James V. Smith Jr.'s Blog: Blog for Sinners

When you type at the keyboard, looking at the screen, you are actually double-tasking. Your eyes will continually watch the words, looking for errors, consciously editing. When you should be focused on simply capturing your genius. You can overcome that tendency by using a wireless keyboard and getting away from the screen, closing your eyes as you think, or merely staring off into the stratosphere out the window. Get away from the computer screen altogether until it is time to revise and edit those things you captured. Then focus on that single task.

Which is why I use a digital voice recorder as my notebook and speech-to-text software that converts the audio files to text files on the computer. I'm off getting a 2nd cup of coffee and relieving myself of the first while the computer is converting my creative thoughts to text on screen.

14

Sin upon Sin

“You stole this fine ride?”

HE’S POSITIVELY BEAMING, his white teeth gleaming like Chiclets candy gum. “Did you hear that? On a mission from God? Something else I always wanted to say that to one of the humans.”

It’s so Blues-Brothers.

Oh yeah? And what if I told you Belushi and Akroyd stole it from me?

Meanwhile, Missy in Indy is gazing, bug-eyed at her computer — later I’ll tell you how I know these things — utterly speechless. Loretta isn’t finding any words, either.

Christopher isn’t about to let her off the hook. “Miss Saint John? Is it true what the voice from the NorthStar said? You stole this fine ride?”

She closes her eyes, looking for a plausible lie somewhere inside her pretty but exceedingly troubled head. Then she hears the sound of tires grabbing asphalt in a hard stop on the interstate and decides she needn’t bother.

Every writer has a reason (excuse, alibi, rationalization) his Great American Novel hasn’t found a home. Here’s mine: The sucker is cursed. But you can help lift the hex.

True story. My editor at the Dallas Morning News wants me out of her hair, so she hands me this one-by-two display ad from the back of the paper and says, “Give me twelve inches on this advertiser. Maybe she’ll buy a bigger spot next week.” I read the ad. Right. Or maybe next century.

She’s Madam Gorka (not her real name), fortune-teller and reader of palms. Over the phone Madam tells me she’s closed for renovations at the home office palmist shop, but she will make time to see me. Of course, she’ll make time—the story’s a free ad six times the size of the one she buys.

It’s a nice house in a middling neighborhood. “We’ll have to sit on the porch because of the noise,” she says over slamming hammers and shrieking saws. “Construction.” Not to mention howling. From her brat kids, whom she silences with, “Shut up in there or somebody is going to come in and paddle some butts.” Telling fortunes ten seconds into the interview.

She is of the Middle Eastern complexion, but neither a gown nor turban nor even an airy scarf for this Madam. She’s dumped-out in shorts and flip-flops and a red-on-purple man’s rugby shirt, oversized because she’s pregnant. And chain-smoking—I guess the warning on the packaging hasn’t yet crossed over from the other side.

Routine interview. I like the lady. She’s more normal than para-, a good-neighbor type, and somebody who could warn you about Texas tornadoes before the Weather Radar even had a clue besides. I wrap it up with the inevitable. “I should get a reading, don’t you think? For authenticity?” Listen to me with authenticity. She’s not the only one full of it.

Madam shrugs, What the hell. She reads my palm and riffs through the Tarot cards for good measure. Bottom line: “You want to write books. You’re gonna write a best-seller.”

It must have showed on my face: Yeah, so? What journalist doesn’t have wet dreams about writing a best-seller? She slides into Plan B without a blink. “But you want to write, what is it, the kind where it isn’t the true facts, but the made-up kind . . . ?” Hesitation.

I’m thinking Journalism, but I say, “Fiction?”

“Yeah, fiction novels.” Hear that? Fiction novels. Nice touch, huh? “You want to write them but your best-seller is gonna be . . .” hand to her head.

“Nonfiction?”

“Yeah, that.”

Well, crap. In my head I know this whole fortune-telling gig is baloney, but in my heart it’s, Just crap. I wanna write best-selling fiction novels.

In retaliation I resort to the most perverse sin a journalist can commit. I tell the truth. My story has hammers, saws, howls, baby bumps, smokes, brats—the works. Sometimes sources thank you when they like a story. They always bitch when they hate it. Madam Gorka? (“Neither a borrower nor a lender be; above all, don’t fool with the fortune teller.”) Yep, she cursed my Great American Novel.

