Brian Kindall's Blog, page 2
February 12, 2016
Delivering Virtue Editor's Choice at Historical Novel Society!
Delivering Virtue has been reviewed by the Historical Novel Society and is an Editor's Choice, which automatically longlists it for the 2017 HNS Indie Award. Here's the review:
"“1854 and Didier Rain doesn’t want to be a rogue. He prefers to think of himself as a gentleman poet. And yet every time Rain finds himself in questionable circumstances, some animal instinct leads him into wrongful behavior. Maybe it’s his Oedipal upbringing that’s to blame. Or maybe he’s just never found a good moral example that hasn’t let him down.”
Brian Kindall creates a memorably delightful character, dissolute, shabby-genteel poet Didier Rain, in order to tell the picaresque story of his latest novel, Delivering Virtue.
In 1854, Rain is approached by the Church of the Resurrected Truth, a splinter Mormon offshoot, and hired as bodyguard to deliver a child named Virtue deep into the Western wilderness so that she can be the bride to their prophet Nehi. The energetic, rambling quest-story that Kindall unfolds from this premise is both gripping and at times semi-comic.
Rain and his little charge encounter lunatics, killers, American Indians, fanatics, and, eventually, the prophet himself and his followers.
As the narrative climaxes and unhinges, Kindall steps up the violence of his narrative and its poignancy, and the combination of action, cynicism and dogged hope (with heavy helpings of magical realism) is oddly effective. A remarkable and sui generis historical novel." - Historical Novel Society
"“1854 and Didier Rain doesn’t want to be a rogue. He prefers to think of himself as a gentleman poet. And yet every time Rain finds himself in questionable circumstances, some animal instinct leads him into wrongful behavior. Maybe it’s his Oedipal upbringing that’s to blame. Or maybe he’s just never found a good moral example that hasn’t let him down.”
Brian Kindall creates a memorably delightful character, dissolute, shabby-genteel poet Didier Rain, in order to tell the picaresque story of his latest novel, Delivering Virtue.
In 1854, Rain is approached by the Church of the Resurrected Truth, a splinter Mormon offshoot, and hired as bodyguard to deliver a child named Virtue deep into the Western wilderness so that she can be the bride to their prophet Nehi. The energetic, rambling quest-story that Kindall unfolds from this premise is both gripping and at times semi-comic.
Rain and his little charge encounter lunatics, killers, American Indians, fanatics, and, eventually, the prophet himself and his followers.
As the narrative climaxes and unhinges, Kindall steps up the violence of his narrative and its poignancy, and the combination of action, cynicism and dogged hope (with heavy helpings of magical realism) is oddly effective. A remarkable and sui generis historical novel." - Historical Novel Society
December 12, 2015
Delivering Virtue, Questions and Answers
Q & A with Brian Kindall about adult fiction novel, Delivering Virtue
- The first thing that strikes a reader of Delivering Virtue is the voice of its main character, Didier Rain. How did you ever come up with such an eccentric and engaging oddity?
Honestly, Rain came to me, looking for someone to serve as medium for his story. Or at least that’s how it felt when I started writing. I was just a channel for the voice of this poetic, good-hearted nincompoop. That’s Rain’s highfalutin language and skewed philosophy you’re reading. That’s his comical overblown vocabulary. Writers dream of being taken over like that. It means we’re somehow synced up with the Great Muse. I’d just show up at my desk every day and see where Didier Rain was going to take me next. It’s humbling when it happens that way, but exciting. It’s sort of like when you’re an actor, and a role completely takes you over.
- What would you say Rain wants most from life?
More than anything else, I’d say he wants love. To love someone, and be loved. He’s just misguided in how to achieve that. He’s had some lousy examples in his life. And he isn’t quite sure where the physical part of love comes in. What’s love, and what’s just sex? He spends a lot of time trying to figure that out. Sometimes comically, sometimes with some pretty harsh consequences.
- Delivering Virtue is set in the American West of 1854. Why did you choose that time and place for your novel?
America has been a country of profound change since the beginning. New religions were born here, new industries, and new systems of government. It has always been a brave new world full of fledgling traditions. But by the mid 1800s, the frontier was being settled and gobbled up. Things were shifting into the general shape they would remain for the duration. Churches were putting down their roots in the west – most especially the Mormons – and the Natives were being displaced or eradicated. The whites were doing all of this under the philosophy of “Manifest Destiny,” which was the belief that the U.S. Government’s expansion throughout the America’s was justified and inevitable. Every American interpreted this destiny in his or her own way. And everyone was scrambling to get a piece of the pie. Gold seekers, homesteaders, businessmen, and religious leaders. In the feeding frenzy, all of those spiritual and entrepreneurial urges got mixed together. The purest elements that the wilderness had to offer became submerged or trampled beneath the white man’s run-amuck hungers.
I chose this world for my novel because it was one of conflict between purity and vanity, nature and man, mystery and greed. Didier Rain – the book’s would-be hero – is a man torn by these same forces. He senses that there’s something magical in the world, even spiritual, and now, by way of a prophecy, he has been chosen to deliver the essence of that magic to its rightful place in the Frontier. His story is one of overcoming his own base tendencies, protecting Virtue, and somehow navigating the moral chaos toward his own precarious salvation. His dilemmas parallel that of the American West at that time. In addition to that, Rain is a man steeped in poetic traditions. It only makes sense that a man so enamored of Coleridge, Shelly, Dante, and Homer should have a setting and adventure worthy of those great romantic and epic poets.
- So technically this book falls under the genre of a Western. How would you say your western is different from others?
Most westerns are based in a gritty realism. The characters grovel and fight their way through a rough and tumble world of lawlessness and hardship. My novel has that too. After all, the entire middle section of the book is called “Perils.” But my world is more surreal than that offered in other westerns. This is largely because it is a world interpreted through a character who is poetic, idealistic, and somewhat delusional. The misfits peopling my frontier are more exaggerated – at times more grotesque, at other times more angelic – because they match Didier Rain’s own indecisive and exaggerated oddball character. It’s as if the landscapes and characters he encounters are extensions of his personality. But the main difference in my novel is that it has an element of Magical Realism. That’s fairly rare in westerns. We experience it all along Rain’s journey. And we most especially realize it in the young girl, Virtue. She is not typical. She might even be divine, which becomes more and more apparent as the pages roll by.
- At times this book is hilarious, at times poignant, even disturbing. Why not stick with one or the other – comedy or tragedy?
Like life, it’s a mixed bag. Some of it’s funny, some not so much. We take our sorrows and turn them into humor. If you’ve had enough darkness in your life, as Rain has, dark humor is the inevitable result. To Rain’s credit, he is resilient. He’s suffered, but he’s always quick with a joke. It’s his defense against the absurdity, pain, and darkness in his life. He’s a master of comic relief. It’s perhaps his one admirable trait. I think it’s what makes him so likeable, even when you consider all of his other many faults.
- About those faults – Rain is despicable in so many ways, and yet we do still like him. How does a writer manage that?
Whereas a typical citizen of the world conforms to its rules and ethical codes, Rain is ambivalent. He just can’t quite overcome his more lascivious animal urges. I think if we like him, or honestly, if we have a reaction against him, it’s because we recognize in him a repressed part of ourselves. He is every person to some extent, just not the civilized part you’d want dating your daughter. But he’s trying. That’s what makes him so endearing. That, and he’s very funny. Also, as the story progresses, we realize he has good reasons for being who he is. He is the result of the life he has been handed, especially of his childhood. There’s some serious Oedipal confusion he’s trying to sort out in his life. We tend to feel empathy for him because of his struggles. As a writer, if I show those struggles clearly, and without sentimentality, they tend to resonate genuinely with the reader.
- You’ve described Delivering Virtue as a “picaresque.” What does that mean?
Traditionally, a picaresque is a story featuring an outsider – someone on the fringes of society who lives by his or her wits and is having a problem coming to grips with who he or she is in relation to the world. Think Huck Finn or Don Quixote.
In the history of literature, picaresque novels have been popular as a means of satire, and there’s a bit of that in my book as well. There’s nothing like following the point of view of a nonconformist to show us the world from another angle, and expose society’s hypocrisies and weirdness. The weirdness in Delivering Virtue concerns morality and religion. Rain simply doesn’t understand why some things are morally justifiable, while other seemingly like things are not. Who makes the rules, he wonders? And why do I have to follow them? The humor and drama in the book come in large part from Rain wrestling with this confusion.
- You tend to pick on religion in this book. At times you’re downright irreverent.
With a religion behind you, you can justify any number of horrible acts. History is rife with examples. Religions are also exclusive, eliminating or de-spiritualizing anyone who doesn’t conform to whatever version of salvation they’re offering. So, no, I’m not so keen on religion, and I guess that comes out in my book. But the thing all religions are based upon – that spiritual purity and virtue – I respect that immensely. Probably more than anything. I just think when humanity gets involved, with its many worldly agendas, that purity gets a little muddled. I try to stay true to the purity underlying religion, that spiritual aspect upon which it is based, and through which we’re all connected.
