Elm, an Outlander and a deserter from the army, lives in shame and fear. If the King’s men find him, he will surely be executed. His one pleasure is an ancient and forgotten cave temple. There he dreams of better days, and of his landlord’s beautiful daughter.
Teha, Commander of the Army, owes his position and standing to the order established by the gods. When the King takes a heretical priest as an advisor, everything Teha believes in stands in jeopardy.
In a forgotten city in the mountains, an old monk uses spiritual gifts to seek an ancient prophecy of peace and justice. Aided by a mysterious old woman, he works to prevent a war in the realm of the gods that would devastate the world of men.
A routine decision by the King sends these three men on a collision course that will change the world.
This novel follows three men, and the women who inspire them, through tumultuous events in a world of swords and violence. It is a world of diverse gods, prophecies and mystery, kings and priests, and a world in which a few privileged people live in peace while the vast majority experience war.
I started this book almost thirty years ago. Inspired by a Hindu temple I visited in India in 1987, it became a complex work told in three voices. Yet though it portrays people who believe in different gods, it is also an allegory about how we view God, and about misconceptions of power and violence.
As I write this, the paperback version is available here. The Kindle version should be available in a day or two.
If you decide to read it, please give it a review!
It’s been a rough couple of days with my blog. WordPress installed an editor they call Gutenberg, which is deigned to allow users to easily make impressive-looking posts. Unfortunately, it’s not for writers. As Nathan Ingram writes,
The days of sitting down and composing in the post window are gone (of course there is a question about how many people do this anyway).
Call me old fashioned, but that’s exactly what I do. I’m a writer. I’m not a coder, programmer, graphic designer, visual effects editor, or any other variety of technical creator.
I write words.
And I know how to get stuff done in what they now call Classic Editor. (I get it: “Classic” means old fashioned. I can live with that.)
So I tried the newfangled Gutenberg. I did a couple of posts on it. And yes, it makes designing a simple post easy. But designing a simple post was never hard.
The problem came when I wanted to embed an audio file to my post. Gutenberg’s description says there’s a “block” for that. Maybe there is, but I couldn’t find it. What should have been a 90-second post turned into an hour of frustrated failure. On my one and only Christmas post. Merry freakin Christmas.
Take Two: If I can’t work with Gutenberg, maybe I can get rid of it. That, fortunately, was a little easier. It took several searches, because the older solutions don’t work any more. But there is a free, simple plug-in called Classic Editor that returned my life to manageability.
Our friend, Joshua Pettit, has just published a book of amazing photos of southern Utah. Paired with musings from his struggle with chronic pain, the book is intended to be both beautiful and inspirational.
Here’s a sample:
Your words and self talk are what define you and your perceptions in life.
Change those to fit your desired point of view, that’s
This is an excerpt from the book Steve’s Grace by D. J. Mitchell.
“Christ is risen!” I begin. “Imagine the sorrow his mother must have felt, going to the graveside to mourn her son, whom she watched die just three days before. But instead of a grave and a memory, she finds an empty tomb and the question, ‘Why do you look for the living among the dead?’ What a shock that must have been!”
So begins my Easter sermon. I perform it for my family on Good Friday, two days before I will give it to the congregation. They seem to love it. Cindy and Zephyr both proclaim it the best one yet, and even Susan seems impressed.
That doesn’t keep me from being nervous Easter morning. I focus on each step of the service so I don’t obsess about the moment I will stand before the congregation and preach.
After the hymn, I read from the Gospel of Luke.
Then the moment comes. I stand before the congregation, spread my hands and arms upward, and begin.
“Christ is risen!” I proclaim.
Then I pause. The next line won’t come out. I know what I’m supposed to say, but I can’t say it.
I’m not expecting what happens next.
“Christ is risen!” I repeat. “He who was dead now lives. Christ is risen in me!”
I continue in a softer voice.
“He is risen in every one of us who was once dead through sin, yet now we live through the Grace of God and the Sacrifice of our Lord Jesus Christ! We have been redeemed, that we may escape the death penalty for our sins and live in Grace!”
“Do we fall short of what God wants us to do?” I ask. “Let’s be honest. I fall short far too often. How about you?”
I raise my hand. About half the congregation raises theirs, too.
“Do we try to play God in our own lives, and the lives of other people?” I ask. “I do.”
I raise my hand. More hands go up.
“Are we sinners?” I ask.
I open my hands, inviting an answer as I repeat, “Are we?”
“Yes!” they reply.
“Yes,” I agree. “But we found new life through Jesus Christ. Amen?”
“Amen!” they reply.
“Did you ever have an experience when something strange was happening in your life and you couldn’t figure out why? Then later, you looked back and realized it was God?”
I pause, and see heads nodding.
“That’s what happened to the disciples of Jesus,” I continue. “They were walking on the road to Emmaus, and a man joined them and talked to them. And it was only after they had walked for some time that they realized that man was Jesus.
