Everybody wants to know the story. I’ve been asked a dozen times how the whole saga evolved. So to satisfy your curiosity and put an end to the inquisition, I thought I’d put everything down on paper in as much detail as possible.
It all started a little over a year ago when I visited Atlanta to present my manuscript to the world’s premier Christian publishing firm, Christian Reader’s Press, or what I affectionately refer to as CRAP. My environmental engineering job at Miser Pharmaceuticals afforded me little more than a paycheck and at twenty-nine, a mediocre job in a small Georgia town just wasn’t cutting it. I had harbored a long-time passion for writing and once I settled in Coldridge and took the leap of faith into Christianity, that latent passion became a burning obsession, an obsession that drove me to write my controversial novel, the book that would start it all.
I finished my book only one month prior to visiting CRAP. Having been rejected by Faithful Artistic Book Distributions (FAD) via a form-letter email, I thought I’d try my luck with a personal solicitation to CRAP. The Sunday before my planned breakthrough, I drove to Atlanta and prepared myself for a Monday morning ambush.
I walked into the front door of the publishing house that Monday morning and heard the receptionist greet a man at the front of the line. “Welcome to Christian Reader’s Press. How can you help us help Jesus today?”
The man nervously addressed the Kelly girl like she was a literary gate-keeper. “I have a manuscript I wanted to submit for review by your publication,” he stammered.
“Is it salvation, sin, or saint specific?” the young woman asked as though reading from a poorly written script.
“Actually, it’s just a book about a couple’s struggle to live a good Christian life in the midst of marital conflict and adultery…”
The receptionist cut him off at the word adultery. “I’m sorry. That is sin tainting saints and salvation and we don’t do that here,” she politely informed him. “We only publish good, clean Christian books.” The receptionist smiled.
“Oh, you mean ones that suck,” I yelled out from the back of the line, unable to contain my sarcasm. Needless to say, this was not the appropriate time or place for such scathing humor and I was very politely escorted out of the building by some strong Christian men with side-arms who told me that Jesus loves me, just not my sense of humor.
“Perhaps not,” I remarked to my muscular escorts. “But then again, God gave me my sense of humor, didn’t he? He saved a cynical sinner not a joyous saint. I hardly think his salvation demands something so impossible on my part as a fundamental personality change. And if it does, there’s not much I can do about it or else I wouldn’t have much need for Jesus, now would I?” While I was quite proud of my clever little diatribe, the wit seemed to be lost on my affable companions who looked to be the victims of either too much steroid use or too few brain cells. Perhaps a little of both.
“Oh well, I guess that one’s out,” I mumbled standing on the sidewalk outside of CRAP’s headquarters.
They were a prominent publishing house even if their acronym explained the quality of their publications. The big gray building on Peachtree Street was a beacon in the Christian literary world and it had seemed the perfect avenue for my ground-breaking story of spiritual struggle. I knew for certain I had a great manuscript and wanted only to find a reputable publisher for it, one who I thought might understand the Biblical symbolism and not try to adulterate the Christian meaning. I had hoped CRAP was just that organization, but now it seemed they were definitely out.
Walking down the sidewalk, it occurred to me that I might actually have to find a non-Christian publisher for my book. I had tried my luck with FAD, but Providence had yet to smile on my much-maligned project. Now having been tossed out into the cold cruel world by CRAP, I was left with very few Christian outfits left to solicit. Nonetheless, the thought of finding some secular outfit like the Diablo Press to market my novel seemed wrong, like I would be placing my precious God-glorifying manuscript in the hands of disinterested pagans who would either misconstrue the story or bastardize the message. I was convinced that so long as my book made its way to the right erudite editor, it would be hailed as the masterpiece it clearly was. Looking back now, I wonder if perhaps I should have pursued the secular publishing route more vigorously. But you know what they say about hindsight.
Why no one wanted to publish my book was a mystery to me. The title was unusual and catchy. “The Christian Whorehouse Chronicles” was certainly unique in the marketplace. Why I was having such a difficult time finding a publisher for it seemed slightly unnerving, like there was a great right-wing conspiracy afoot to prevent all books dealing with Christian prostitutes from polluting the shelves. I started to wonder if I needed an in in the publishing industry, some sort of promotion.
I lugged my manuscript with me to the coffee shop just a block down from the CRAP headquarters and slipped in for a latte and a scone. All is better with coffee and scones. Even the most dejected authors can find respite in such aromatic enclaves. And as I sipped the latte and savored the maple scone, I looked over at the woman sitting at an adjacent table. She was reading “An Easy Life of Meaning” by that Pastor from some non-denominational Church in California.