- At times, Rain seems to represent the worst in America’s westward expansion. He even feels himself to be the “Dark Angel” causing everyone so much grief. At other times, he’s the Savior.
Yes, and yes. He’s the embodiment of both those things. His hungers reflect those of all the whites invading the land. And yet he also wants to escape that feeding frenzy. He can’t wait to leave Independence behind. “It always felt good,” he says, “to part ways with streets and buildings and vile humanity in trade for open and unsullied country.” At one point, he decides to leave the main westward route of the settlers and set off on his own through the wilderness. He feels more at home there. That’s where he finds and falls in love with Turtle Dove, the Indian widow. Rain finds something beautiful in the wild lands of the west, but by his nature, he can’t help but ruin it.
- The ending of Delivering Virtue is surprising and mysterious. Do you think readers will get it?
The book is told in first person, through the sensibilities of a man wanting to do the right thing, but who is unsure what exactly that is. Didier Rain spends the entire book making mistakes, thinking them over, making new mistakes and so on and so forth. In the end, he’s faced with a decision. Where does Virtue – this very pure, angelic girl ultimately belong? It’s his moment of truth. If I’ve done my work as a writer, I’ve put the reader in Rain’s shoes. With him, we piece together all of the clues we’ve been given along the route of this arduous journey. With him, we make that final decision concerning Virtue based on faith. I think Rain’s a little baffled himself, but he feels in his heart that he’s chosen the right ending. He has learned to trust that he is being guided by the underlying mystery and magic of the cosmos. Hopefully readers will feel that same sense of rightness, even if they don’t absolutely, one hundred percent “get it.”
- The first thing that strikes a reader of Delivering Virtue is the voice of its main character, Didier Rain. How did you ever come up with such an eccentric and engaging oddity?
Honestly, Rain came to me, looking for someone to serve as medium for his story. Or at least that’s how it felt when I started writing. I was just a channel for the voice of this poetic, good-hearted nincompoop. That’s Rain’s highfalutin language and skewed philosophy you’re reading. That’s his comical overblown vocabulary. Writers dream of being taken over like that. It means we’re somehow synced up with the Great Muse. I’d just show up at my desk every day and see where Didier Rain was going to take me next. It’s humbling when it happens that way, but exciting. It’s sort of like when you’re an actor, and a role completely takes you over.
- What would you say Rain wants most from life?
More than anything else, I’d say he wants love. To love someone, and be loved. He’s just misguided in how to achieve that. He’s had some lousy examples in his life. And he isn’t quite sure where the physical part of love comes in. What’s love, and what’s just sex? He spends a lot of time trying to figure that out. Sometimes comically, sometimes with some pretty harsh consequences.
- Delivering Virtue is set in the American West of 1854. Why did you choose that time and place for your novel?
America has been a country of profound change since the beginning. New religions were born here, new industries, and new systems of government. It has always been a brave new world full of fledgling traditions. But by the mid 1800s, the frontier was being settled and gobbled up. Things were shifting into the general shape they would remain for the duration. Churches were putting down their roots in the west – most especially the Mormons – and the Natives were being displaced or eradicated. The whites were doing all of this under the philosophy of “Manifest Destiny,” which was the belief that the U.S. Government’s expansion throughout the America’s was justified and inevitable. Every American interpreted this destiny in his or her own way. And everyone was scrambling to get a piece of the pie. Gold seekers, homesteaders, businessmen, and religious leaders. In the feeding frenzy, all of those spiritual and entrepreneurial urges got mixed together. The purest elements that the wilderness had to offer became submerged or trampled beneath the white man’s run-amuck hungers.
I chose this world for my novel because it was one of conflict between purity and vanity, nature and man, mystery and greed. Didier Rain – the book’s would-be hero – is a man torn by these same forces. He senses that there’s something magical in the world, even spiritual, and now, by way of a prophecy, he has been chosen to deliver the essence of that magic to its rightful place in the Frontier. His story is one of overcoming his own base tendencies, protecting Virtue, and somehow navigating the moral chaos toward his own precarious salvation. His dilemmas parallel that of the American West at that time. In addition to that, Rain is a man steeped in poetic traditions. It only makes sense that a man so enamored of Coleridge, Shelly, Dante, and Homer should have a setting and adventure worthy of those great romantic and epic poets.
- So technically this book falls under the genre of a Western. How would you say your western is different from others?
Most westerns are based in a gritty realism. The characters grovel and fight their way through a rough and tumble world of lawlessness and hardship. My novel has that too. After all, the entire middle section of the book is called “Perils.” But my world is more surreal than that offered in other westerns. This is largely because it is a world interpreted through a character who is poetic, idealistic, and somewhat delusional. The misfits peopling my frontier are more exaggerated – at times more grotesque, at other times more angelic – because they match Didier Rain’s own indecisive and exaggerated oddball character. It’s as if the landscapes and characters he encounters are extensions of his personality. But the main difference in my novel is that it has an element of Magical Realism. That’s fairly rare in westerns. We experience it all along Rain’s journey. And we most especially realize it in the young girl, Virtue. She is not typical. She might even be divine, which becomes more and more apparent as the pages roll by.
- At times this book is hilarious, at times poignant, even disturbing. Why not stick with one or the other – comedy or tragedy?
Like life, it’s a mixed bag. Some of it’s funny, some not so much. We take our sorrows and turn them into humor. If you’ve had enough darkness in your life, as Rain has, dark humor is the inevitable result. To Rain’s credit, he is resilient. He’s suffered, but he’s always quick with a joke. It’s his defense against the absurdity, pain, and darkness in his life. He’s a master of comic relief. It’s perhaps his one admirable trait. I think it’s what makes him so likeable, even when you consider all of his other many faults.
- About those faults – Rain is despicable in so many ways, and yet we do still like him. How does a writer manage that?
Whereas a typical citizen of the world conforms to its rules and ethical codes, Rain is ambivalent. He just can’t quite overcome his more lascivious animal urges. I think if we like him, or honestly, if we have a reaction against him, it’s because we recognize in him a repressed part of ourselves. He is every person to some extent, just not the civilized part you’d want dating your daughter. But he’s trying. That’s what makes him so endearing. That, and he’s very funny. Also, as the story progresses, we realize he has good reasons for being who he is. He is the result of the life he has been handed, especially of his childhood. There’s some serious Oedipal confusion he’s trying to sort out in his life. We tend to feel empathy for him because of his struggles. As a writer, if I show those struggles clearly, and without sentimentality, they tend to resonate genuinely with the reader.
- You’ve described Delivering Virtue as a “picaresque.” What does that mean?
Traditionally, a picaresque is a story featuring an outsider – someone on the fringes of society who lives by his or her wits and is having a problem coming to grips with who he or she is in relation to the world. Think Huck Finn or Don Quixote.
In the history of literature, picaresque novels have been popular as a means of satire, and there’s a bit of that in my book as well. There’s nothing like following the point of view of a nonconformist to show us the world from another angle, and expose society’s hypocrisies and weirdness. The weirdness in Delivering Virtue concerns morality and religion. Rain simply doesn’t understand why some things are morally justifiable, while other seemingly like things are not. Who makes the rules, he wonders? And why do I have to follow them? The humor and drama in the book come in large part from Rain wrestling with this confusion.
- You tend to pick on religion in this book. At times you’re downright irreverent.
With a religion behind you, you can justify any number of horrible acts. History is rife with examples. Religions are also exclusive, eliminating or de-spiritualizing anyone who doesn’t conform to whatever version of salvation they’re offering. So, no, I’m not so keen on religion, and I guess that comes out in my book. But the thing all religions are based upon – that spiritual purity and virtue – I respect that immensely. Probably more than anything. I just think when humanity gets involved, with its many worldly agendas, that purity gets a little muddled. I try to stay true to the purity underlying religion, that spiritual aspect upon which it is based, and through which we’re all connected.
- At times, Rain seems to represent the worst in America’s westward expansion. He even feels himself to be the “Dark Angel” causing everyone so much grief. At other times, he’s the Savior.
Yes, and yes. He’s the embodiment of both those things. His hungers reflect those of all the whites invading the land. And yet he also wants to escape that feeding frenzy. He can’t wait to leave Independence behind. “It always felt good,” he says, “to part ways with streets and buildings and vile humanity in trade for open and unsullied country.” At one point, he decides to leave the main westward route of the settlers and set off on his own through the wilderness. He feels more at home there. That’s where he finds and falls in love with Turtle Dove, the Indian widow. Rain finds something beautiful in the wild lands of the west, but by his nature, he can’t help but ruin it.
- The ending of Delivering Virtue is surprising and mysterious. Do you think readers will get it?
