Nailed: David Fitzgerald talks about religion, getting published, and the whole enchilada

Today's guest speaker is David Fitzgerald, a friend of many of the pens and to writers throughout the Bay Area through his work with Sisters in Crime. He spoke to the Pens about writing the book, getting published, and his thoughts on history and religion.


Hi David, and welcome to the Pens! First off, many congratulations on your new book.

Before we get into the meat of it, I’d be interested in hearing about your path to publication. How did you get this tome written, edited, and published?

DF: Thanks - I’m a big fan of the Pens Fatales femmes, so it’s a real treat to be here. You know, I never actually set out to write an exposé on Jesus (let alone devote ten years of my life to it!) and it was a very, very twisted path from inspiration to completion.

One day I began wondering what Jesus really said and did, and how much was just legendary baggage added later. I started researching, and quickly became convinced that the official story just didn’t add up. In fact, now I don’t see how there even could have been a Jesus of Nazareth.

Needless to say, this just blew my mind. I started telling people about it, and a friend asked me to speak to his atheist group. That talk became a multimedia presentation that I‘ve since given all around the country, The Ten Thousand Christs and the Evaporating Jesus. Audiences loved it, and everyone began asking, “When’s the book coming out?”

I spent the next few years writing what I thought would be the final word on the subject, which grew into a 700+ page behemoth. Meanwhile, I attracted the attention of an agent, who came out of retirement to shop it around New York. A couple editors were interested, but ultimately the book didn’t survive the in-house acquisition fights. My agent suggested I break it up into a trilogy, which I did, and then approached smaller publishers. Again, three smaller presses were interested, but all were over-contracted. After a couple years of this, my agent sadly said she had done all she could.

Then I was contacted by one of the interested publishers, who told me about a writing contest being sponsored by a consortium of secular New Testament scholars. I took my monster of a book and distilled it down to a 100-page essay called Ten Beautiful Lies About Jesus. The essay attracted a lot of positive attention from historians, and I took their feedback, made corrections, added even more material and made a brand new book: NAILED: Ten Christian Myths That Show Jesus Never Existed At All.

I had refused self-publishing for years; nothing says “crackpot” like a self-published history book. But now that I had glowing reviews from all these preeminent historians, suddenly it made a lot more sense to self-publish! So with the heroic help of proofreaders and fact-checkers, I published this summer through Lulu. Woo Hoo! I’m a published non-fiction author!

In addition to non-fiction, you also write fiction, right? Tell us a little about your fiction, and some of the differences in how you write/market/publish in different genres.

DF: Yes, ironically enough, while I was waiting to hear from publishers on my Biblical History epic, my girlfriend secretly sent a sexy story of mine to her publisher. They liked the way I write, and I got in several anthologies and even wrote a novel that also came out this summer, and they want me to write another novel asap – I’ve created a monster. So yes, I’m a biblical historian AND erotica writer! It’s a funny old world…

I know you’ve been interested in the subject of Nailed for some time, and you’ve lectured quite a bit. Did those lectures morph into the book, or vice versa? And how did interactions with audiences –both skeptical and supportive—influence the final product?

DF: It’s been an interesting evolution. The arguments keep going through the crucible and a lot of early ideas and arguments failed the reality check. But the ones that hold up have become really strong as a result. Twice I’ve had historians in the audience stand up after my talk and announced that I’ve changed their minds! It’s very humbling and gratifying.

You’re a friendly, easy-going guy. I would imagine that your writing angers a lot of people. Why do you feel compelled to put yourself out there like that?

DF: I’ve been an atheist activist for half my life now, so I don’t mind going out on a limb. Growing up, I was a very devout Christian, so I have a lot of sympathy for believers, and I think that comes across in person.

Why is this subject so near and dear to your heart?

DF: The idea that there was no Jesus shocked me so much, I’m still reeling after ten years. It fascinates and amazes me to see how this huge enchilada called Christianity came about, and I have no doubt that its origins are even wiggier and convoluted than any of us will ever know!

Thank you for joining us today on the Pens!

Writer and public speaker David Fitzgerald has been called “The Ferris Beuller of San Francisco.” He is Event Coordinator of Sisters in Crime–NorCal, and serves on the board of San Francisco Atheists and Center for Inquiry-SF. He is the founder and director of the world’s first Atheist Film Festival and San Francisco’s oldest annual Darwin Day celebration, Evolutionpalooza! He writes erotica under the name Kilt Kilpatrick as well as biblical history. His newest book is NAILED: Ten Christian Myths That Show Jesus Never Existed At All.