Although I hate to interrupt people in the midst of reading, I couldn’t stop myself from asking her a few important questions. “Excuse me, I hate to bother you,” I politely interrupted. “But I was just wondering what you think of that book?”
The middle-aged woman with short blond-hair looked up from her chapter to address my question. “Oh it’s wonderful,” she crooned with a thick southern accent and widening smile. “It is just so inspirational and thoughtful.”
“Really?” I asked, finding her description harder to swallow than the scone in my mouth.
“Oh yes! You know it’s been on the best-seller list for weeks. And it’s really helped transform many Christian lives.” The woman leaned towards me with a hint of desperation in her voice, trying to enlighten me to some liberating truth that had sadly evaded my grasp.
“But do you think it’s well written?” I asked, probing further.
The woman knit her brow. “Well, it’s good, if that’s what you mean.”
“But do you think it’s well written?” I reiterated.
“Well, I like it,” she replied, still unable to address my actual question.
“And I appreciate that,” I said. “But do you honestly think it’s well written?” I refused to give up my questioning despite the woman’s obvious lack of understanding.
The woman cocked her head to the side. “I really don’t understand your question.” At last honesty came forth. The heavens opened and angels started singing in the background (which sounded strangely like Sara McLachlan in Dolby surround sound). “If you like the book, isn’t that all that matters?”
“Well I read a good bit and think there’s a little more to ‘liking a book’ than finding the subject engaging or worthwhile. I guess you could say I value good writing as much as captivating subject matter.” The woman peered at me through her wire-rimmed spectacles, stumped by my comment. I thought it wise to elaborate. “The reason I ask is that I read the book and found it over-rated. His writing I felt was uninspired and his points painfully obvious. But as you so rightly pointed out, my opinion must be the minority.”
“Well, if it helps people apply the Gospel in their daily lives, then it can’t be bad,” she argued.
“But how does telling people to live according to Jesus’ teachings help them live according to Jesus’ teachings?” I asked pointedly.
“Well it tells them what they need to do,” she said pointing her right index finger at me.
“Yes, but how do they control their thoughts and emotions?”
“Well, he’s not talking about that,” she snapped back. “He’s telling us what to do, not what to think or feel.”
“But is that what Jesus emphasizes? What we do? Or is it that Pharisaical attitude which lauds a person for their outward actions precisely the kind of thinking he rebukes?” The woman stared at me sourly and while I refrained from adopting an argumentative tone, it was clear from the scowl on her face that she saw my questioning as a personal attack.
“Well, some people I guess just think they’re too smart for the Gospels,” she haughtily replied. It was what I like to refer to as the Christian Country Club smirk and it always assures me the person I’m talking to is, at heart, an insecure dullard.
“Perhaps,” I added flippantly. “But I guess that’s better than thinking you’re too dumb to believe anything else.” The woman, not so dull as to not recognize the insult hurled her way, got up from her chair in a huff and took her precious book and keen mind out the coffee shop door.
While the exchange had provided me with some mild entertainment on this otherwise unfortunate day, I did have to cede the woman’s point about the book’s popularity. Granted, I thought it was uninteresting, trite and simplistic (and shallow and did I mention simplistic?), still, the author had an audience and now quite a bit of publishing fame. No matter how inadequate a writer he was, he was sure to find a publisher for any bit of rubbish he typed. Hardly seemed fair to me. But then, life seldom is.
I left the coffee shop sometime after eleven and decided I would make good use of the remainder of the day by contacting yet another Christian Publisher, Jesus News Corporation or, more appropriately called, JUNC. JUNC was headquartered out of Los Angeles, which you would expect, and I was living in Atlanta so this would be no face-to-face solicitation. I would have to handle this matter on-line.
I made my way to the parking garage on Peachtree St. (because everything is on Peachtree St.) and started on the drive back to Coldridge, my sleepy little hometown. Fortunately, I missed rush hour that Monday, so the drive back home took its usual three hours. Coldridge was just far enough from Atlanta to make you not want to go to the big city often, but close enough to make you feel pathetic for not visiting more.
As I headed south on the Interstate, I glimpsed the Atlanta skyline in my rear view mirror and reminded myself why I was leaving. Although I spent the majority of my life in and around big cities, the city life no longer held much attraction for me. Perhaps all those years in California bred in me a distaste for all things urban. Or maybe the last five years in Coldridge had given me a new-found appreciation for small-town life. In either case, seeing the skyscrapers in my rear view mirror was precisely where I wanted to see them. Atlanta had its charms, great shopping, happening night-life and of course, publishing firms, but most of those things didn’t enthuse me too much anymore. It was a good drive back.