The book is told in first person, through the sensibilities of a man wanting to do the right thing, but who is unsure what exactly that is. Didier Rain spends the entire book making mistakes, thinking them over, making new mistakes and so on and so forth. In the end, he’s faced with a decision. Where does Virtue – this very pure, angelic girl ultimately belong? It’s his moment of truth. If I’ve done my work as a writer, I’ve put the reader in Rain’s shoes. With him, we piece together all of the clues we’ve been given along the route of this arduous journey. With him, we make that final decision concerning Virtue based on faith. I think Rain’s a little baffled himself, but he feels in his heart that he’s chosen the right ending. He has learned to trust that he is being guided by the underlying mystery and magic of the cosmos. Hopefully readers will feel that same sense of rightness, even if they don’t absolutely, one hundred percent “get it.”
November 10, 2015
"Write When You Find Work!"
Tomorrow's the Day - the day when we release Delivering Virtue and its cast of characters into the world to live a long and rewarding life. Hopefully, to give readers many moments of entertainment as they play their roles in this adventure over and over to the world's delight. It feels a little like saying so-long to your kids. "Bye! Be good! Uplift and captivate others, and write when you find work!" And for us, it's on to the the next book. We sincerely hope you enjoy Delivering Virtue. And we sincerely plead with you to go to your favorite retailer and write a review, good or bad - diversity is a good thing in the world of reviews, honesty is key.
We've had some favorable responses so far! Here are the first reviews of Delivering Virtue.
Awesome Indies, a site dedicated to "taking the risk out of buying indie", gave it their Seal of Excellence:
From Awesome Indies Review Blog 10/22/15:
"Delivering Virtue by Brian Kindall is a different kind of western story. Didier Rain, a dissolute poet is hired by an offshoot Mormon sect to deliver a bride to their Prophet Nehi in his isolated compound in northern Utah. Rain is shocked to find that the ‘bride’ is an infant named Virtue, but the prospect of a $30,000 payday causes him to accept the challenge.
From Rain’s departure the story takes many quite unexpected turns, with aspects of mysticism, fantasy, and strange glimpses of the future thrown into a hard-boiled western story of a not-so-good man’s journey of self-discovery. The author skillfully weaves the mystical elements into the story, with flashbacks into Rain’s past making them even credible.
The narrator has a notably extensive vocabulary and elegance of prose suitable for the poetic aspirations of the character, and it even includes made-up words, such as ‘spelunkulatory’. Some readers may find phrases such as “discussing business in a private glossolalia,” a little off-putting, but personally, I enjoyed the depth of vocabulary and the writing style. Luckily ereaders have inbuilt dictionary to help ascertain a word’s meaning, because it is not always clear from the context of the passages.
All up, it’s a great story, and it has a strange, but somehow satisfying ending that I won’t spoil by revealing. 5 stars"
San Fransisco Book Review says:
"In 1854, Didier Rain is hired to escort Virtue to the City of Rocks in the western United States, where she will become a bride to the Prophet Nehi, who runs the Church of the Restructured Truth. From the very start, I knew this would be an unusual novel, but I wasn't prepared for just how unusual. Not only does Rain have to cross a large part of the country on horseback, but the bride he must protect is only a baby. However, Virtue is no ordinary child, and Rain proves to be no ordinary man, even though at first he appears to be the most typical man imaginable.
When I say Rain is typical, I don't mean this as an insult. In fact, it's part of the reason I found the book so enjoyable. Kindall manages to create in Rain a flawed character, who is nevertheless compelling, in large part because of those flaws. Rain is poetic yet dense, irresolute yet willing to stick to his principles, and affectionate yet distasteful. (At least, I would find him distasteful were I to meet him in person; as a fictional character, I find him delightful). He is easily the most developed character in the book, and it is that development and those paradoxes which make the book so worth reading.
The story of Rain's journey with Virtue is well-paced, moving quickly without feeling rushed. The narration is beautiful, which is rare for such an irreverent book, but that only made it more wonderful to read. There were a few times here and there where the rich descriptions felt jarring, and I did wish occasionally that the other characters had a touch more development, but overall, Delivering Virtue is a very enjoyable book. If you find yourself grinning even half as often as I did, you'll agree that it's a remarkable piece of fiction."
We've had some favorable responses so far! Here are the first reviews of Delivering Virtue.
Awesome Indies, a site dedicated to "taking the risk out of buying indie", gave it their Seal of Excellence:
From Awesome Indies Review Blog 10/22/15:
"Delivering Virtue by Brian Kindall is a different kind of western story. Didier Rain, a dissolute poet is hired by an offshoot Mormon sect to deliver a bride to their Prophet Nehi in his isolated compound in northern Utah. Rain is shocked to find that the ‘bride’ is an infant named Virtue, but the prospect of a $30,000 payday causes him to accept the challenge.
From Rain’s departure the story takes many quite unexpected turns, with aspects of mysticism, fantasy, and strange glimpses of the future thrown into a hard-boiled western story of a not-so-good man’s journey of self-discovery. The author skillfully weaves the mystical elements into the story, with flashbacks into Rain’s past making them even credible.
The narrator has a notably extensive vocabulary and elegance of prose suitable for the poetic aspirations of the character, and it even includes made-up words, such as ‘spelunkulatory’. Some readers may find phrases such as “discussing business in a private glossolalia,” a little off-putting, but personally, I enjoyed the depth of vocabulary and the writing style. Luckily ereaders have inbuilt dictionary to help ascertain a word’s meaning, because it is not always clear from the context of the passages.
All up, it’s a great story, and it has a strange, but somehow satisfying ending that I won’t spoil by revealing. 5 stars"
San Fransisco Book Review says:
"In 1854, Didier Rain is hired to escort Virtue to the City of Rocks in the western United States, where she will become a bride to the Prophet Nehi, who runs the Church of the Restructured Truth. From the very start, I knew this would be an unusual novel, but I wasn't prepared for just how unusual. Not only does Rain have to cross a large part of the country on horseback, but the bride he must protect is only a baby. However, Virtue is no ordinary child, and Rain proves to be no ordinary man, even though at first he appears to be the most typical man imaginable.
When I say Rain is typical, I don't mean this as an insult. In fact, it's part of the reason I found the book so enjoyable. Kindall manages to create in Rain a flawed character, who is nevertheless compelling, in large part because of those flaws. Rain is poetic yet dense, irresolute yet willing to stick to his principles, and affectionate yet distasteful. (At least, I would find him distasteful were I to meet him in person; as a fictional character, I find him delightful). He is easily the most developed character in the book, and it is that development and those paradoxes which make the book so worth reading.
The story of Rain's journey with Virtue is well-paced, moving quickly without feeling rushed. The narration is beautiful, which is rare for such an irreverent book, but that only made it more wonderful to read. There were a few times here and there where the rich descriptions felt jarring, and I did wish occasionally that the other characters had a touch more development, but overall, Delivering Virtue is a very enjoyable book. If you find yourself grinning even half as often as I did, you'll agree that it's a remarkable piece of fiction."
October 23, 2015
Fiction Saves
We all have our alter egos – those other sides of our personality that lurk and frolic in our secret dreams. For the most part, we keep these secret others caged and locked away. We rise from our nocturnal escapades, blush, perhaps even shudder, but then we get on with the business of our waking day, leaving those others to writhe and bump around in our subconscious mind. We train ourselves to ignore them. We pooh-pooh our dreams, and all the characters that people them, as “weird” and “not real.” And we never (with the exception of our Halloween costumes, or the occasional drunken party) let those miscreants out in public.
But it’s different for writers. These others become the characters in our books. We spend a lot of time with them. Unhealthy amounts of time. Until one fine day, we bring them out, exposing them, and our self, to the whole wide world.
With my middle-grade novels, this isn’t such a big deal. Anyone reading them would think that my alter ego is a heroic, somewhat naïve, and lovable young girl. Kind of weird, I suppose, for a middle-aged man, but pretty benign as far as secret selves go. Even somewhat endearing. I must be a pretty sweet guy.
But what do you do when your secret other turns out to be a despicable rogue? And further, what do you do when said rogue becomes the main character in your latest novel, and you know that you will forevermore be linked to him in the public’s eye? Hmm! Good question. One I’ve been mulling over as I count down toward the quickly approaching launch date of my next book.
I’ve always felt that it’s the writer’s job (at least in his or her books) to go places no one else would go, doing those things that no one would actually dare to do. That way, the reader gets to go there too, vicariously experiencing, while wide awake, all of those secret dream adventures that we generally put away in order to be functioning, upright members of society. Some of these adventures are sweet as sugar, while others are undeniably despicable. If the writing is vivid and fully realized, the reader enjoys a bit of catharsis through reading. It’s good for the soul. They get to live those other lives, exploring those other sides of life that they never would otherwise. That’s the writer’s gift to the world; we take people on journeys. That’s why we’re valuable.