Oh, I tried to beat the curse, all right. I thought I had outflanked her with my Boy Book at Penguin. Madam countered by not letting it earn out the advances. Even so, I landed a five-book contract; Gorka would not let the titles be found in the bookstores (and you know what “not-found” is). I begged my editor at Bantam to let me show him a mainstream novel; he said, “I really like the helicopters—got any more helicopters you can throw into your fiction novel?”

At the Indianapolis News, I finally found the curse-breaker. I did a piece on a teacher in the maximum security unit at the state reform school, a one-room schoolhouse behind bars with rapists, arsonists, murderers—X-rated deviants in PG bodies. Juice that up and how is Prison of the Soul not a best-seller?

To illustrate how not, I will here compress the timeline. I quit my job to write the novel. During first revisions, I read a front-page New York Times story that shocked the nation. A baby-faced twelve-year-old shot a man in the head at an ATM by day, killing him for a lousy two-hundred bucks. I jumped all over it, breaking every agently protocol. I faxed queries to twenty-one agencies and went for a walk. When I got back, my fax had spewed thirty feet of paper onto the floor. Of the twelve agents who wanted to read the manuscript, five offered to represent it. I researched every applicant and chose the one I wanted. The agency put the manuscript before every big name you can name. One editor asked me to rewrite the novel into third-person, I suppose because he preferred rejecting third-person novels. All the others were kind enough to go thumbs-down on the first-person version.

And now to micro-compress because this tale is years from over: I rewrote, edited, enlarged, revised, re-cut, and re-marketed Prison. Decades later, a second agent represented the novel, yadda, yadda . . . seventy-plus rejections over the years. You gonna tell me Madam Gorka didn’t lay a curse on that novel? I didn’t think so.

The worst of this sad history? In 1984 (yeah, 1984, right?), Madam went Medieval on me, in the cratered face of F. Murray Abraham in the character of Antonio Salieri in the film, Amadeus, in the words: “ . . . why implant the desire? Like a lust in my body! And then deny me the talent?” Talking to God. Or maybe me.

I keep telling myself I’m not superstitious. But. Nothing since compares to the alarum in Salieri’s words to a writer. I hear you, Salieri, and Madam Gorka, too. Not only am I lost; I am afraid.

Only one thing to do: Ask for a crowd-source un-cursing for this novel. Buy it, if you can afford the $0.99. If not, review what you can read for free using the “Look Inside” feature on Amazon—at a minimum you can than comment here to tell me the novel isn’t really cursed, it’s just a POS. If you can’t even do that, please at least click the YES at the bottom of the Catherine Gibson review so it will stay on top. What do you think? I got a chance with you? Or I gotta rewrite it for scratch for NaNoWriMo?

Make it your goal to produce a near-publication quality manuscript in the November 2015 NaNoWriMo contest

If you're going into the 2015 NaNoWriMo contest with the notion that you will meet the contest’s worthy expectations of creating 50,000 words, that's a terrific objective in itself. But wouldn’t you rather shoot for mega-terrific? Wouldn't you like to aim higher? I suggest you set yourself the highest possible goal for a fiction writer — to get those words published as a novel once the contest ends November 30.

This is not to put the knock on NaNoWriMo. Far from it. NaNoWriMo is a nonprofit. It aims to inspire writers to become published authors. It gives writers the platform and the community to do so. Writing programs just don’t get much more praiseworthy than that.

So this is a no-knock article. This brainstorm is just me encouraging you to aim for the stars — in the next galaxy of fiction writing — a simple three-step strategic vision, full of practical learning possibilities that will help you focus and direct your NaNoWriMo contest entry into another world, that of the published novel.

The clock is ticking on two of my strategies. So let’s get started, shall we?

The Three Strategies

One, register for HWWF 2015, the best short writing course EVAH, the internationally acclaimed University of Iowa free online course, How Writers Write Fiction 2015. Did I mention it's free?

But that clock ticks—HWWF opens Sep. 24.

Two, kick off NaNoWriMo by churning words for your novel — meaningful, magical words by using the strategies in this and subsequent articles. Tick-tock goes the clock on that one, too, deadline Nov. 1.

Three, submit to Kindle Scout for a chance to get your NaNoWriMo tour de force published.