“That’s a little odd, don’t you think?” I ask. “They spent three years traveling with Jesus. He was their teacher. They saw Him after the Resurrection. They saw the holes in His hands and feet. Yet here is a man they don’t recognize, and it turns out to be Jesus?
“Maybe he was in disguise,” I suggest.
Some people chuckle.
“Or maybe,” I continue, “Jesus appeared in a guise they didn’t recognize at first as being Him.
“Has this ever happened to you?” I ask. “Something in your life happens, and it seems so painful or wrong that it doesn’t even occur to you that it could be God working in your life? But later you realize that’s exactly what it was?
“It happened to me,” I say. “I was comfortable in an ungodly life, but God shook it up for me. At the time, it didn’t occur to me that this could be God working in my life. I mean, I got into a situation where I did some bad things and almost lost my family over it. I should have gone to prison. How could that be God?
“And it wasn’t,” I say. “I did those things, not God. Just like the man on the road to Emmaus who was not Jesus. But he was. They saw the Risen Christ in a stranger. And I can look back now and see the hand of God even in that most despicable moment of my life. That’s what it took for God to get my attention. I had to fully live up to my capacity for sin in order to realize I needed God. Because how can I ask for redemption if I don’t know I need it?
“I am a sinner,” I say. “I was raised from the dead by Jesus Christ. How many of you are willing to say that with me?”
“I am a sinner,” I repeat. “I was raised from the dead by Jesus Christ.”
About half of the congregation says it with me.
“Let’s say it again,” I suggest.
This time, everyone joins in.
“Christ is risen!” I proclaim. “His tomb is empty!”
Most of my books explore in some way the topics of spirituality and peace work. Domino Theory is different. It tells the story of a drug addict named Danny McCabe who’s been framed for murder. And it explores the workings of the brain of an addict in frightening, first-person honesty. I know this, because I was there.
I don’t want to use. I really don’t. For one thing, heroin and alcohol is a bad mix. You never know when you’ve done too much. You’d suddenly pass out and quit breathing, and if there isn’t someone around to wake you up again, you’re dead.
I remember the first time it happened. I came to and my buddy Pete was slapping me in the face. I was like, “What the f***?”
“You weren’t breathing,” he said.
I thought about that for a sec. Then I told him the truth.
“So what? I don’t care.”
I think that’s what scared me the most when I woke up the next day. I almost died and I didn’t care.
What does it matter if I do some while I’m drinking? Even if I died, it would just end the misery.
But the misery isn’t as bad now as it was when I kicked. I’ve been off the sh*t for three weeks. Well, almost three weeks. Two and a half, anyway. My body doesn’t ache any more. I’m starting to be able to sleep at night, if I drink enough. Yeah, I drink more, but I’m off the dope. I’m clean, and that’s something to be proud of.
So what am I doing with a bag full of dope in my room? I don’t want to use it. Really, I don’t. It was too hard to get off of it.
But the sh*t is calling to me. That goddamn heroin is calling my name.
I drain the third Moosehead and reach for the fourth. Two thirds gone now. I’m pretty drunk, but not drunk enough to ignore the dope calling me. I suck down half the bottle in one swallow.
Damn it, I hate that shit! F***ing heroin. For months I couldn’t not do it. Now I’m clean, and it still wants me back. It’s like an evil woman that won’t let go of me, and I can’t say no.
That’s the thing. I know I can’t say no. I always go back to it. I always have, and I always will. Yeah, I’m clean right now, but that’s temporary. I know it. You know it. The dope knows it. It’s calling my name. It knows that sooner or later I’m going to give in.
I drain the fourth bottle and reach for the fifth. Only one left after this, and I’m still not drunk enough. I light another cig.
The heroin calls. I hate being dope sick. I f***ing hate it. I don’t want to go back.
But we all know I’m going to. I can’t say no.
I chug the fifth beer and open the last one, desperate to block out the Siren’s call. That’s exactly what it is, calling me to jump back in the dark, cold water. Calling me to die.
I can’t say no.
I reach under the mattress and pull out my works. I thought about throwing it out, but I couldn’t. I knew, even then, that I would come back. The dope is too strong.
I could throw it away now. I could open the window and throw the spoon and the syringe out into the alley with the rats.
But I won’t. I can’t. No matter how much I try to deny it, I’m a junkie. Once you cross that line, there’s no going back.
I drain the last beer, slide the empty back into the six-pack, and reach for my knapsack. I pull out the zip lock bag and look at it. I feel my soul drain out of me. Once again I am hooked. I haven’t even opened that bag yet, but I’m going to.
I don’t have a choice.
Why did I write such a seemingly uncharacteristic novel? The answer is simple. All my books seek to overcome misunderstanding. They seek to reconcile. For many people, a drug addict is unpredictable, incomprehensible, and not worth spending time on. I sought to show the interior workings of the addict mind in the hope of helping people understand why we do what we do.