I grew up in a small farm town in Idaho. It was the epitome of white bread America. A village full of nice people and churches. I went to Summer Bible School in the Baptist church. We memorized verses and prayed. We sang countdown songs about Jesus coming soon, and about how we’d burn in hell if we weren’t washed in the blood. We learned to fear God as the preacher told us stories about just how insufferably hot hell was going to be, and how long eternal damnation. It was the stuff of a child’s nightmares. At least mine. I still remember a dream I had where I was standing alone in a hayfield, watching my family and friends lift away to heaven while I was left behind. There was no way I would ever be worthy of that journey to paradise. My secret others were just too shameful, and I well knew they were parts of me I was never going to shake.
The irony (there’s always an irony) was that the Baptist preacher – the same one who had instructed us all in navigating the path of righteousness – ended up being nabbed by the police for flashing young girls in public. I’m sure it was tragic for him and his family to have one of his secret selves burst forth so wantonly onto the waking world. It certainly shook the community, as well as the foundations of the white-steepled church where he proselytized. People were aghast. Scandalized. That preacher probably felt terrible. Hell was his certain fate. A real tragedy. But if you think about it, it’s sort of hilarious, too. I always hoped he came to think so.
Life is absurd, mysterious, and oftentimes beautiful. I know I believe this because that’s what comes out in my books. It’s a great adventure for everyone involved. We’re all just doing our best, balancing on that thin line between the sacred and the profane – the reality and the dream – trying always to discern which is which. It gets foggy sometimes. The way is hard to see.
Anyhow, my new book is called DELIVERING VIRTUE. It’s humorous and irreverent and sort of beautiful, too. The hero is both despicable and charming. I’m sure he means well. It comes out November 7th. Read it if you find yourself intrigued. I make no guarantees, but it might just save your soul.
But it’s different for writers. These others become the characters in our books. We spend a lot of time with them. Unhealthy amounts of time. Until one fine day, we bring them out, exposing them, and our self, to the whole wide world.
With my middle-grade novels, this isn’t such a big deal. Anyone reading them would think that my alter ego is a heroic, somewhat naïve, and lovable young girl. Kind of weird, I suppose, for a middle-aged man, but pretty benign as far as secret selves go. Even somewhat endearing. I must be a pretty sweet guy.
But what do you do when your secret other turns out to be a despicable rogue? And further, what do you do when said rogue becomes the main character in your latest novel, and you know that you will forevermore be linked to him in the public’s eye? Hmm! Good question. One I’ve been mulling over as I count down toward the quickly approaching launch date of my next book.
I’ve always felt that it’s the writer’s job (at least in his or her books) to go places no one else would go, doing those things that no one would actually dare to do. That way, the reader gets to go there too, vicariously experiencing, while wide awake, all of those secret dream adventures that we generally put away in order to be functioning, upright members of society. Some of these adventures are sweet as sugar, while others are undeniably despicable. If the writing is vivid and fully realized, the reader enjoys a bit of catharsis through reading. It’s good for the soul. They get to live those other lives, exploring those other sides of life that they never would otherwise. That’s the writer’s gift to the world; we take people on journeys. That’s why we’re valuable.
I grew up in a small farm town in Idaho. It was the epitome of white bread America. A village full of nice people and churches. I went to Summer Bible School in the Baptist church. We memorized verses and prayed. We sang countdown songs about Jesus coming soon, and about how we’d burn in hell if we weren’t washed in the blood. We learned to fear God as the preacher told us stories about just how insufferably hot hell was going to be, and how long eternal damnation. It was the stuff of a child’s nightmares. At least mine. I still remember a dream I had where I was standing alone in a hayfield, watching my family and friends lift away to heaven while I was left behind. There was no way I would ever be worthy of that journey to paradise. My secret others were just too shameful, and I well knew they were parts of me I was never going to shake.
The irony (there’s always an irony) was that the Baptist preacher – the same one who had instructed us all in navigating the path of righteousness – ended up being nabbed by the police for flashing young girls in public. I’m sure it was tragic for him and his family to have one of his secret selves burst forth so wantonly onto the waking world. It certainly shook the community, as well as the foundations of the white-steepled church where he proselytized. People were aghast. Scandalized. That preacher probably felt terrible. Hell was his certain fate. A real tragedy. But if you think about it, it’s sort of hilarious, too. I always hoped he came to think so.
Life is absurd, mysterious, and oftentimes beautiful. I know I believe this because that’s what comes out in my books. It’s a great adventure for everyone involved. We’re all just doing our best, balancing on that thin line between the sacred and the profane – the reality and the dream – trying always to discern which is which. It gets foggy sometimes. The way is hard to see.
Anyhow, my new book is called DELIVERING VIRTUE. It’s humorous and irreverent and sort of beautiful, too. The hero is both despicable and charming. I’m sure he means well. It comes out November 7th. Read it if you find yourself intrigued. I make no guarantees, but it might just save your soul.
October 16, 2015
Pardon My Stammer
Hemingway refused to discuss a book until it was finished. It’s easier to explain a novel, he always felt, than to actually write one. He claimed that talking too much about it turned the writer into a pathetic metaphorical pooch, wiggling with self-satisfaction, eager to be scratched behind the ears and lick his adoring public’s proverbial hand. I know what he means – sort of.
“Oh, you’re working on something new?” someone might ask me. “What’s it about?”
“Er,” I blush, and press my temples with my palms, rocking back on my heels. “Um… Gosh… Golly…”
In my younger days, spurred on by my ego’s need for approval, I might have continued with something like –
“Well, you see, it’s about a deity who’s trapped in a dog’s body, and… I use a doG instead of a caT because, well, because caT spelled backwards is not God, and this dog, you realize, is essentially divine, and this dog… well, neither will any other animal spelled backwards for that matter… but this dog – his name, rather ironically, is Gaylord – he just wants to roll in dead things and chase tacs… I mean cats… and breed with female dogs, and to, you know, enjoy the good things in life. But he feels guilty all the time, you see, because he knows he needs to be less dog-like and more god-like and… yeah, there’s a pretty girl spaniel he’s in love with, but he’s God after all, and she’s mortal, and what a complication that is! – Heh heh! – which is, you understand, very funny. Yeah… um… anyway… I’m calling it Gaylord’s Dilemma. It took me seven dog years to write it. Er… Did I mention that doG spelled backwards is God?”
Afterwards, I would go home and weep, hugging my doomed manuscript the way a child might snuggle with a sick puppy.
Later, once I’d become more cunning, I learned to evade any explanation of my works-in-progress. Instead, I would simply bewilder my interrogator, wearing them down with a method I called “bombastic overload.”
“What’s my new novel about?” I bellowed, doing my best to channel Teddy Roosevelt. “Indeed! What is any book about? There’s only one story, is there not? We’re all just rewriting the story of existence. Sex and death and the like! The rest is just padding, don’t you know? It’s all power struggles and God and money! With a large measure of physical suffering for strength of character. Bully!”
This inevitably scared away my tormentors, freeing me for years from ever having to answer that question I had so come to dread.
But in this day and age – an age of sound bites and taglines and elevator pitches – any writer worthy of his profession is expected to be able to sum up his entire book’s premise with an intriguing, succinct blurb.
The other day I was asked what my new novel – Delivering Virtue – is about. The book is finished, about to be launched in early November, and so at this point there’s no risk of undermining its creation. Still, the question made me anxious.
“Be brave,” I muttered to myself. “You can do this.”
I looked the woman squarely in the eye, and then, in the monotone voice of a nervous robot, I said – “It’s 1854 in the American West and Didier Rain – rogue, poet, and would-be entrepreneur – is hired by The Church of the Restructured Truth to deliver a child bride to the sect’s prophet across a frontier fraught with perils, comedy, and carnal temptation.”
And then I sighed.
My inquisitor nodded, slightly befuddled, but seemingly satisfied, and I probably should have stopped right there and tried to steer the conversation toward the weather, or politics. But some old insecurity rose up inside of me.
“There is one dog,” I offered as an afterthought. “But he plays a very small role.”
The woman’s satisfied look went sour, and that’s when, rather uncontrollably, I began to stammer. “Er…” I said. “Um…”
I was nearly overwhelmed by a desire to lick the woman’s hand. But instead, I called once again on my inner Teddy, and barked, “Bully!”
Hemingway would have been disgusted, but it’s hard to teach an old dog new tricks.
“Oh, you’re working on something new?” someone might ask me. “What’s it about?”
