27 is Almost Finished!
Read to the end for an excerpt from the book.
I find it so difficult to write about what I’m writing about. It feels awkward and self-serving. But…if I write a book and never talk about it, how are people going to find out about and read it? It’s still difficult, but here I go.
My book, 27, is nearly finished. It’s really good. You don’t have to take my word on that. I met with one of my English teachers in college a couple weeks ago after he’d had a chance to read the manuscript, and he also says it’s really good.
“Sure…your old English teacher…”
He does know what he’s taking about because he’s also a published novelist several time over. His name is Michael Collins, and you can find his books most everywhere books are sold. Here’s one.
So, I have a really good book on my hands and the perennial challenge, as usual, is how to get the thing published. When I’ve discussed this book in the past, I always said I was going to go straight to self-publishing this time around because:
I’m a nobody without a large following
No mainstream publishing house will publish this book because of its bleak depiction of life under a World Economic Forum-like dream-come-true society with its economy of “caring and sharing” and its “global citizens” (shudder), and
Most mainstream literary agents (and publishers) more or less fall in line with WEF ideas, and
I had such a dreadful time getting The Pursuit of Elizabeth Millhouse in print and after all that work, it’s now out of print, and I don’t want a repeat of that experience.
And yet…Michael said I should only consider self-publishing as a measure of last resort since this book will capture a much wider audience than the last one. Christian young adults will, of course, enjoy reading this book, but so will a wider, secular audience. Michael called this a crossover book, but he also acknowledged the difficulty of getting published in the traditional way. So…what to do?
We bandied about various approaches until Michael, rather incisively, pointed out what my novel actually does. It raises constant questions, moral questions, in the minds of readers. And though I didn’t entirely do this consciously, in telling the story, that is what has happened. I have written in quite a detached style, very different from what I’ve ever written in the past—as an observer who merely watches and reports what’s seen and does not cast judgment. I compare and contrast, and with that interplay, the questions get asked without even articulating them.
Michael suggested I verbalize the questions and use them as an opportunity to approach podcasters, get interviewed, and increase interest in the book. And perhaps, a publisher willing to take a chance on me will materialize.
And I thought, maybe, I’d start that project on Substack. Create a series of newsletters called something like, “10 Perks of Utopia and What They Cost.” I thought I’d try to flesh that out here before rewriting it in a condensed version to interest, hopefully, the right people. There are a few people I would be absolutely thrilled to sit down and talk with about these topics, but I am as yet too bashful to tell you who they are, because they seem so far out of my intellectual and professional league. What am I, after all, but a mere housewife with Lyme disease who loves to sew, cook, and garden? Maybe I’ll gather the courage someday to tell you…but not today!
I can’t promise I’ll begin with one of these questions next week for this might take a while to crystalize in my own mind, but I will work on it.
Will it work? I have no idea. But I have to try, don’t I?
In the meanwhile, would you continue helping me? Would you keep sharing my Substack with friends and acquaintances? The more eyes on my writing, the more interest in my book. The more interest in my book, the bigger the groundswell of support. Also, publishers like it when authors have a large following. It’s less promotional work for them. Please keep sharing.
I’ll end today with another short passage from 27. (Can’t keep doing this, or I’ll give too much away!
“They crucified my Lord, and He never said a mumblin’ word…”
Jessica seemed to float in a misty haze, the sounds of her mother’s singing drawing her on. The mist cleared and she saw her. The rhythmic clacking of the weaving loom as her mother worked kept time for the song.
“Mama,” Jessica whispered, but her mother didn’t look up.
Jessica heard her own voice chime in. And then she saw herself down below, seated across from her mother, punching holes in a length of leather with an awl.
“They nailed him to the tree,” the other Jessica sang.
“And He never said a mumblin’ word…” her mother answered.
“They pierced him in the side…”
“And He never said a mumblin’ word…”
“The blood came streamin’ down…”
“And He never said a mumblin’ word…”
“He hung his head and died…”
“And he never said a mumblin’ word…”
“Not a word. Not a word. Not a word,” they sang together, and then silence.
“Jessica,” her mother said, glancing at the fading light, “you better go down and fill up the water pail before it gets too dark.”
“Alright.”
She watched herself get up, grab the water pail and limp out the door.
“Mama?”
Her mother didn’t look up.
“Mama, I miss you.”
Clack went the loom and Mama began her humming again. Jessica began floating against her will out the door. As she followed herself down the trail to the river, a chill forboding swept over her.
“Go back. Go back now! Get Mama and run away into the woods!”
But the other Jessica did not hear. She knelt by the water, dipped her bucket, and strained to lift it out again.