Let's look at each of these three strategies in detail. For starters, I quote Stephen Covey’s first of The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People: “Begin with the end in mind.” So . . . "

Strategy — Check out the Kindle Scout program first

1. Visit the Kindle Scout link: How it Works for Authors.

2. See whether your novel fits the genres Amazon seeks to publish. At this writing they are: Romance, Mystery & Thriller, Science Fiction & fantasy, Teen & Young Adult, and Literature & Fiction.

If your proposed NaNoWriMo project falls within those genres, great. Even if your intended novel doesn't fall into those genres . . .

3. Consider whether you can tweak your proposed NaNoWriMo entry to make it eligible for Scout. Why?

Simple. Amazon, runs the most sophisticated database in the world for identifying reader tastes and trends. If they want more romances, readers are driving the demand. Take that to the bank.

Bonus strategy. The minimum word count for the Kindle Scout submission is 50,000 words’s, same as the NaNoWriMo goal. Lovely coincidence, eh?

Strategy — Sign up for How Writers Write Fiction 2015

At least take a look at the course description at this HWWF 2015 link. You’ll find it invaluable.

I participated in the 2014 course, and I found it remarkably helpful, even as an experienced writer, editor, and published author in both fiction and nonfiction.

I went in thinking I needed to have the course moderators read my work and put it up for public discussion to learn the most. I was wrong.

Some of the best examples of criticism came from the writing community members who evaluated my work. These are writers and editors from all over the world. If they look at your writing assignments and make specific comments, imagine how valuable that can be to you. But there's more.

Assignments from the last course included writing first lines, integrating character and setting, revision and editing, and a lot more.

Think about this as a NaNoWriMo preparation tactic. You’d create and submit trial segments of your National Novel Writing Month contest entry. Almost immediately you would get community commentary and critique. Those comments could help you shape the direction you take toward the eventual Kindle Scout program.

I used that strategy with my completed, unpublished novel, Prison of the Soul. I knew the manuscript was flawed, but couldn’t figure out how to fix it. Until I began to submit revised samples of the manuscript as HWWF 2014 assignments.

The writing community told me the many ways I could improve Prison. I took their advice, the kind and the harsh. The book now lives on Amazon.com, a far better product than it was before I took it to the Iowa course.

Strategy — Register for National Novel Writing Month 2015

The word I have from the site staff that registration opens in October. You can visit the NaNoWriMo site early to learn from many of the helpful articles there as you get ready to enter NaNoWriMo once the clock trips over midnight Halloween. (What a bewitching time to open a contest, huh?)

Full Disclosure

If you explore the websites I’ve given you, you’ll discover some huge advantages to adopting my strategies for NaNoWriMo. But you will also find several disadvantages to taking my advice. To list just a couple . . .

Yes, the HWWF 2015, begins long before the NaNoWriMo, on Sep. 24, but it also runs to Nov. 24, overlapping your need to churn contest output by 24 days.

And, yes, Kindle doesn’t pay you a boatload of money if readers nominate it for publication, only $1,500. And Amazon will cling to your rights if you’re successful.

You may find other disadvantages, and I’d be pleased to hear about them and address them in the next few articles in this series, thank you.

Stay tuned. My next piece expands on that Kindle Scout Strategy, because I have three or four bits of genius that will light a fire in your imagination.

For now, think about the three strategies and what they can do for you. Instead of just sitting at the keyboard churning text, you’ll be able to write with a greater focus, and with some free advance criticism from a terrific writing community in the Iowa course and the goal of producing a novel that Amazon wants.

If this is your first visit to the Blog for Sinners, you may want to start reading St. Ant Knee, A Novel for Sinners, at the link for Chapter 1. At the very top of each blog, on the right side of the header, you'll see the link to the next chapter. Enjoy!


13

A Mission from God

“ . . . don’t need your help because we’re on a mission from God, over and out.”

THE CLOTH ROOF OF THE CORVETTE begins to lift off and fold itself back.

“Would you look at that,” he says.

“Christopher, for the love of God—”

“Amen.”

“Amen. For the love of God—”

“Amen already. For Saint Pete’s sake, let’s not get going on that Abbott and Costello merry-go-round again.”

“Mr. Murced?”

