first amendment aside.

Dear Mr. Shun-the-Non-Believer,

It was Jorge Luis Borges I was attempting to channel last night when confronted with your incredible pigheadedness. He said, "God must not engage in theology. The writer must not destroy by human reasonings the faith that art requires of us," a sentiment with which I whole heartedly agree. 

I cannot fathom what prompted you to ask me with what authority I dared to be composing a novel whose central character is an angel (of sorts). You were the instigator of our conversation, having discovered from a mutual friend that I, too, enjoy writing; and when you asked me what I write about, I answered, "Everything.". "Fair enough," you said, and laughed. This made me inclined to like you, which just goes to show how poor my judgement is three whiskeys under. "But really," you persisted, "What are you writing about now?" 

This is where I erred. I dared to actually tell the truth, thinking fortune had stumbled me pleasantly into the path of a kindred soul. "An angel," I told you, warming to the subject, "An archon. She's the central character and - "

That was as far as I got. The expression on your face stopped my words, caused me to replay them in my head in an attempt to ascertain what I had said was so psychotic as to earn that look of yours. I was still trying to figure this out when your face shifted yet again, features flickering out from beneath the tumult of angry bewilderment and onto the shores of patronizing intensity. "Don't take this the wrong way," you said this very, very slowly, "But what makes you think you're an authority on divinity?"

"Oh, no. I'm writing a work of fiction," I hastily reassured you, thinking of the book in question and really not wanting anyone to imagine that it was even remotely based on my actual religious beliefs. 

That ought to have cleared the air. You and I should have been able to go on from there to happy discussions about writing techniques, writer's block and even self-righteous expressions of indignation over some so-called author who can hardly write themselves out of a paper bag becoming a national bestseller and why, God, why? But no. You, you ridiculous man, you opted to berate me instead for my daring, for my ignorance, for my supposed promotion of false ideologies to corrupt a soul-hungry populace in need of guidance rather than trash talking prophets.

What. The. Hell?

Fiction. Fake. Not real. Make believe. Hell, if you like, I'll tack a disclaimer of this nature to the front of my book. Trust me, sir, I have even searched my pockets and checked under my couch cushions since our conversation just to make sure I'd not received and then accidentally misplaced the holy spirit or even the mandate of heaven and have a care lest my misuse becomes despotic and some new emperor of the ink should rise. This is not the Gospel According to Katie. This is a story, made up out of my head, with little bits of brain and bio matter undoubtedly still clinging to every syllable.

Yet maybe like Warren Ellis, tongue-in-cheek, claims, when I write I am Holy. I can't be touched. I can destroy your faith from my chair. If that's the case, sir, maybe your faith was not so very "faithful" to begin with. Maybe you are one of the soul-hungry denizens, desperately reaching in your subconscious not for something new in which to believe, but for something with which to assure yourself what you do believe in is right. 

What, if in your opinion I've no authority to write even fictional stories with angels in them, do I possess the authority to write? An autobiography? Are you not familiar with the writing theory that all good writers ultimately are writing about themselves? Do you mean to tell me that Shakespeare ought not to have written Henry V because he was not a king nor had fought in a war? That Orson Scott Card should have ignored ideas of future societies and that, God forbid, Hemingway should have only written about drunks? 

You, sir, have left me flabbergasted. I remain,

Sincerely,

a believer.

post script:

But please remember my fondly

I heard from someone you're still pretty

and then they went on to say

that the Pearly Gates had some eloquent graffiti

like 'We'll meet again' and 'Fuck the man' 

and 'Tell my mother not to worry' and 

angels with their great handshakes

but always done in such a hurry.

So please remember me finally

and all my uphill clawing, my dear,

but if I make the Pearly Gates,

I'll do my best to make a drawing of God and Lucifer,

a boy and girl, an angel kissin' on a sinner,

a monkey and a man,

a marching band all around the frightened trapeze swinger.

- The Trapeze Swinger by Iron & Wine.