Want to know more about the book? Visit David Fitzgerald's Facebook page!

Gigi's Trip to South India - Part I

I returned from a trip to India earlier this week.

I took too many photos and filled a notebook with notes -- partly for research for my latest mystery novel, and partly because India is so vibrant and intense that I couldn't help scribbling thoughts -- so I'm going to split this into two posts.

Today: The peaceful backwaters of Kerala.

Next time: The colorful, chaotic streets that transport the 1.1 billion people who live in India.

I've done some traveling in India before, but this time I got to see more of the places where my dad grew up in the states of Tamil Nadu and Kerala.

That's him in this photo -- the guy in the very front row with his hands on his hips -- in the 1950s before he left India for the United States.

Right now I'm recovering from the trip (covering 2,000 kilometers in 2 weeks and leaving me with a nasty airplane cold), so I'm starting with some of the more tranquil moments here:

Sunrise in Kochi.
There's nothing like jet lag to wake one up at 5 a.m. each morning. But in this historic trading city, I wasn't complaining. Not long after this photo was taken, monsoon rains poured down for a single hour, then left as abruptly as they started.


Looking out at the Arabian Sea from Kochi.
Walking along the coastal path at Fort Kochi, I spotted this lone man was standing at the water as a bird few by. If it hadn't been so muggy and hot, I would have been tempted to stop and write a scene in addition to snapping a photo.

Ashtamudi Lake.
We got horribly lost getting here, taking many wrong turns down small winding roads, but in the end it was worth it. The ride getting there was entertaining, too, stopping to ask directions of friendly people -- whose answer was always "straight" as they gesticulated toward a microscopic road. The lake is in Kollam, a couple hours north of Thiruvananthapuram (Trivandrum) along the coast of Kerala.

Locals boating.
The coast of Kerala is full of waterways, called the backwaters. After driving on the crowded roads (which I'll post photos of next time), I can see why boating from place to place is such a common choice.


Canoes along the shore.

A painting of a Kathakali dancer on a wall at the side of a canal.
When I was a kid we had a huge statue of one of these classical Indian performers at my house -- well, now it doesn't seem to big, but I swear it was gigantic at the time.


The southern tip of India.
Here we are in Kanyakumari (Cape Comorin). I'm told this used to be a peaceful beach with multicolored sands stretching as far as the eye could see. Today, it's a crowded destination with development stretching almost to the shoreline. But with a little imagination, you can get caught up in the majestic oceans all the same.

Martha's Brush with Addiction

Addiction was supposed to be something that happened to other people.

And by other, I obviously mean weaker. I was too cool, too confident, and too strong.

I don't drink. I don't smoke. I don't do drugs. I've never been one for temptation.

In college, I worked as part of an HIV intervention project and watched, bewildered, as drug addicts struggled with behaviors that could kill them. And secretly, even as I helped them, even as I genuinely had compassion for their situation, a tiny voice inside of me whispered, what idiots!

Then I tried gambling.

I'd always been a card player. My family's social time surrounds epic battles of gin rummy and crazy eights. But it was nothing like the first time I played $1/2 No Limit Texas Hold Em Cash Poker at a casino in Lake Tahoe, Nevada.

Image: healingdream / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

I sat down at the table with $50 and absolutely lost my mind.

I didn't get thirsty. I didn't get hungry. I didn't have to go to the bathroom. I had absolutely no emotions or physical urges other than to see the next card.

I am not exaggerating when I tell you that the only thing that got me off that table was my husband threatening to leave me if I didn't come back to the car. It was only when I reclined my passenger seat and checked the time that I realized I'd been at the poker table for over eight hours. And the only impulse I had was to go back inside.

I had crazy thoughts.

What if I faked having to go to the bathroom (not too hard when you haven't peed in eight hours) or being hungry (ditto) so I could do inside and sit back down and maybe the husband wouldn't notice?

What if we crashed the car? Then we'd have to stay at the casino! Brilliant! Don't think I didn't take a hard look at the steering wheel. Cuz I did.

What if this was my calling? My intended career! After all, I was up almost $500. I could do this for a living. What kind of husband would keep me from my dreams? Could I be with someone who didn't support me???

The next day I pretended to enjoy a day of snowshoeing. A night of videogames. Breakfast, lunch and dinner. But every moment. Every molecule. Every compulsion. Was on a game of cards. I played imaginary hands in my head. Had entire fake conversations with a full table of nonexistent players.