“Er,” I blush, and press my temples with my palms, rocking back on my heels. “Um… Gosh… Golly…”
In my younger days, spurred on by my ego’s need for approval, I might have continued with something like –
“Well, you see, it’s about a deity who’s trapped in a dog’s body, and… I use a doG instead of a caT because, well, because caT spelled backwards is not God, and this dog, you realize, is essentially divine, and this dog… well, neither will any other animal spelled backwards for that matter… but this dog – his name, rather ironically, is Gaylord – he just wants to roll in dead things and chase tacs… I mean cats… and breed with female dogs, and to, you know, enjoy the good things in life. But he feels guilty all the time, you see, because he knows he needs to be less dog-like and more god-like and… yeah, there’s a pretty girl spaniel he’s in love with, but he’s God after all, and she’s mortal, and what a complication that is! – Heh heh! – which is, you understand, very funny. Yeah… um… anyway… I’m calling it Gaylord’s Dilemma. It took me seven dog years to write it. Er… Did I mention that doG spelled backwards is God?”
Afterwards, I would go home and weep, hugging my doomed manuscript the way a child might snuggle with a sick puppy.
Later, once I’d become more cunning, I learned to evade any explanation of my works-in-progress. Instead, I would simply bewilder my interrogator, wearing them down with a method I called “bombastic overload.”
“What’s my new novel about?” I bellowed, doing my best to channel Teddy Roosevelt. “Indeed! What is any book about? There’s only one story, is there not? We’re all just rewriting the story of existence. Sex and death and the like! The rest is just padding, don’t you know? It’s all power struggles and God and money! With a large measure of physical suffering for strength of character. Bully!”
This inevitably scared away my tormentors, freeing me for years from ever having to answer that question I had so come to dread.
But in this day and age – an age of sound bites and taglines and elevator pitches – any writer worthy of his profession is expected to be able to sum up his entire book’s premise with an intriguing, succinct blurb.
The other day I was asked what my new novel – Delivering Virtue – is about. The book is finished, about to be launched in early November, and so at this point there’s no risk of undermining its creation. Still, the question made me anxious.
“Be brave,” I muttered to myself. “You can do this.”
I looked the woman squarely in the eye, and then, in the monotone voice of a nervous robot, I said – “It’s 1854 in the American West and Didier Rain – rogue, poet, and would-be entrepreneur – is hired by The Church of the Restructured Truth to deliver a child bride to the sect’s prophet across a frontier fraught with perils, comedy, and carnal temptation.”
And then I sighed.
My inquisitor nodded, slightly befuddled, but seemingly satisfied, and I probably should have stopped right there and tried to steer the conversation toward the weather, or politics. But some old insecurity rose up inside of me.
“There is one dog,” I offered as an afterthought. “But he plays a very small role.”
The woman’s satisfied look went sour, and that’s when, rather uncontrollably, I began to stammer. “Er…” I said. “Um…”
I was nearly overwhelmed by a desire to lick the woman’s hand. But instead, I called once again on my inner Teddy, and barked, “Bully!”
Hemingway would have been disgusted, but it’s hard to teach an old dog new tricks.
October 12, 2015
Bright Ideas!
Readers don’t always realize it, but even staggeringly brilliant writers like myself occasionally have bad ideas. I have a waist-high stack of papers in the corner that is evidence of said sad truth. I call this pile – “Dashed Dreams.” It is made up of nearly marvelous novels that fizzled out at around 96 pages. That seems to be the point at which I glumly realize it’s time to bail out. Why I hang onto these relics is a mystery. I’ve never returned to them with any success. You obviously can’t resurrect things so broken and dead. But I guess these false starts just represent so much hope and longing, so much time spent naively trying to make something beautiful out of incompatible parts. It’s hard to let go. It’s like a heap of old girlfriends that didn’t work out, only more stackable and less macabre.
Many of these aborted efforts were inspired by other great writers in the past. For example –
There was my Homeric retelling of The Odyssey, in which I rather cleverly reduced mankind’s plight in the cosmos to a heroic anthropomorphized flea struggling to find happiness on the body of a sad but pretty massage therapist named Penelope. It seemed like a dazzling idea at first – daring, avant garde, sensual – but then it became apparent that there were just too many balls to keep in the air – adventure, pathos, suppressed eroticism, essential oils, muscle soreness, existential philosophy, entomology, silliness. Not to mention it’s no fun spending that much time with a blood-sucking parasite. Even a handsome fictional one. (I modeled Odysseus after myself.) Oddly, the whole novel turned out to be way too autobiographical. By page 96, I found the character of Penelope was rubbing me the wrong way. I called it quits in the Scylla and Charybdis scene – the one where Odysseus finds himself tortured by beautiful mosquito sirens while navigating the perils of Penelope’s sweat-dampened sternum.
And then there was my revamping of Jack Kerouac’s Dharma Bums. I called this little gem Deadbeats of Episcopalia. My recollection of its origin is now veiled in a delirious fog. I remember a girl taking me on a date to her church. I remember the girl was pretty. I remember wanting to kiss her left knee. And I remember the after-services potluck in which I ingested a helping of tainted bean and mushroom casserole in the church’s basement while surrounded by liberal church members discussing politics and spirituality. The hallucinogenic properties of the casserole worked their magic, and I found myself feverishly writing my novel longhand on a stack of paper napkins. When I proudly showed my first 96 napkins to my date, I expected for sure she’d now let me kiss that knee. But alas! She was impressed, just not favorably. It seemed I had inadvertently modeled one of my more brazenly ribald characters after the church’s lady minister, a woman who turned out to be the girl’s mother. Oops!
Sometimes I would try to join two great classics into one. I tried Tarzan of Green Gables, Moby Bovary, and the nearly fabulous, but doomed from the start, Finnegan’s Web. None of these really worked out.
Admittedly, most of these flops occurred while I was still a young writer searching for my voice. Now that I’m older, I only have good ideas. In fact, I’m pretty stoked about my latest project, a novel I call Ar-Say’s Eft-lay E-knay. Yep, you got it. That’s Sara’s Left Knee in Pig Latin. The entire novel will be written in that rhythmic, fun-loving argot. I’m hoping to revolutionize literature in the same way Dante did by writing his little epic in Italian. Brilliant, right? It has Nobel Prize written all over it. I’m pretty excited to see it finished. I’m already up to page 95.
Many of these aborted efforts were inspired by other great writers in the past. For example –
There was my Homeric retelling of The Odyssey, in which I rather cleverly reduced mankind’s plight in the cosmos to a heroic anthropomorphized flea struggling to find happiness on the body of a sad but pretty massage therapist named Penelope. It seemed like a dazzling idea at first – daring, avant garde, sensual – but then it became apparent that there were just too many balls to keep in the air – adventure, pathos, suppressed eroticism, essential oils, muscle soreness, existential philosophy, entomology, silliness. Not to mention it’s no fun spending that much time with a blood-sucking parasite. Even a handsome fictional one. (I modeled Odysseus after myself.) Oddly, the whole novel turned out to be way too autobiographical. By page 96, I found the character of Penelope was rubbing me the wrong way. I called it quits in the Scylla and Charybdis scene – the one where Odysseus finds himself tortured by beautiful mosquito sirens while navigating the perils of Penelope’s sweat-dampened sternum.
And then there was my revamping of Jack Kerouac’s Dharma Bums. I called this little gem Deadbeats of Episcopalia. My recollection of its origin is now veiled in a delirious fog. I remember a girl taking me on a date to her church. I remember the girl was pretty. I remember wanting to kiss her left knee. And I remember the after-services potluck in which I ingested a helping of tainted bean and mushroom casserole in the church’s basement while surrounded by liberal church members discussing politics and spirituality. The hallucinogenic properties of the casserole worked their magic, and I found myself feverishly writing my novel longhand on a stack of paper napkins. When I proudly showed my first 96 napkins to my date, I expected for sure she’d now let me kiss that knee. But alas! She was impressed, just not favorably. It seemed I had inadvertently modeled one of my more brazenly ribald characters after the church’s lady minister, a woman who turned out to be the girl’s mother. Oops!
Sometimes I would try to join two great classics into one. I tried Tarzan of Green Gables, Moby Bovary, and the nearly fabulous, but doomed from the start, Finnegan’s Web. None of these really worked out.
Admittedly, most of these flops occurred while I was still a young writer searching for my voice. Now that I’m older, I only have good ideas. In fact, I’m pretty stoked about my latest project, a novel I call Ar-Say’s Eft-lay E-knay. Yep, you got it. That’s Sara’s Left Knee in Pig Latin. The entire novel will be written in that rhythmic, fun-loving argot. I’m hoping to revolutionize literature in the same way Dante did by writing his little epic in Italian. Brilliant, right? It has Nobel Prize written all over it. I’m pretty excited to see it finished. I’m already up to page 95.
October 2, 2015
Oh, How I Hat Typos!
Outside of unrequited love, jock itch, or a broken coffee pot, nothing is more irritating to a writer than a missmelled word. Nothing so undermines his hard work and yanks readers from the profound experience he is laboring to crate for them. It’s a literal pain in the as. And yet, it’s inevitable. When you write as much as I doo, you just have to accept that some thirsty misquote of a typo will eventually find a hole in your screen, and then use said hole to buzz in, confuse your meaning, and suck at your writing’s metaphorical blood.
