thought he was pranking me back for sending him a really bad novel.
But no, he was serious. I told him the agent story about where can I market this book. He blurted, "Market it to sinners."
Now that made perfect sense. He is a sinner, a sometimes backsliding Catholic, so he should know. I'm a sinner and fallen Catholic, but a fairly committed spiritual person constructed with a heavy dose of Christianity leavened with a worship of nature — I live in Montana. I love the book, too. Why not you other sinners out there?
Think about it. Marketing to sinners like you is pure genius. We live in a world with more sinners than saints, maybe a kabillion of them on this site alone.
Problem is, how do you identifyyou them? Can you imagine a market research telephone campaign calling you in the evening asking if you consider yourself a sinner? Walk up to people on the street? Not until I develop a familiarity with the self-defense arts.
But. Here I am on Goodreads. With millions of followers — of other authors, to be sure. Even so, a few of these followers and book enthusiasts are sinners. Right? Admit it, you have sinned. Even something as innocuous as I used to confess as a kid at St. William. "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. Since my last confession, I cursed three times (if you can believe that, Lord above). I disrespected my mom once (but only once cuz she told my dad and he cured me of that sin), and I had impure thoughts six million, three hundred, and one times (and please, Father, don't ask me for the details, because I will lie. And save that sin for my next confession)."
So, back to you sinners. If you do self-identify as even a venial sinner, I have this book for you. Mind, only one other person in the world besides the author has read it all (my agent only read a sample). But I'll post it here in installments with commentary to keep it blogworthy. You, minor league sinner that you are, tell me whether I should go on and try marketing it to the world of non-sinners (people who have never thrown a stone).
Or just to people like you.
You in?
Stay tuned.
He said, "As usual, Jim, I really like the writer and the writing." Okay, that's a red flag right there. He goes on, "But I don't get it." Here it comes. "I don't know where I'd market it." He wouldn't pitch it to publishers.
I've been stewing about that for years. Until this summer, when a writing colleague mentioned he'd be out of touch for a couple weeks on a trip to the Caribbean. I asked if he'd like a beach book in manuscript form. He politely consented to accept it, with no promises of reading. It was a gentle brush-off, I thought.
Until he came back home and sent me a note that he absolutely loved it. Laughed until he cried. At first I thought he was pranking me back for sending him a really bad novel.
But no, he was serious. I told him the agent story about where can I market this book. He blurted, "Market it to sinners."
Now that made perfect sense. He is a sinner, a sometimes backsliding Catholic, so he should know. I'm a sinner and fallen Catholic, but a fairly committed spiritual person constructed with a heavy dose of Christianity leavened with a worship of nature — I live in Montana. I love the book, too. Why not you other sinners out there?
Think about it. Marketing to sinners like you is pure genius. We live in a world with more sinners than saints, maybe a kabillion of them on this site alone.
Problem is, how do you identify
But. Here I am on Goodreads. With millions of followers — of other authors, to be sure. Even so, a few of these followers and book enthusiasts are sinners. Right? Admit it, you have sinned. Even something as innocuous as I used to confess as a kid at St. William. "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. Since my last confession, I cursed three times (if you can believe that, Lord above). I disrespected my mom once (but only once cuz she told my dad and he cured me of that sin), and I had impure thoughts six million, three hundred, and one times (and please, Father, don't ask me for the details, because I will lie. And save that sin for my next confession)."
So, back to you sinners. If you do self-identify as even a venial sinner, I have this book for you. Mind, only one other person in the world besides the author has read it all (my agent only read a sample). But I'll post it here in installments with commentary to keep it blogworthy. You, minor league sinner that you are, tell me whether I should go on and try marketing it to the world of non-sinners (people who have never thrown a stone).
Or just to people like you.
You in?
Stay tuned.
Blog for Sinners
This blog is recruiting sinners. You self-identify as a sinner, and I, a major league sinner, reveal my next novel to you a chapter at a time. Enjoy
St. Ant Knee, A Novel for Sinners
- James V. Smith Jr.'s profile
- 12 followers