This went on...for a while...let's say. Even to this day, I have moments of drifty daydreams.

Happy 100th Birthday, Richard P. Hughey--You Are Missed

The other Pens have done an admirable job of speaking about the topic of addiction so I'm going to give it a pass and share something that has been on my mind quite a bit lately.

On October 31, 2010 my grandfather, Richard Pascal Hughey would have turned 100 years old. Unfortunately he succumbed to old age last December about ten months short of his 100th birthday.

He was an extraordinary man. One I am proud to call my grandfather. He was a child of divorce, not a common occurrence in the 1920's. My great-grandmother (an extraordinary woman) chose to divorce her husband because he was an alcoholic. When you consider the era, it was an incredibly courageous choice. Then when my grandfather was twelve they moved from Georgia to Baltimore. My great-grandmother remarried and I still remember my grandfather telling me how sorry he was about his behavior during his teen years dealing with his step-father.

My grandmother developed dementia (he would never call it Alzheimer's, although it seems sure to me that this was her affliction) and he took care of her even as she grew increasingly frail and her mind deserted her. My grandfather refused to have someone in to care for my grandmother, even though he could afford the extra cost. He loved her with a passion didn't diminish even after she passed away.

He taught by example, a complete lack of prejudice and color-blindness, in his actions. He accepted people for who they were not the color of their skin or their sexual or religious preferences. He was a fantastic role model and a wonderful grandfather. While I am sad that he didn't live until one hundred, I am thankful for every day he spent on this earth, teaching me those same values.

R.I.P Grandfather...we miss you.

Love,
Lisa

An Abstainer’s View

L.G.C. Smith

My thoughts today are sparked in large part as a response to Sophie’s from last Friday. I appreciate her candor and courage, and she made me think about how, as writers, we have such different approaches to addiction. I like ascetic impulses in characters. They’re so hopelessly at odds with emotion. Yet clean. Pure. And ultimately doomed. One of my favorite romance heroes is Ruck from Laura Kinsale’s For My Lady’s Heart. So it will come as no surprise that I find the most fascinating aspect of addiction to be what makes an addict decide they’ve had enough. What motivates them to change?

I have no expertise here beyond life experience. I have friends and family members who use drugs and alcohol without being addicts, and I have loved ones who are addicts, recovering, struggling, and not. I have never struggled with any kind of substance use, much less addiction for a very simple reason: most substances make me feel awful.

There’s no virtue in this. If booze and drugs made me feel better than normal, my life might have been very different. But when alcohol gives me migraines and three glasses of wine can make me throw up, it doesn’t matter how good the buzz is, it won’t last long enough to be worth squat. When a scary book can send my heart into overdrive and my imagination can keep me up half the night, using stimulants has no appeal. I’ve spent enough time depressed to find no attraction in depressants. I was an asthmatic adolescent so the idea of smoking anything was just plain crazy. Now? Cigarettes and less legal substances cost money, money that could be spent on books and research trips. So, no. No smoking anything. Ever.

Just water for me, thanks.

There are times when I feel like the biggest stick in the mud alive, especially at writers’ conferences, because I can’t nurse a single-malt or smoke a forbidden cigarette. But this isn’t a burden. It doesn’t affect the lives of those around me. Aside from leaving me feeling a bit awkward at times, it doesn’t hurt me. My vices are eating too many oatcakes and free-range organic boneless skinless chicken breasts for my level of activity, and spending way too much time on my ass in front of the computer. These are small potatoes in the realms of vice. Yet it takes tremendous effort and commitment to make even small changes for the better.

Facing down a destructive addiction seems to me to be one of the most difficult quests people undertake. There is little I admire more than the day-to-day sobriety practiced by addicts who enjoy their highs, and whose bodies have come to demand things of them that make their spirits quail. The courage and humility of an addict’s sobriety stagger me.

Is this sobriety virtuous? Maybe. Maybe not. It isn’t the virtue that interests me so much as the fight for it. The moments in which choices are made. Especially those moments when someone makes the harder choice. Sophie pointed out how we learn a great deal about people in their practices of vice. I think we also learn a great deal about people from their pursuit of sobriety.

Understanding the scope of human emotion and why people (and characters) act is vital to writers. I am most drawn to the moments when we seek change for the better. The slide into oblivion – that’s many writers’ passion. Mine is the retreat from chaos, with angels and demons clinging to our backs, yammering at us to choose one or the other. I want to be inside the moments of creating ourselves anew. Some light. Some dark. Some spirit. Some flesh. All of it our own responsibility, and ours alone, even if we call upon our gods to help us.