“What’s that?” Christopher wants to know, acting quite surprised at the voice coming from the dashboard, and I do mean acting.

“You know very well what it is,” says I.

“Mr. Murced? We have a stolen vehicle report. Are you Mr. Murced?”

“Remind you of a certain voice from above, Antonio?”

“Very funny.”

“You think? How about this? Guy by the name of Murced oughtn’t be driving a Corvette anyways.” He hits the S hard on anyways to vex me. “Guy oughta be driving a Murcedes.” He laughs.

Me, too. Corny, but clean. Quite funny, it is, too.

“Why, thank you, Antonio.”

“Mr. Murced?”

“Who is that?” he asks, although, as I say, he knows perfectly. He wants to engage Loretta in the miracle.

“It’s the NorthStar operator,” Loretta says. Standing beside the driver’s door now. Getting braver. She can be quite brave. You know, for a human. “And she can shut off the engine if she wants. By remote control.”

“Back among us, are you?” Christopher says.

The Corvette engine dies with more a sniff than a cough.

Christopher smirks. “A little overdone on the imagery, Antonio.”

Loretta smirks. See?

Christopher turns his smirk from me to her. “What if she had done that to you while you were screaming down the mountain, little girl?”

“But wait.” He put a hand to his ear. “What do I hear?”

The Corvette engine, seemingly of its own will but certainly not, re-starts with a roar. He returns the See? look.

The NorthStar operator kills the engine. Christopher restarts it. And again. And again.

It could go on ad infinitum. But with not so much as a blink, Christopher kills the NorthStar operator’s remote control.

“Take that, Missy.”

“I beg your pardon?” The NorthStar operator’s voice begins to warble. “Would you kindly identify yourself, sir?” She’s a bit stressed.

“Ten-four, Missy. My name is Christopher, Saint Christopher to you.” He turns to me. “Ten-four. Always wanted to say that.”

“Be advised that we have a report of a stolen vehicle report and we have been tracking you for the last half hour.”

“Well, which is it?”

“Sir?”

“Is a report of a stolen vee-hickle or a stolen vee-hickle report?”

She’s so frustrated she doesn’t even realize how redundant she’s been. You should let her off the hook, Christopher.

He gives me a wink. “Stolen vehicle, eh?” He gives Loretta a stern look. As if we didn’t know it all along. Such a ham.

“Be advised that law enforcement has been given a report of the stolen Corvette and have launched a nationwide search. Furthermore, we have police instructions to disable this vehicle.”

“You got a Plan B?” Christopher wants to know.

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“Now that you’ve discovered you can’t disable our vee-hickle, as you call it?”

“The police are on the way, sir.”

“So you said, but why a nationwide search? Don’t you have a GPS fix on us? If you want us to believe you have a fix that’s really on us, tell me where we are.”

“I’m not allowed to say, sir.”

“You’re not allowed to tell us where we are? Need I say we already know we’re in Florida.”

“No you’re not — I mean, I’m only allowed to say that law enforcement—”

“Has been alerted to find us in Tallahassee, Florida, right?”

“Why, no, sir—”

“Better check that GPS again, Missy. What does it say? Tallahassee, right?”

Silence from the NorthStar operator, whose name really is Missy, Miss Missy Van Danderloos, one very confused young lady of Dutch descent right now, as her computer screen, which reported the Corvette in very western Montana just a minute ago, is now fully and digitally convinced that we’re in the most west Florida panhandle city, on Lord Avenue in Tallahassee.

Christopher looks to me. That’s a bit more in the vein of a miracle of irony, wouldn’t you say, Antonio? Lord Avenue? Get it?

I do, and a nice touch it is, too.

“Thank you, Antonio.”

To the stunned NorthStar operator, he says, “I gotta go now, Miss Missy Van Danderloos, of 666 Cameron Boulevard, Indianapolis. Now you be advised. We’re six-by down here and don’t need your help because we’re on a mission from God, over and out.”

And to me, he says, “You’re not the only one who can do names, Antonio.”

How Writers Write Fiction 2015

Here's the link for detailed info and signup

Absolutely the best free writing course you'll ever take. Weekly video lessons from faculty and polished novelists. Assignments you can handle. Helpful critique from an international community of writers. Maybe lifelong writer friends.