I got back to Coldridge around three o’clock that afternoon. It was the town’s busiest time of day oddly enough. Kids getting out of school, buses roaming around, and shift work ending at the local plants filled the town with more traffic than it seemed capable of accommodating. And of course, being just a sleepy rural town in Georgia, the roads were all two-lane and the traffic lights were timed to make sure you stopped at every one. It was a quaint little place though, with a low crime rate and a Church on every corner. There was little to attract visitors and only a handful of substantial employers in the town but, to me, it all seemed to meld together nicely.
As I drove into my driveway that day, I glanced around at all the antebellum homes lining Oak Street and tried to convince myself how fortunate I was to be living in such an idyllic place. My house was a few blocks down from the town square near the historic district. It was a quaint two-story Victorian with the gingerbread that forever needs touching up and ornate wainscoting that was far more attractive to the eyes than the pocket book. I always loved the wrap-around porch, upstairs bedrooms and myriad of little rooms on the first floor. Of course, the place needed a lot of work, which is why I got it for such a great price and the yard may have been considered small by rural Georgia standards, but it was more than ample for a single woman who works.
That Monday, I went inside the house, tossed my keys on the living room sofa near the front door, and fired up the computer. Time for a little email magic. The JUNC website always had nice depictions of Jesus and doves and some sweet muzak that reminded me of being in a doctor’s office. But hey, they were into books not music, so I never held it against them. Their submission guidelines for manuscripts were nothing particularly special. Just your typical word count and formatting requirements. Of course there was that one caveat that gave me slight pause: “Material deemed unsuitable for a Christian audience will not be considered for publication.”
I wondered then if my book was too cutting-edge. “The Christian Whorehouse Chronicles” surely was an explosive title. But it was a brilliant story of a young woman’s struggle to live out her Christian life in the midst of prostitution. At its core, the story confronted the free-will conundrum, asking the age-old question, how can sinners ever turn from sin by their own volition? The artist in me refused to amend the title or soften the subject matter. After all, what better place for my book’s protagonist to evangelize than in the bedroom after performing felatio? Granted, it may have seemed slightly improper to some Christians. But I wasn’t advocating these things in the book, only presenting a view inside the mind of a conflicted young woman mired in a lifestyle she didn’t know how to escape from. If any person of faith read the manuscript, they would see the Biblical message and the hopeful conclusion. I just wanted to glorify God in a fresh way, get people thinking about Christianity in a whole new light. Surely any publishing big-wig with a Christian worldview would see that if he just read it.
But that was my problem, getting off the slush pile and into the hands of an editor. It was that desire that led me to the CRAP lobby, only to find my unappreciated sense of humor tossed out along with my manuscript. But JUNC was slightly less restrictive than CRAP and might just consider my hard-hitting novel. And at this point, they seemed to be my last hope.
I typed my usual cover letter and emailed it to JUNC, providing a brief synopsis of the story and the unique features of the book. Now I would just wait several weeks until they replied saying they wanted to see the intriguing manuscript.
As I sat at the computer that day, I started to think that I might have better success with writing if I had more time to write. My environmental job at Miser Pharmaceuticals paid decently, but it wasn’t exactly giving me the life of luxury I had hoped. Granted, Jesus didn’t care if I lived in luxury, but I sure as hell did, so I’m thinking it must have been on his mind too. I had taken off work that Monday to push my manuscript on someone at CRAP, but all that got me was a mildly amusing exchange with two dim-witted security guards and a Christian Country Club elitist. It was getting near time when I would have to decide how much I believed in my novel. What would I sacrifice for the “Christian Whorehouse Chronicles”?
And so it was here in my house that I first had my epiphany (which could have been mistaken for a caffeinated sugar rush. It felt like a real epiphany though, and I’m pretty sure that’s all that matters.) If I was intent on getting my novel published, I would have to create a name for myself much like the pedestrian author of “An Easy Life of Meaning”. I would try to propel myself into the public eye at whatever cost. All for the sake of my masterpiece. All for the glory of God. That’s when the plan first took shape. It started off as just one idea for garnering the attention I needed. It of course grew into the plan that sent me to Vegas and back to California. The one that finally landed me here.
Christine
check out my blog at http://oldsinnerschurch.blogspot.com