Pens Go Na No

Several of the Pens are engaged in National Novel Writing Month this November.

That's a commitment to write 50,000 words in 30 days.




But the true commitment is to make writing your priority for an entire month. Put writing first.

So chime in if you've already started Na No and want to share your progress. We are all about support at the Pens. And if you want to start now. Go for it!! The link is below.


www.nanowrimo.org

We'll keep you posted on our progress throughout the month!! Go NaNo!!!

The Only Way Out Is Through

by Sophie

ADDICTION

Our nation deals with addictive substances about as effectively as I used to deal with my son when he was a defiant adolescent: a lot of blustering, castigating, punishing, and imprisoning - and very little resultant change in behavior. When our efforts fail, we generally add layers of penalties and legislation and punitive taxes, and then drag in religious fervor and moralistic hair-splitting for good measure.



I spend a fair amount of time thinking about addiction and, in a broader sense, vice. It's the engine that drives a great deal of fiction, and for good reason. Just as a drink or two can strip away inhibitions, a descent or even a day-trip into vice can reveal a great deal about not just who your characters are, but who they are in relationship and who they are in society.

Not to mention the fact that people in altered states tend to do dramatic things, and dramatic things are excellent story foundation.

Here are a few accepted truths that I find, frankly, dubious - and which merit exploration in fiction:
1. Vice is bad. Asceticism is morally superior to indulgence.
2. A drunk or high person doesn't know what he or she is doing - "it's the drink talking," "I don't even know him any more."
3. Drugs are the enemy of society.
4. Sobriety eventually brings serenity.

Here are some things which I do believe are true, and which can fairly be considered to be boundaries in character behavior:
1. Addicts love their high more than any other relationships.
2. Sobriety is difficult and unlikely to stick.
3. Some people are more prone to addictive behaviors than others.


Addiction becomes, in the end, rather uninteresting (in my hands, anyway, but then that's probably because I'm not an addict - I love addiction memoirs for the stark and fascination portrayals of a world I haven't visited). What is much more compelling is the dance between a character and his psyche or demons or passions or whatever you want to call them, and the way this dance is enhanced/energized/endangered/frenzied - and occasionally numbed or killed - by the introduction of substance use.

Re-read, if you will, that last sentence - and note that I did not say "substance abuse." I firmly believe that not every dalliance with a drug is an abuse. And while you may disagree with my stance, perhaps you'll still grant me the liberty to explore it in fiction.

(My series for Harlequin Luna, debuting next March with AFTERTIME, features a recovering addict. I have found writing this character to be a deeply moving experience and I hope I have written her without judgement.)

*** The title of this blog comes from my favorite AA saying. I believe it is true of addiction recovery; I know it has been true of nearly every significant struggle I have faced.

Coffee

-- Adrienne Miller

The boy I had a crush on when I was seventeen years old drank black coffee and smoked Marlboro Reds. I thought he was coolest person in the whole world. And being the coolest person ever, I knew there was only one way that he would notice me. I had to be equally cool.

So I got myself a pack of smokes and started hanging out at the same cafe he did.I tried reading the same books he did and listening to the same music. I did everything I could think of to seem cool short of wearing a black beret. 

And with a little persistence, and a will stronger than Churchill’s, I won the day. Not only  did I get the cool boy, I was substantially cooler myself, thanks to my new accessories, coffee and cigarettes. 

Well, along with just about every other deeply-held opinion I had when I was seventeen, it turned out I was dead wrong. About the boy and the cigarettes, of course. Not about the coffee. Never about the coffee.

I have only one true addiction, and coffee is it. Tea is lovely. Espresso is seriously overrated. Soda isn’t my thing. There is but one caffeine delivery system for me, and it is a plain, good ol’ cup of coffee. Or two. Or three.

I can’t do anything until I’ve had my coffee, and it makes everything that I do better. I write better with a mug next to me. I’m more social. I am surprisingly less anxious in new places when I’m clutching a paper cup in my hands. Not to mention productive. No coffee, no go.

I love the stuff. I really do.

So if you’ll excuse me, it’s NaNoWriMo time, and if I don’t get another pot on here something quick, this thing just ain’t gonna get writ. 

Could you, too, be an Addict?

-by Juliet

I thought I could quit any time.

It started slowly. Just a sentence here, a paragraph there. Then I wanted more. A whole chapter. The first fifty pages. I started counting words…250, 500, 1000. I needed more.

