In the 1990s I returned from Calcutta with the bones of an idea for a novel – I knew the beginning, the end and the destination for a journey which (to my knowledge) no other novel had attempted to navigate.
So the task required only that I fill in between those two points.
Finishing a sizeable written project demands a kind of schizophrenia: in the mornings it helps if you believe yourself to be the best writer in the world (otherwise it will never be written), and in the evenings that you are the worst (otherwise it will never be corrected).
Between these two hammers, a balanced work of style and substance will hopefully get knocked into shape.
Initially, my morning enthusiasm ran wild, and I wrote (and rewrote) hundreds of pages―I’ve since spent over a decade of evenings attempting to chop up and chisel a good idea poorly executed.
Along the way, other problems presented themselves that put me between a rock and a hard place.
Firstly, I knew little about Theology, let alone how to translate it into challenging entertainment, and render its peaks both visible and reachable, from lowly planes and through real world grope-and-grime.
Secondly, no mainstream publisher was ever going to adopt a Catholic novel―for decades before recent spotlights―unless you were putting the boot in, and the more didactic and combative the output, the lesser the chances.
However, I believe a Catholic Novel that goes all the way, in a tone that every sinner can relate to, is forever overdue – and this is my effort.
I finally have a draft that is fit for purpose and for which I will heartily stand (though I’ll no doubt be tinkering until the day I die).
However, I don’t know if its good or bad timing, to complete such a work just as narcissism, pointlessness and human stupidity appear to be knitting a perfect storm.
…and by the way, anonymity is merely part of the story.