I tried to do this without glorifying the addict lifestyle. Danny’s life is miserable. He has nothing to live for but his next fix, and the vague hope that someday things will be different. But, at least in his mind, he has no choice. Regardless of the consequences, and even though he knows it will make him more miserable, he continues to use. The lies addiction tells him are so deeply ingrained that he believes them without question.
Despite Danny’s hopelessness, I also tried to write a novel that provides hope, because there is hope. I’ve been clean over thirty years. There are millions of people like me who finally got clean and sober, and who are now productive members of society. A lot of people don’t believe an addict can change. Even Danny doesn’t believe it at the beginning. And admittedly, it usually takes a huge upheaval, usually a terrible loss, for an addict to take the chance of really trying to get clean. Sure, they make promises. There was a period when I made such promises every day, but I almost always broke them before the day was over.
But once in a while, something changes. Something gets in through the lies, and we hear hope.
Up jumps the cute girl who read Chapter Five. She’s way too perky. I listen to see if her name is Teresa or Shawna.
“I’m Jamie and I’m an alcoholic,” she says. I wasn’t even close. Anyway, she’s way to pretty to have anything good to say. She probably sipped wine after class at the university, maybe got a DUI or something. I don’t care what she has to say, I just like the way she looks so clean. I bet she smells nice.
“Sixty-four days ago I was lying on the floor of a jail cell down the street here,” she says, gesturing. “I was puking my guts out, dope-sick, and wishing I could die. They arrested me for writing bad checks, but I don’t remember doing it,” she says. “All I know is, I was driving down PCH, and I was driving too fast because I needed to get loaded. This cop pulls me over and takes me in. My car got impounded, I lost my job, and my family wouldn’t bail me out.
“At the time, I thought it was the worst day of my life. But it wasn’t. It got worse for a couple more days. And I finally came to laying on the floor of that jail cell, covered in my own puke. That was the worst day of my life.
“When the cop came to let me out, I was crying,” she says. “I told him I didn’t know how I got that bad, and I asked him, ‘What can I do?’ He gave me some change and told me to call Alcoholics Anonymous. He even looked up the number for me. So I called. They told me there was a meeting here. I walked over from the jail. I looked like sh*t, and I was still shaking pretty bad, and I know I must have stunk. Clint was sitting in that chair right there,” she gestures toward the front row. “When he saw me come in, he came over to me and shook my hand and welcomed me. And he told me it was going to be alright.
“I didn’t believe him. But he was telling me the truth. Because, you know, my family doesn’t want to have anything to do with me now, and I still don’t have a job, and I can’t afford to get my car out of the impound yard yet, and that costs more every day. But I haven’t had to drink or use since I got out of jail. For someone like me, that’s a big deal. I haven’t had to sleep with anyone for drugs or alcohol. I haven’t woken up in a place I didn’t know, with a person whose name I couldn’t remember. That used to happen a lot. Not every day, but a lot of days.
“That cop saved my life. I don’t know how this is going to work out, but I believe it’s going to work out. Preston, you mentioned hope, and that’s become an important word to me. I know some of you guys were a lot worse than me, and this worked for you. So I know it can work for me, too. But I have to be the one who does it. No one is going to do it for me.
“Thank you,” she finishes.
The room applauds, as they always do. I find that my mouth is hanging open. I close it, and I clap too.
Somehow, I believe her. I know she didn’t just say all that for my benefit. She’s real.
But Danny doesn’t get struck sober. He struggles with his demons. Despite the mess he’s in, he’s terrified to give up the only thing that ever made him feel better. He knows he needs to get clean. But he hasn’t yet gotten to the point where he’s more afraid of using than he is of being clean.
Unfortunately, there are no guarantees when it comes to drug addicts, except one: in the absence of some kind of spiritual intervention, they will continue to do what they’ve been doing, and it will get worse. The disease of addiction is deadly, and most addicts die from it.
But there is also hope. A lot of addicts do get clean. I’m one of them.
If you want to know whether Danny is one of them, too, read the book!
Steve Grace isn’t a bad guy. But he’s not a good guy, either. He’s an accountant for a crooked company. He hates religious people. He cheats on his wife, but he thinks every husband does.
A trip to Las Vegas isn’t unusual, but this one goes far beyond anything he imagined. Haunted by shame and with his marriage in jeopardy, he wonders if he’s been too quick to dismiss God.
With the help of a therapist, Steve’s memories begin to return, and he realizes he did something truly unforgivable. Overcome with horror, he has a psychotic episode and loses all memory of the trip and the weeks since he got home.
A stay in the mental hospital brings his memories back. Confronted with the magnitude of his sin, he decides to give his life to God. He gives out sandwiches to the homeless, joins a church, and rescues a young prostitute. But is his newfound faith real, or is he still crazy?