“Jessica!” a man’s voice called out from a distance.
The other Jessica froze, dropping her bucket, so intent on listening that she did not flinch as the water flowed down and soaked her.
“I’m coming!” she called and staggered back down the path.
She stopped and listened to a faint far-off mechanical whirring and quickened her pace, eyes wide with fright. Papa burst through the last bit of trees, Mama in tow, and tears were in both their eyes.
“They’re here!” Papa said, drawing Jessica close to him in an embrace.
“Let’s go, then!” Jessica urged. “Let’s go to the other place.”
“There is no time,” Mama told her, calmly. “They’re too close. They would follow us there, and they can never know where it is.”
“But what…?” Jessica stammered, looking from one to the other of them. “What’s going to…?”
“Listen,” Papa said, taking her by the shoulders and looking deep into her eyes. “They’re going to take all of us. They will separate you from us.”
Jessica shook her head violently.
“No, I…”
“Listen! They will take you, and they will be kind to you, as kind as they know how. Because you’re a child. But wait for your chance. And as soon as you get it, run away. Run back here and go straight to the other place. We will do the same if we can escape.”
“Will they be kind to you?” Jessica asked, trembling.
Papa did not answer, but his head shook despite himself.
The yelps and barks of dogs split the air and the mechanical whirring had become so loud that Papa had to shout.
“But how long will we be apart?” Jessica asked through her tears.
“I don’t know,” Mama said.
Jessica’s eyes clung to her parent’s faces, the beating of her heart so quick and hard it showed in her neck.
“God will be with you,” Papa said.
Without another word, they each threw their arms around the other, holding tight. They waited there in silence while the machine hovered overhead and a beam of harsh light illuminated them. The dogs barking drew nearer and three or four Malinois burst through the trees with their handlers, followed closely by dark-clothed soldiers in tactical gear and guns trained on the huddled group.
“Hands in the air!” one shouted at them.
Slowly, Jessica disentangled herself from her parent’s embrace, and the three raised their hands high.
“Lay on the ground! Hands behind your back.”
They obeyed. Jessica turned her head towards her parents and sought their eyes while soldiers darted forward and cuffed them.
“I love you,” Mama mouthed to her.
Rough hands lifted her up and dragged her away. She kept her eyes on Mama and Papa.
“God will be with you! You may not feel it, but He will hold you safe in His hands!” Papa yelled after. “Be brave, Jessica! God sees you!”
“Shut up!”
Crack! Papa reeled back with the blow to his face. Jessica stumbled and nearly fell. The two on either side caught her and dragged her the rest of the way down the path, past the cabin and to a waiting vehicle.
“Not so rough!” a woman’s sharp voice commanded. “And get those cuffs off her. She’s just a child.”
They set Jessica down in front of her and released her wrists. Jessica looked up at the woman through her tears. The woman’s face was soft with compassion.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry for what you’ve been through. But you’re safe now.”
She put an arm around Jessica and led her forward.
“Let’s get you settled in the jeep. We have a long trip ahead. Are you hungry? I brought you some snacks. My name is Carol. What’s yours, sweetheart?”
Jessica sat down heavily in the back seat. Carol sat down beside her and someone shut the door. Jessica looked out the windows, craning her neck.
“Your name?” Carol asked again. “Do you have a name?”
“Not a word!”
“Jessica.”
“Jessica, I know you have been through so much, but I have to ask you a few more questions.”
Jessica gave up staring out the window and tried to focus her weary eyes on Carol.
“Are there any more children that live here?” Carol asked.
“Not a word!”
Jessica did not answer.
“Do you know of any other children out here in this area?” Carol asked again.
Jessica did not open her mouth.
“Jessica?”
Jessica leaned back in the seat, exhaustion setting in, and closed her eyes.
“That’s alright,” Carol said. “We’ll talk later.”
Jessica woke with a gasp. She sat up in bed, the silence of the night like a roaring in her ears. By the light of the moon, her eyes focused on the drooping balloons Carol had hung to decorate her room. They had lost their helium. Jessica drew a deep, shuddering breath and lay silently down.
“Not a word,” she whispered.
Housekeeping
Well, if that didn’t get you curious about 27, I don’t know what will. Once again, please keep sharing word about me and this newsletter. That’s probably the single most important thing you could do to help me out. Got a spouse who isn’t signed up? An older son or daughter? Get them subscribed!!
I’ll be sharing the last chapter of the Pursuit of Elizabeth Millhouse with paid subscribers on Wednesday at 7:00 AM as usual. Please consider upgrading from free to paid and help me get it back in print again.
That’s all for now. Until next time, folks…