I let my other work languish. In order to have more writing time I started to make excuses, to decline invitations. Even lovers took a back seat to ultimate word count.

That’s when I knew: I had become a writing junkie.

Could you, too, be an addict? Ask yourself:

1) Have you forgotten to bathe for days at a time? (You might want to check in with loved ones on this one, as self-reporting is not always accurate)

2) Have you ever, even once, been in the middle of a dramatic situation – i.e., an emotional break-up, at an accident or crime scene, by the hospital bedside of a loved one—and thought “this would make an awesome scene if only I could write it well enough?"

2A) Similar to the above, do you truly believe that no subject is sacrosanct if it makes the writing work? “No, that overachieving, work-obsessed Ivy League professor with the latino name isn’t YOU,” I tell my ex-husband, Javier. “You taught at Berkeley, not Harvard. This self-centered, blowhard character is totally different from you.”

3) Do your loved ones notice a feverish, “why the hell are you bothering me?” look in your eyes when they dare to speak to you or do anything but leave tea and toast at your door? (FYI, this is a phenomenon called “Writers’ Daze”)

3A) As a corollary to the above, do you lash out at people who dare to call or write because they haven’t heard from you in six weeks…and in response do you imply that their reaching out and bothering you shows they don’t respect your art?

4) Do you talk a lot about “prioritizing”, by which you mean everything (including sleep) takes a back seat to your writing time?

5) Have you ever looked at your cleaning rag or dishcloth and thought, “this is a perfect metaphor!”, then returned to your computer, completely forgetting about the company arriving at six for dinner?

6) Do you sometimes sneak off from events to secretly jot down thoughts or phrases?

7) When you’re not writing, do you still think about writing?

8) Are you often miserable when you write, yet claim that only writing can make you happy?

9) Have you ever likened not writing to having your head explode?

10) Do you assume that everyone secretly wishes to be a writer? And that therefore, everyone is secretly jealous of you? (Which they are, I mean, let's face it)


11) Do you believe that Nanowrimo is, like, the most exciting thing to happen all year? (For the uninitiated, this is a voluntary event that forces you to write 50,000 words in one month with no hope of remuneration.) “What, you mean there’s another holiday in November? Something involving a turkey, and family, and tradition? Hey, I could write a story about that…”

Cigarettes are my Weakness

We're talking about addiction for the next two weeks here at PensFatales, and when I hear that word, I think of one thing: Cigarettes. I smoked from age 20 to 29, and quitting was one of the hardest things I've ever done. Since I quit eight years ago, I haven't even had so much as a single puff, because I know I'm not a casual smoker. If I were to smoke one cigarette, I'd be back to a pack a day within two weeks. The following is excerpted from an essay about how I quit, to be published in A LIFE IN STITCHES, coming next year from Chronicle:

I loved smoking. Really. I was passionate about cigarettes. I loved everything about them. I adored that first tang of sulfur when the match was blown out, the initial draw, the long middle, that last sour, greedily sucked puff at the butt end of the smoke. I loved that smoking gave me an excuse to sit and do nothing. Seven minutes of silence is precious sometimes. Other times, smoking gave me something to hide behind. Like in all the best Bogie movies, the way a person holds her cigarette tells you something about her, and my smoking said I’m not scared. But of course, that wasn’t true.

I’m not normally a very shy person, but in highly social settings, I get nerves so badly that I have to have something to grip, something to anchor me down. During my twenties, that something was smoking. At parties, I was the one who first got a glass of wine from the host and then immediately went to stand outside with the other socially awkward addicts. There was a bond among us, an agreement reached when we lit each other’s cigarettes with the butt ends of our own. We understood each other. And the fact that we looked like cool kids smoking outside, while we really were just nervous, was a lie we’d keep to ourselves.

I had tried to quit many times before, but I had a pack-a-day habit, and I failed, again and again. I know it sounds stupid, but quitting felt like losing a friend. No, worse. It felt like losing twenty of my best little filter-tipped friends, all standing at attention in my purse, always there for me, ready to get me out of sticky situations, easing the stresses of everyday life. If I quit, what would I hide behind?

It wasn’t until just before my thirtieth birthday, when I gave myself the ultimate bribe, that I gave up smoking for good: If I quit, I could buy as much yarn as I wanted.

Oh, just even reading this now makes me yearn for a smoke. Instead, I'll just keep eating the Halloween candy I bought and then didn't give out, and after I finish my writing (Happy NaNo, everyone!), I'll knit a row or seventeen. Addiction. It ain't for sissies. Got an addiction you care to share with us?