I submitted revisions of Prison of the Soul as my assignments as the start of a major rewrite. The finish was publication of the novel with a polished sheen.

Getting the cover work done and expecting to post as a Kindle book soon. Hoping you'll continue to follow the progress of the Saints of Hazzard over there.

If this is your first visit to the Blog for Sinners, you may want to start reading St. Ant Knee, A Novel for Sinners, at the link for Chapter 1. At the very top of each blog, on the right side of the header, you'll see the link to the next chapter. Enjoy!

11

TIA in Action

“With the screaming again.”

SHE BOLTS and jumps into the car. She locks the doors.

She looks out in front of the car and sighs in relief that we are not there.

Because we are in the car with her already. Have I explained this power of Trans-Imagery Appearance granted to the saints?

Christopher’s turn to sigh. “Thrice already. And this. Is TIA in action, Miss.”

Lori hears him and she sees us.

With the screaming again.

 

12

Rant

“She jumps out and goes on a rant.”

SHE JUMPS OUT AND GOES ON A RANT, standing beside the car, too close to the edge of the road for my comfort. She’s cursing and raving to the near side of hysteria, practically banging on the gates of Hell. Christopher twists an air-knob and cranks up the Ode to max. Joy, joy, joy. How I love that little ditty.

But Lori can take it no longer. She stops cursing and presses her hands to her ears as if she’s trying to pop her head like a pimple.

“Popping her head like a pimple? Nice imagery,” Christopher says. “I hope you don’t plan on putting that in the final report.”

Impossible as it sounds, I ignore him. “Turn down the music, please.”

He does with a tweak of his will, but using the air-knob again for effect.

“Miss?” I call out the driver’s window. “Loretta? Would you just get in the car?”

“With a guy that looks like you, Antonio?”

“Me? I’m not the one with the stick.”

“Staff. It’s a staff. Got if from the same staff guy as Moses. A genuine 56-ounce Moses Magnum, weather-modified especially for this mission.” He starts playing with the buttons of the Corvette.

“Christopher, I wouldn’t do that.”

If this is your first visit to the Blog for Sinners, you may want to start reading St. Ant Knee, A Novel for Sinners, at the link for Chapter 1. At the very top of each blog, on the right side of the header, you'll see the link to the next chapter. Enjoy!

10

What’s in a Name

“Any moment now, she’s going to make a run for it.”

“WHY, YOU’RE LORETTA CHRISTINA SAINT JOHN, a lovely name, I must say, and so saintly, if I may pun on it. I can’t fathom why you insist on going by Lori.” She puts a hand to her mouth. “You’ve just driven over from Bellingham, Washington, and you’re on the way to Missoula, Montana, where you are—”

“Puh-leeze,” says Christopher, startling her with his presence. “That’s all you’ve got? Names? Surely you don’t call that a miracle.”

“How did you get from the car to here?” she wants to know from Christopher.

“It’s Trans-Imagery-Appearance,” I say, “TIA for short. It’s—”

“Not again, Antonio.”

“Antonio?” she says to me. “How do you know who I am? Where I’m going?”

I give Christopher a look: See, she’s impressed.

“No, she isn’t. She thinks you’re stalking her.”

“You’re stalking me?”

“No-UH. Really young lady, pay attention. Your mother is Ruth, and you were engaged to a man she detests. A man whose mother detests you easily twice as much.”

“You are stalking me.”

“No, dear.” I give a big human sigh. “What I’m doing is, I’m working a bit of heavenly wonder here.”

She wags her head, looks me up and down in my wool garb. “Who are you, some kind of off-the-Atkins-diet, around-the-bend Harry Potter?”

“Ha!” Christopher gives it his zebra-bark laugh. “You hear that, Antonio? She called you Harry Potter.”

I heard, Christopher. “It’s not that kind of magic, dear. More like a miracle.”

She shakes her head. “You?” She tries blinking me away. “A miracle? Not. Bloody. Likely.”

“True dat, kiddo — not even close to a miracle.” To me, he says, “Two thousand years, Antonio, and names is the best you can do?”

“Give me room to work here, Christopher. As I say, Loretta, your mother’s name is Ruth, short for Ruthanne, a name she quite hates. And that Not-Bloody-Likely remark is a Seinfeld reference.”

Aha! Now she’s got both hands in front of her mouth. Howdya like that, Christopher?