Admittedly, it’s not all bad all bad. Occasionally there’s the happy accident. Once, I entered a poetry contest and handily won, I blush to admit, largely because of a typo. The poem I submitted was entitled – “Swiming up the Ganges.” It was trouted as witty and original. After it’s wide distribution in Pottery Magazine, a whole generation of enlightenment seekers embarked on a new form of pilgrimage. Inspired by my verse, young seekers from around the glob began flocking to India where they subsequently swimed up that holy river to its headwaiters. I received letters from many of these swimers, tanking me for my contribution to their spiritual growth. And while I never personally participated in any swiming myself, I took pride in being such an impotent part of a cultural millstone.
But at other times, a typo can cause a heart-breaking misunderstanding. Not a day passes that I don’t pander thoughts of what my life might have been had I only taken thyme and more closely edited a sonnet I once composted for a potential love of my life.
She was a swimer herself, and Oh! was she ever sweat and lovely! Her original name had been Bertha, but upon completing her pilgrimage, she changed it to Booty-Ghia. I only ever knew her butt from a photograph, ass we only had intercourse through e-male. Her head was shaved and, in the adopted style of swimers everywhere, she had a tiny dot tattooed above her left i. In my enthusiastic but slapdash poem to her, I wrote that she “held my sole in her hart.” She wrote back soon thereafter, saying that she “Got it! and then thanked me for my “oblique, but sure, spiritual guidance.” Mysteriously, she then moved to the Scottish Highlands, swore a vow of chastity, and dedicated her life to making sandals while tending to a herd of wild deer. I always suspected a typo had been involved in this derailment of my happiness.
After that experience, I was the sadist I had ever been. I mopped around. Sure, I went out with a few girls, but the experiments were largely unsadistfactory. Alas! I had missed my only chance at happiness? Forever would I mourn the loss of my bootiful Booty.
From where, I have often asked myself, do typos come? Freud had theories about suppressed infantilism and potty humor. The subject was also thoroughly scrotumized by both Play-Doh and Mahatma Gumby. But I don’t think their philosophical fornications can ever truly uncover the deep-seeded source of one’s troubled psychology.
There are, we all know, modern aids to the problem. Some righters sing the praises of Spell-check. But I have found such digital impositions only further the confucianism. They encucumber one’s creativity. So I turn mine off. The computer has yet to be invented, I argue, that can affectively solve the distressing problem of homophobes, added added words and dubious comma, placemat.
Admittedly, it’s not all bad all bad. Occasionally there’s the happy accident. Once, I entered a poetry contest and handily won, I blush to admit, largely because of a typo. The poem I submitted was entitled – “Swiming up the Ganges.” It was trouted as witty and original. After it’s wide distribution in Pottery Magazine, a whole generation of enlightenment seekers embarked on a new form of pilgrimage. Inspired by my verse, young seekers from around the glob began flocking to India where they subsequently swimed up that holy river to its headwaiters. I received letters from many of these swimers, tanking me for my contribution to their spiritual growth. And while I never personally participated in any swiming myself, I took pride in being such an impotent part of a cultural millstone.
But at other times, a typo can cause a heart-breaking misunderstanding. Not a day passes that I don’t pander thoughts of what my life might have been had I only taken thyme and more closely edited a sonnet I once composted for a potential love of my life.
She was a swimer herself, and Oh! was she ever sweat and lovely! Her original name had been Bertha, but upon completing her pilgrimage, she changed it to Booty-Ghia. I only ever knew her butt from a photograph, ass we only had intercourse through e-male. Her head was shaved and, in the adopted style of swimers everywhere, she had a tiny dot tattooed above her left i. In my enthusiastic but slapdash poem to her, I wrote that she “held my sole in her hart.” She wrote back soon thereafter, saying that she “Got it! and then thanked me for my “oblique, but sure, spiritual guidance.” Mysteriously, she then moved to the Scottish Highlands, swore a vow of chastity, and dedicated her life to making sandals while tending to a herd of wild deer. I always suspected a typo had been involved in this derailment of my happiness.
After that experience, I was the sadist I had ever been. I mopped around. Sure, I went out with a few girls, but the experiments were largely unsadistfactory. Alas! I had missed my only chance at happiness? Forever would I mourn the loss of my bootiful Booty.
From where, I have often asked myself, do typos come? Freud had theories about suppressed infantilism and potty humor. The subject was also thoroughly scrotumized by both Play-Doh and Mahatma Gumby. But I don’t think their philosophical fornications can ever truly uncover the deep-seeded source of one’s troubled psychology.
There are, we all know, modern aids to the problem. Some righters sing the praises of Spell-check. But I have found such digital impositions only further the confucianism. They encucumber one’s creativity. So I turn mine off. The computer has yet to be invented, I argue, that can affectively solve the distressing problem of homophobes, added added words and dubious comma, placemat.
Splash!
One sub-zero January, when I was twelve years old, the plumbing froze up in our church after Sunday potluck.
And then the pipes burst.
Everyone knew the Devil was behind this breach in congregational sanitation. He was busy causing his usual mischief for the pure of heart and hygiene. Of course, the righteous would rally to win the war in the end – rest assured – but in the meantime it seemed Ol’ Lucifer had scored a minor victory for evil. There was nothing to be done until the plumbers could get to it on Monday morning and right the sewery wrong that had flooded the church. The pastor’s wife called each member of the flock, apologizing that the sanctuary was “just too stinky” for evening services. She asked that we stay at home and have fellowship instead with our families. I remember my mom hanging up the phone and breaking the solemn news to me and my little brother Brad.
We tried to be sad.
We really did.
But I suspected within my sinful heart of hearts that the Devil had created this entire fiasco for our benefit alone. He had obviously been listening to my more shameful prayers, and was now doing his best to oblige a potential disciple for his unholy hoard.
Now in our house, watching TV on Sunday evening was the pre-adolescent equivalent of getting whiskey drunk and visiting a whorehouse. Not that we ever got the chance. Generally we were strapped to a church pew, swaying with the heady scent of the perfumed and polyester-clad devout (this was in the 1970s – polyester ruled), while enjoying the threat of hellfire being poured down upon us from the pulpit. But now circumstances seemed to be falling in our favor. Perhaps – just maybe – if Brad and I exercised a little devotion of our own accord, Mom would allow us to deviate from our usual practice of televisual abstinence. It was worth a try. Tonight of all nights, because the Sunday Night Movie this week was one we really really wanted to see.
I went and fetched my Bible, blew the dust from its cover, and sat down to read in plain sight of my mother. I could tell she was pleased. All those years of Sunday school, it seemed, had paid off. Maybe I wasn’t such a hell-bound degenerate after all. Following my cue, my little brother opened a Book of Revelations coloring book and sprawled on the rug with a box of crayons. He was pleasingly savvy to my plan.
Time passed.
Slowly.
I furtively glanced at the clock ticking toward our moment of crisis.
And then, at twenty minutes ‘til seven, I shut my Bible, placed it on the side table, and closed my eyes, bowing my head just slightly, in an attitude of quiet prayer. When at last I opened my eyes, I found my mother watching me from across the room, beaming.
Heh-heh! I thought. She’s playing perfectly into my scheme.
I yawned and stretched. I haphazardly thumbed through the T.V. Guide, and then, with an exactly tuned understatement, I said, “Oh, look. What an ironical surprise. That western we wanted to see is on the television tonight…” I paused, knowing full well that I wasn’t there yet, and then I dropped my well-calculated bomb. “…the one starring Omar Sharif.”
Omar Sharif was my mother’s weakness. He was that dark and dashing star who had played in Doctor Zhivago, one of my mom’s all-time favorite movies. And while I well knew that Sharif’s role in tonight’s movie was nothing like the romantic lead he played in Zhivago, I made it sound as if the entire drama would revolve around him.
“Two whole hours of Omar Sharif,” I said, forlornly. “Too bad we can’t watch.”
That’s when Brad, my little henchman, spoke up. "Couldn’t we watch, Mom?” He hugged his coloring book to his chest, a faint halo floating above his beatific head. “Just this once?”
Our mother was conflicted, to say the least. An angel was hissing “No!” in one ear, while the Devil was suavely whispering “Omar Sharif” in her other.
“Oh, fiddlesticks!” she said at last. “I’ll make popcorn. You start the T.V.”
The movie was McKenna’s Gold. It had done pretty well in the theaters a few years earlier, and now it was playing for the first time on television. It was said to have lots of Indians and gunplay and galloping horse adventure. We settled in to watch, my brother and I hardly believing our good fortune.
Television on a Sunday evening – Oh, Man!
