My sister is married to a preacher. He’s a nice enough guy, pretty down to earth, and has a fairly large and growing congregation. Their faith is a mixture of Baptist and Assembly of God. In other words, as some folks around my parts would say, they’re Holy-Rollers with a governor on the engine.
Anyway, due to the steady influence of ‘church folks,’ surrounding her, Sis has a tendency to blame every occurrence in life on either the devil or God. I keep trying to remind her that when she was a teen, she was the devil, but that sorta goes in one of her ears and out the other. That being said, though, the subject came up again when I was completing my last book, MORBID CURIOSITY.
I basically went through hell writing that book. Although I had the subject down pat, the outline in prime order, the characters clearly envisioned, every time I sat down to write it, something in my life would turn upside down and pull me away from the computer. And I’m not talking little annoyances, but major, life-altering crap. Although I did finish the manuscript, it was seriously late and got lost twice by Fed Ex when I attempted to send it to my agent, which delayed it even more. I finally had to send the manuscript through email to my editor. He received it all right—along with a virus that infected his computer.
Even weirder, when I gave a copy of the manuscript to the artist who draws scenes from my books for the literacy challenge, the guy damn near didn’t do the job. The way the process works is he’ll read the book, then we discuss what scenes I’d like drawn. That always worked well, until this book He must have called me forty times while reading the manuscript to say, “Deborah, I don’t know what you tapped into here, but it’s freaking me out. I can draw a scene about ‘this’ or ‘that’, but CAN’T draw one with that ‘thing’ in it because it feels too real.”
Well, while all this is going on, my sister calls, and I relay the events to her. She, of course, spent the next hour telling me that the weird events could be God’s way of telling me to use my talents for ‘Him’ instead of ‘wasting’ it on the weird stuff I do write. As usual, I rolled my eyes, set the phone on my shoulder, and did other stuff while she blabbered on. It was my fault. I should’ve known better than to tell her about the ‘strange’ things surrounding MC. But it did get me to thinking…
What if it wasn’t the Big Guy telling me not to write this stuff, but the horn-sprouting punk who lived wayyyy down south? You see, Morbid Curiosity revolves around a set of sixteen-year-old twin girls who get involved in Chaos Magic, something they know nothing about, think is the answer to all their problems, and it damn near kills them. The story is fiction, but Chaos is very real. It’s sort of a bastard-child and off-shoot of Aleister Crowley’s ‘work.’ Thousands of teens around the country ‘practice’ Chaos and wind up either seriously injuring themselves and others or dying. I happened upon this secret world by ‘accident’, while researching something completely different. I was so blown away by the number of kids practicing it and the extreme nature of the practice, I felt ‘compelled’ to write a story about it so the ‘truth’ about its dangers could be revealed.
So that’s exactly what I did, only the story damn near didn’t get told.
Could it be ‘someone’ or ‘something’ didn’t want that truth revealed?
Regardless, the deal’s done. The story’s out, and the book hits store shelves in a week. Funny thing is as soon as it hit the point of no return, i.e finally got to the printer, finally was sold to buyers, it’s like everything surrounding the book did a three-eighty. Preorder sales for the damn thing sky-rocketed, and I’ve had more interview requests regarding this book than I had for any other book I’ve written.
Kinda makes you wonder doesn’t it? Is the stuff we write only a product of our imagination or is our imagination really a conduit for something/someone bigger?