Christopher laughs into his beard of snow. “You think calling a Seinfeld reference makes it miraculous?” He yawns. “Seinfeld is like, sixty years old or something.”

“Why just this morning,” I say, gazing into her deep, deep brown, almond eyes, ignoring him altogether, “you and Ruth engaged in a major telephone catfight over that man, Daniel.”

“How could you know that?” She’s hysterical now. “Nobody could know that. That was between me and mom.” She begins walking in small circles in front of the Vette. “You are stalking me; no, wait, did she call you after our catfight — conversation? Did she put you up to this?” She blinks, a kind of stuttering in visual Morse code. “Yes, she did. She put you up to this.” She grabs her hair. “No. You do not even exist.” She turns toward the car and walks away, talking to herself. “You. Do not. Exist.” As if the very wish for our nonexistence would erase us.

Any second now, she’s going to make a run for it.

Three-two-one . . .

+++

Stay tuned for tomorrow's installment. Soon to be posted as a novel in full on Amazon.

If this is your first visit to the Blog for Sinners, you may want to start reading St. Ant Knee, A Novel for Sinners, at the link for Chapter 1. At the very top of each blog, on the right side of the header, you'll see the link to the next chapter. Enjoy!


8

Stage Three — Rage

“Don't you get me started on Adam.”

THE PANIC AND FEAR done, we’re about to see big little Lori get pretty ugly with rage, if you’ll forgive the Strunk and White reference. We scribes sometimes do get literary.

She storms to the car and throws open Christopher’s door.

I’m thinking, Don’t say it!

Christopher shushes me with a wave of his hand. He could just as well tell her now not to say the really horrible expression that’s flashing to her lips. But no. He’s got to wait till the last possible instant. It’s that flair for the dramatic I told you about.

Now!

No. He waits even an instant longer.

She’s gargling in her own fury. “Get out of my car,” she shrieks. I’ll say this for her, she does have grit. Most of you people would be running away by now. “Who the heck are you and what the—?”

“Don’t you say that word!”

She’s already spitting it out, but somehow, Christopher gets her to hold it between her overbite and lower lip. He can be wearying at the odd moment, but things like this leave me in awe.

“Thank you, Antonio.”

She’s about to cut loose with it again.

“Don’t you dare say that word,” he tells her. “Just mind who you’re talking to.”

For Saint Peter’s sake. She doesn’t know you from Adam.

He whirls and points a finger at me. “Don’t you get me started on Adam.”

She ducks down and gazes into the back seat to see what he’s pointing at. Of course there’s nothing to see. I’m not about to resume my human form again. I’d rather hide out in that cigarette coal of hers still smoldering on the car mat.

Christopher barks a most wicked little zebra laugh.

Christopher, no!

“Smile, Antonio.”

No, this is your miracle and I’m just the anonymous scribe. Don’t drag me into it—



9

Appearance, Part II, III, IV

Saints like us.

THERE AM I, into his miracle, the fat little Franciscan monk that I once was, dressed in brown woolen garb, lying across all her luggage and pressed into the rear window glass like a honey-cured Kentucky ham.

Which is even more shocking to Loretta than to me.

She reverts to form, human form. She runs off down the road and goes into another fit of shrieks. You people.

She’s still running down the eastbound lane of I-90 when she runs into me, as I appear in front of her. Imagine her surprise. Shriek-o-rama.

Christopher — ever Mr. Sensitivity — turns up the volume on “Ode” until it drowns out her screaming and my now-human teeth begin to rattle.

“Come on, Christopher, enough of the torment.”

He’s chuckling. So pleased with himself. He can hear me, music or no, but he acts as if he’s deaf, which Loretta will be soon enough if he doesn’t turn it down.

I try to get through to her. “Miss? Loretta? Please get in the car.”

Christopher appears at her shoulder. The least he could do is turn down the volume for the sake of the earthling among us.

He does.

As Loretta yells to be heard over the music. “How do you know—” then lowers her own volume as she realizes the music is off “—my name?”

If this is your first visit to the Blog for Sinners, you may want to start reading St. Ant Knee, A Novel for Sinners, at the link for Chapter 1. At the end of each chapter, (and at the very top of each blog, in the header) you'll see the link to the next chapter. Enjoy!