It didn’t take long for our mom to sour on Omar Sharif. His character was a despicable bandito with nasty habits. Gone were all the handsome traits of Zhivago. They were replaced instead with the lascivious gestures of a cigar-chewing rogue. Mom couldn’t bear to watch. We knew she was regretting her decision to allow this wickedness into her house. We could feel her repentant stress in the air all around us. Brad and I knew better than to meet her gaze. When Omar Sharif shot an unarmed man in cold blood, establishing his character’s loathsome persona, Mom decided she’d had enough.
“Well, I suppose you can watch this dumb show if you like, but I want you to know, you don’t have to.”
She waited for us to respond.
Brad and I chomped popcorn, and kept our eyes on the screen.
“Well!” she huffed. And then she left the room.
It was the ultimate in boyhood decadence. Cowboys (and not church) and Indians. And now, without our mother hanging around to ruin it for us, we were like two… two… Well, I suppose we were sort of like two drunks in a whorehouse.
We were enjoying ourselves immensely when something happened that would, I can honestly say, change my life forever.
The banditos had captured Gregory Peck – McKenna – along with a pretty blonde girl, and were forcing him to lead them to a hidden treasure. They had been traveling through a wide desert for days, no water in sight, vultures circling in anticipation of the feast about to present itself when the wayfarers expired under the cruel desert sun. But then – Lo! The band of thirsty travelers came to an oasis.
Salvation!
Traveling with the banditos, as a sort of dark contrast to the pale blonde, was a sultry Indian maiden. She had the hots for McKenna, and wanted him as her lover. But one could surmise from the get-go that our hero was destined to ride off into the sunset with the virtuous blonde. Still, this didn’t dissuade the Indian maiden from using all of her exotic charms to lure McKenna into her lovely brown arms.
Normally, Brad and I would take such lulls in the cinematic action to go pee. But perhaps that night, because it had been so god-awful cold, we found ourselves intrigued by the idea of swimming in a warm place. That oasis water was so Hollywood blue! Everyone – the banditos and captured alike – were preparing to enjoy a cool swim. We watched, imagining ourselves to be a part of their group.
And that’s when, in the blink of an eye, it happened.
The camera shot was wide, including much of the pool and scenery. But in the distance, perched high on a rock – wearing nothing but a sly smile – stood the Indian maiden. She quickly dove into the water, thin as a lithe brown sliver, and disappeared beneath the surface.
Brad and I stared at the screen, our mouths hanging open in utter wonder, and then we looked at each other.
His expression begged, “What did we just see there, big brother?”
My own expression stammered, “I… I couldn’t say.”
But in my burgeoning adolescent heart, I knew I had just been granted a glimpse of an earthly, sensual paradise. The little hairs stood up on the back of my neck. I grew warm and flushed and tingly all over.
That subliminal flash of flesh had been on the screen for less than a single second. The T.V. censors couldn’t allow any more than that. But like a finely exposed photograph, it had burned itself indelibly onto my mind’s eye. I had never seen a naked woman before (unless you count the bare-chested lady tattooed on my Uncle Clyde’s biceps), but now I recalled, from some deep dream held over from a past life, exactly what one looked like.
The rest of the movie was filled with all of the afore-promised action. I’m told it was pretty exciting. I couldn’t say for sure. My vision had blurred, as if I were watching the whole thing from under water.
Writers are always plumbing their depths in search of material. One never knows what one is going to bring up to the surface. Sometimes it’s something quaint that can be expressed in a funny essay, or a clever poem. Sometimes it’s some flotsam that can be tossed away as useless. But at other times, more persnickety and persistent little visions embrace the writer’s mind and won’t let him go. I suppose my Indian maiden had been swimming around in my depths for years when she started to arise, somewhat evolved and more refined, in my writing. I pushed her back down for a while, struggling to be free of her charms, but it was no use. She demanded her place in my personal mythology. She’s in there now, in all of her various forms. I notice her all the time when I re-read one of my books. I really don’t think the Devil could possibly have anything to do with a being so ethereal and obviously divine. But I’m sure there are those who would argue otherwise.
The next morning at school, I stood with my buddies on the frosty playground waiting for the school to open up. We hopped around and slapped our arms to stay warm. Glittering plumes of breath passed from our shivering lips as we talked about our weekend.
My friend Ty asked, “Hey, did any of you guys see McKenna’s Gold last night?”
“Yeah,” said Billy.
“Yeah,” said Jack.
We all stopped hopping, holding ourselves still in the cold air, remembering our favorite sun-drenched scene. We tuned our ears to the water sound replaying in our heads, listening – a long moment – for the splash.
“That was a pretty good show,” I murmured at last. “I really liked it a lot.”
And then the pipes burst.
Everyone knew the Devil was behind this breach in congregational sanitation. He was busy causing his usual mischief for the pure of heart and hygiene. Of course, the righteous would rally to win the war in the end – rest assured – but in the meantime it seemed Ol’ Lucifer had scored a minor victory for evil. There was nothing to be done until the plumbers could get to it on Monday morning and right the sewery wrong that had flooded the church. The pastor’s wife called each member of the flock, apologizing that the sanctuary was “just too stinky” for evening services. She asked that we stay at home and have fellowship instead with our families. I remember my mom hanging up the phone and breaking the solemn news to me and my little brother Brad.
We tried to be sad.
We really did.
But I suspected within my sinful heart of hearts that the Devil had created this entire fiasco for our benefit alone. He had obviously been listening to my more shameful prayers, and was now doing his best to oblige a potential disciple for his unholy hoard.
Now in our house, watching TV on Sunday evening was the pre-adolescent equivalent of getting whiskey drunk and visiting a whorehouse. Not that we ever got the chance. Generally we were strapped to a church pew, swaying with the heady scent of the perfumed and polyester-clad devout (this was in the 1970s – polyester ruled), while enjoying the threat of hellfire being poured down upon us from the pulpit. But now circumstances seemed to be falling in our favor. Perhaps – just maybe – if Brad and I exercised a little devotion of our own accord, Mom would allow us to deviate from our usual practice of televisual abstinence. It was worth a try. Tonight of all nights, because the Sunday Night Movie this week was one we really really wanted to see.
I went and fetched my Bible, blew the dust from its cover, and sat down to read in plain sight of my mother. I could tell she was pleased. All those years of Sunday school, it seemed, had paid off. Maybe I wasn’t such a hell-bound degenerate after all. Following my cue, my little brother opened a Book of Revelations coloring book and sprawled on the rug with a box of crayons. He was pleasingly savvy to my plan.
Time passed.
Slowly.
I furtively glanced at the clock ticking toward our moment of crisis.
And then, at twenty minutes ‘til seven, I shut my Bible, placed it on the side table, and closed my eyes, bowing my head just slightly, in an attitude of quiet prayer. When at last I opened my eyes, I found my mother watching me from across the room, beaming.
Heh-heh! I thought. She’s playing perfectly into my scheme.
I yawned and stretched. I haphazardly thumbed through the T.V. Guide, and then, with an exactly tuned understatement, I said, “Oh, look. What an ironical surprise. That western we wanted to see is on the television tonight…” I paused, knowing full well that I wasn’t there yet, and then I dropped my well-calculated bomb. “…the one starring Omar Sharif.”
Omar Sharif was my mother’s weakness. He was that dark and dashing star who had played in Doctor Zhivago, one of my mom’s all-time favorite movies. And while I well knew that Sharif’s role in tonight’s movie was nothing like the romantic lead he played in Zhivago, I made it sound as if the entire drama would revolve around him.
“Two whole hours of Omar Sharif,” I said, forlornly. “Too bad we can’t watch.”
That’s when Brad, my little henchman, spoke up. "Couldn’t we watch, Mom?” He hugged his coloring book to his chest, a faint halo floating above his beatific head. “Just this once?”
Our mother was conflicted, to say the least. An angel was hissing “No!” in one ear, while the Devil was suavely whispering “Omar Sharif” in her other.
“Oh, fiddlesticks!” she said at last. “I’ll make popcorn. You start the T.V.”
The movie was McKenna’s Gold. It had done pretty well in the theaters a few years earlier, and now it was playing for the first time on television. It was said to have lots of Indians and gunplay and galloping horse adventure. We settled in to watch, my brother and I hardly believing our good fortune.
Television on a Sunday evening – Oh, Man!
It didn’t take long for our mom to sour on Omar Sharif. His character was a despicable bandito with nasty habits. Gone were all the handsome traits of Zhivago. They were replaced instead with the lascivious gestures of a cigar-chewing rogue. Mom couldn’t bear to watch. We knew she was regretting her decision to allow this wickedness into her house. We could feel her repentant stress in the air all around us. Brad and I knew better than to meet her gaze. When Omar Sharif shot an unarmed man in cold blood, establishing his character’s loathsome persona, Mom decided she’d had enough.
“Well, I suppose you can watch this dumb show if you like, but I want you to know, you don’t have to.”
She waited for us to respond.
Brad and I chomped popcorn, and kept our eyes on the screen.
“Well!” she huffed. And then she left the room.
It was the ultimate in boyhood decadence. Cowboys (and not church) and Indians. And now, without our mother hanging around to ruin it for us, we were like two… two… Well, I suppose we were sort of like two drunks in a whorehouse.
We were enjoying ourselves immensely when something happened that would, I can honestly say, change my life forever.
The banditos had captured Gregory Peck – McKenna – along with a pretty blonde girl, and were forcing him to lead them to a hidden treasure. They had been traveling through a wide desert for days, no water in sight, vultures circling in anticipation of the feast about to present itself when the wayfarers expired under the cruel desert sun. But then – Lo! The band of thirsty travelers came to an oasis.
Salvation!
Traveling with the banditos, as a sort of dark contrast to the pale blonde, was a sultry Indian maiden. She had the hots for McKenna, and wanted him as her lover. But one could surmise from the get-go that our hero was destined to ride off into the sunset with the virtuous blonde. Still, this didn’t dissuade the Indian maiden from using all of her exotic charms to lure McKenna into her lovely brown arms.
Normally, Brad and I would take such lulls in the cinematic action to go pee. But perhaps that night, because it had been so god-awful cold, we found ourselves intrigued by the idea of swimming in a warm place. That oasis water was so Hollywood blue! Everyone – the banditos and captured alike – were preparing to enjoy a cool swim. We watched, imagining ourselves to be a part of their group.
And that’s when, in the blink of an eye, it happened.
The camera shot was wide, including much of the pool and scenery. But in the distance, perched high on a rock – wearing nothing but a sly smile – stood the Indian maiden. She quickly dove into the water, thin as a lithe brown sliver, and disappeared beneath the surface.
Brad and I stared at the screen, our mouths hanging open in utter wonder, and then we looked at each other.
His expression begged, “What did we just see there, big brother?”
My own expression stammered, “I… I couldn’t say.”
But in my burgeoning adolescent heart, I knew I had just been granted a glimpse of an earthly, sensual paradise. The little hairs stood up on the back of my neck. I grew warm and flushed and tingly all over.
That subliminal flash of flesh had been on the screen for less than a single second. The T.V. censors couldn’t allow any more than that. But like a finely exposed photograph, it had burned itself indelibly onto my mind’s eye. I had never seen a naked woman before (unless you count the bare-chested lady tattooed on my Uncle Clyde’s biceps), but now I recalled, from some deep dream held over from a past life, exactly what one looked like.
The rest of the movie was filled with all of the afore-promised action. I’m told it was pretty exciting. I couldn’t say for sure. My vision had blurred, as if I were watching the whole thing from under water.
Writers are always plumbing their depths in search of material. One never knows what one is going to bring up to the surface. Sometimes it’s something quaint that can be expressed in a funny essay, or a clever poem. Sometimes it’s some flotsam that can be tossed away as useless. But at other times, more persnickety and persistent little visions embrace the writer’s mind and won’t let him go. I suppose my Indian maiden had been swimming around in my depths for years when she started to arise, somewhat evolved and more refined, in my writing. I pushed her back down for a while, struggling to be free of her charms, but it was no use. She demanded her place in my personal mythology. She’s in there now, in all of her various forms. I notice her all the time when I re-read one of my books. I really don’t think the Devil could possibly have anything to do with a being so ethereal and obviously divine. But I’m sure there are those who would argue otherwise.
The next morning at school, I stood with my buddies on the frosty playground waiting for the school to open up. We hopped around and slapped our arms to stay warm. Glittering plumes of breath passed from our shivering lips as we talked about our weekend.
My friend Ty asked, “Hey, did any of you guys see McKenna’s Gold last night?”
“Yeah,” said Billy.
“Yeah,” said Jack.
We all stopped hopping, holding ourselves still in the cold air, remembering our favorite sun-drenched scene. We tuned our ears to the water sound replaying in our heads, listening – a long moment – for the splash.
“That was a pretty good show,” I murmured at last. “I really liked it a lot.”
September 23, 2015
Meet the Rogue
Salutations and Bonjour! My name is Didier Rain. I am the primary player in the new novel, DELIVERING VIRTUE, penned by the singularly talented Mister Brian Kindall. Said tome will enjoy its debut in November, and is rumored to be a tantalizing read full of ribald mischief, spiritual mystery, cunning word play, with a large dose of pulse-quickening adventure to boot. It will surely make me famous and financially solvent beyond my most fanciful fictional dreams. If landmark, life-changing narrative is to your liking, then this book, I trust, will not disappoint. It is already receiving flattering accolades among the literati. Some have even compared it to the works of Shakespeare and Milton, although, admittedly, other more critical puritans have been less kind, citing my own humble character as an example of all that is bombastic and disreputable in the analistic byways of American Literature. Phooey! At any rate, you are well advised to investigate this novel’s many merits, as your earthly existence will most assuredly be improved by so doing.
Mister Kindall has asked that I step in for him this week as an intercessor to his usual posting of a blog – a sort of dashing and witty blogular surrogate, if you will. It seems as of late that our scribbler has been overburdened with too much intellectual pursuit and worldly worries to accomplish the obligation of his weekly broadsheet. He is, instead, lying prone and all atremble – a steaming tincture tea within his easy reach, and a cold-press dabbed upon his overtaxed pate. Please forgive Brian his many mortal failings. He understands your addiction to his sterling prose and is, I assure you, wretched and aching with an insuperable guilt over his inability to provide you with a literary opiate more ingenious and insightful than this modest vaudevillian proxy.
Mister Kindall has asked that I step in for him this week as an intercessor to his usual posting of a blog – a sort of dashing and witty blogular surrogate, if you will. It seems as of late that our scribbler has been overburdened with too much intellectual pursuit and worldly worries to accomplish the obligation of his weekly broadsheet. He is, instead, lying prone and all atremble – a steaming tincture tea within his easy reach, and a cold-press dabbed upon his overtaxed pate. Please forgive Brian his many mortal failings. He understands your addiction to his sterling prose and is, I assure you, wretched and aching with an insuperable guilt over his inability to provide you with a literary opiate more ingenious and insightful than this modest vaudevillian proxy.
September 14, 2015
Introducing... Delivering Virtue!
We'd like to use this week's blog post to introduce a work of adult fiction that will be published by Diving Boy Books this fall - November 7th! Today, it is now available for pre-order as an ebook and print edition at most major on-line retailers, like Amazon and Smashwords.
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It’s 1854 and Didier Rain doesn’t want to be a rogue. He prefers to think of himself as a gentleman poet. And yet every time Rain finds himself in questionable circumstances, some animal instinct leads him into wrongful behavior. Maybe it’s his Oedipal upbringing that’s to blame. Or maybe he’s just never found a good moral example that hasn’t let him down. But now Rain has to put away all of his failings because The Church of the Restructured Truth has hired him to fulfill a prophecy – Didier Rain is to venture into the American Wilderness and deliver a bride into the waiting arms of the Prophet Nehi. It won’t be easy, what with all the hooligans, natural phenomena, and carnal temptations between here and there. Not to mention that Virtue – the would-be bride – is at present no more than a babe. But maybe the invisible gods will lend Rain a hand in the endeavor. Maybe Virtue is as much of an angel as she appears. And maybe, by epic journey’s end, Didier Rain will overcome the odds, experience a miracle, and find a way to secure his own dubious salvation.
At once ribald, irreverent, and charming, DELIVERING VIRTUE features one of the most despicable and endearing characters ever to gallivant through the pages of American Literature. Join Didier Rain on his escapades as he navigates that precarious line between the sacred and the profane, all the while protecting Virtue from the legions of evil that would seek to do her harm.
*******
It’s 1854 and Didier Rain doesn’t want to be a rogue. He prefers to think of himself as a gentleman poet. And yet every time Rain finds himself in questionable circumstances, some animal instinct leads him into wrongful behavior. Maybe it’s his Oedipal upbringing that’s to blame. Or maybe he’s just never found a good moral example that hasn’t let him down. But now Rain has to put away all of his failings because The Church of the Restructured Truth has hired him to fulfill a prophecy – Didier Rain is to venture into the American Wilderness and deliver a bride into the waiting arms of the Prophet Nehi. It won’t be easy, what with all the hooligans, natural phenomena, and carnal temptations between here and there. Not to mention that Virtue – the would-be bride – is at present no more than a babe. But maybe the invisible gods will lend Rain a hand in the endeavor. Maybe Virtue is as much of an angel as she appears. And maybe, by epic journey’s end, Didier Rain will overcome the odds, experience a miracle, and find a way to secure his own dubious salvation.
At once ribald, irreverent, and charming, DELIVERING VIRTUE features one of the most despicable and endearing characters ever to gallivant through the pages of American Literature. Join Didier Rain on his escapades as he navigates that precarious line between the sacred and the profane, all the while protecting Virtue from the legions of evil that would seek to do her harm.