5

Saint Regis

“There he sits with that goofy grin on his face . . .”

CHRISTOPHER SAYS TO THE WOMAN, “Is this Corvette vehicle like a bat out of the Inferno or something?”

You people. Put you in a situation where the least little panic will kill you, and what do you do? Exactly.

She slams on the brakes and jerks the steering wheel to the left. So funny. She thinks she can turn the Vette away from the old, over-tanned but nicely Botoxed, balding, big-nosed saint riding shotgun like Jesse Ventura in a mattress cover.

For an instant, other than a sneer from Christopher toward me, nothing happens. Because she spun the steering wheel in one of those instants when the tires weren’t in contact with the pavement.

So next time the tires touch earth, the steering wheel is cranked hard left with the brakes locked.

You say you’re sold on anti-lock braking systems? This little chariot skids, swapping ends faster than a dog with a rectal itch.

“Whoops!” says Christopher. “The dog-rectal itch thing’s gotta be edited outta the final draft.”

She shrieks. She’s never seen an appearance, let alone a talking saint, let alone a saint talking about a dog’s behind.

She can’t hear my side of the conversation, and he’s enjoying the ride.

“Ya know, Antonio,” he says, “I’d forgotten how much fun gravity can be.”

Technically it’s centrifugal force.

“Get on with it, Antonio.”

Fine. There he sits with that goofy grin on his face, the back of his head pressed up against the door glass, spin upon spin, as wisps of blue tire smoke flit by on each revolution, not in the least afraid. (Well, if you think about it, why would he be? I mean, he is the patron saint of travelers and he does already know how this ride is going to turn out. Except for the young woman, everybody in the car knows — and any suggestion earlier that I would be surprised at the outcome was really for dramatic effect. Now you talk about your omniscient story narrators spinning a yarn—)

“A-hem,” he says. “As I was saying?”

Christopher is always saying.

“In my day we didn’t have wheels like this.”

Actually? In his day they didn’t have the wheel.

“Funny, Antonio. Hysterical even. For the last two millennia that you’ve been using the line, it’s been every bit as hysterical.”

He’s being ironic again.

“No sin in that,” he says. Glaring from beneath one furry-white-caterpillar-eyebrow he gives me The Look. “Is there? I haven’t committed the sin of irony, have I?”

I’m not going to debate you, Christopher; so help me God, I’m not.

“Amen,” he says.

Amen.

Finally, just as he planned it, the Vette comes to rest, the engine killed, on the shoulder of the interstate pointing east in the original direction of travel, smack in front of highway sign announcing how far we have yet to drive to reach — get this — Saint Regis, Montana. I tell you, even with the ego, Christopher is remarkable for that style of his, especially when he exhibits it in signs like this.

“Road signs, as it were.” He winks at me and gives his biggest peach-pie-eating grin. Indeed he has a surfeit of style.

Thank you, Antonio.

The jury is still out on modesty.




6

Faith

“Like that would happen.”

CHRISTOPHER’S WAITING FOR THE WOMAN to come around.

It’ll be a while. She’s frozen, eyes big as collection plates, lips pulled wide in a silent scream, hands welded to the steering wheel, breathing in hisses.

Tell them, Antonio.

Her name. It’s Loretta Christina Saint John, a name brimming with potential holiness. And there really is a Saint Regis, Montana. You could look it up, people. Or you could just believe it — you know, take it on faith.

“Like that would happen.”




7

Fear and panic, panic and fear

“She’s dancing like a Pentecostal with a Saint Vitus inspiration . . .”

AS TO FAITH, Loretta does not believe. She closes her eyes and flaps her mouth open and shut like a fish gulping for water.

She thinks he’s a ghost.

“I’m not a ghost, you know,” he says to her.

Remember that next time you’re out among the humans, Christopher. If you’re going to dress like a ghost, the nice people will go catatonic.

He touches her shoulder. Big mistake.

Cue the scream.

She screams.

Throw open the door.

She throws open her door.

Take a breath.

She does and resumes screaming.

Do the dance.

She’s outside the car ranting, not making words, really, just sounds. Throwing her arms about. She’s dancing like a Pentecostal with a Saint Vitus inspiration, stomping around right there in the lane of traffic, except this is Montana, and there is no traffic for long periods. Like now.