Hey- I forgot to mention that if you want to keep in touch, you need to email me through your own email....Kickstarter doesn't give me your emails (unless I reached my funding goal). So, if you do want to be included in future updates and/or dedications, please email me at lpreble and then add cox dot net...email from your own email address, so I'll have it.
Thanks!
Laura

I wanted to thank all 19 of you who backed my project, OUT. It looks like, with four days to go, I'm not going to make my funding goal, but this experience was still really great. I am about halfway through the book, and I am confident that this just means I am going to get a publisher. I don't say this because of hubris; I do believe this project has the potential to open up a dialogue, and also a chance to reach young people, the ones who will eventually shape our politics and policies. I also feel deeply that it will turn out to be a good book.

Long and short: I'm not going to quit writing it. I move forward into the summer even more determined to polish it, get it into shape, and get it out into the world. If any of you are interested in being beta readers (people who read the manuscript before it's sent out to agents), please email me directly at lpreble and then add the suffix cox dot net. (I'm writing it that way to avoid spammers. Very secret agent, dontcha think?)

Again, I am deeply indebted to you for having confidence in me and my project. If you'd like to email me and have me add you to my mailing list, I'll keep you updated on my progress and let you know when this book is published. If you email me, I will also list all your name in the dedication, as promised, even though I didn't reach the goal on Kickstarter. I'll only do that if you email me, though, since I don't want to presume that you want your name in it if it's published and marketed broadly.

Thanks again for being part of this experiment.

SO...as I stated earlier, I'm retooling to book to be in first person. It just feels more immediate, and I have come to think that the story is really about Chris and his experience, so first person makes more sense. I'd welcome any feedback you have on it....this is the new beginning.

OUT (new beginning...first person)

Screwed.
I’m thinking the word ‘screwed’ in church. I am …doomed. Above me, the baleful eyes of the archangels shoot disapproval and a sense of disappointment. Can’t I do better? They appreciate a rich vocabulary.
God has a cruel sense of humor. He gave me this brain, and the ability to think. As my father always says, a man’s intellect can be his greatest advantage or his greatest disadvantage. Faith must be above fact, always. That’s what he says. So why did God give us the ability to think about stuff like this? Why am I unable to focus on being humble and asking God’s forgiveness (and by the way, why? What did I do? I was born…not my fault. I’ve grown up and done absolutely nothing wrong except maybe pounding my sister Claire when she wouldn’t shut up, and sometimes stealing extra muffins from the kitchen when Warren bakes. But really. Is that something that should need forgiving? God probably didn’t have a sister. I don’t think he should judge. ) And see? There I go again with the sacreligious thing. I am so screwed.
I’m seventeen. Living in the shadow of God and his silent messengers has warped me, I guess; I don’t go out looking for trouble, or drink behind the garage, or skip classes at school. I don’t do any of the stuff normal kids my age do. Of course, when would I have had the chance to do any of that? With David Bryant, the minister of St. Aelred’s church, watching my every move, I am pretty much doomed to goodness.
Doomed to Goodness. Awesome name for a Christian punk band. I beat a rhythm on my knee, as if my hand is unconnected to my judgmental brain. Mrs. Macaffrey, one of the blue-hair brigade, sits next to me. She’s deaf anyway. Doomed to Goodness wouldn’t bother her. Pink hair. Maybe a parallel cross-shaped piercing on my eyebrow? Dad would absolutely vomit.
Doomed to goodness.
“All rise,” David Bryant intones beneficently from the altar. I gently nudge Mrs. Macaffrey to get up. Doomed to Goodness calls to you! Rock out, sister! See? There I go again. She smiles, and squeezes my arm in that too-tight way grandmas tend to do. My father continues: “A reading from the Book of St. Adelphus. 'And in the west we listen to the voice of our God, who says: 'Trust in the Lord your God with your whole heart, and whole soul, and keep thyself pure for the work that is to come.' This is the word of the Lord.”
“Praise be to God,” everyone responds, then sits. The shifting of bodies causes the wooden pews to creak and groan. When I was really small, I crouched on the kneelers and pretended to be running a shoe shop, selling the shoes of the people kneeling. It was really fun until one day Warren caught me doing it and told David. I was what, five?…I still have that scar on the back of my leg where the whip had bit in too deeply. No more shoe sales after that. No more whippings. I do enough of that myself. Mentally, I mean. I’m not one of those people who inflict pain on themselves to give glory to God. Why would God even like that? Is God some sort of S and M weirdo? See. Again with the inappropriate references. But Christian punk band fantasies are a whole other thing.
Sermon time. It’s amazing watching David preach the Word. I wish, wish, wish I was like him. I’ve prayed every night since I was old enough to put words together to be like him: confident, powerful, with no doubt at all about what is right and what is wrong. Unequivocal. There’s a great word. David is unequivocal in his faith.
Warren says I’m just different. He says underneath all the good-boy stuff I’m a nonconformist. I think he is too, and he kind of likes it, but in front of David neither of us says anything about it. I think my surrogate must have had some faulty genes or something. Maybe she was secretly reading banned literature or something while I was in utero. Listening to pirate radio, or dabbling in deviant art.
When David checks out the congregation before a sermon, it reminds me of a wolf eyeing its prey, calculating the exact amount of jaw pressure it would take to snap a bone or pierce a femoral artery. He is totally committed to winning the souls of the people, no matter what it takes, fueled by the absolute conviction that he is more right than everyone else. Maybe he is. I’m certainly in no position to question his rightness. Right? I’m a 17-year-old virgin with a latent case of acne, a great vocabulary, and a twisty psyche.
On today’s menu: David Bryant rattling on, again, about the perpendiculars. The warm, buttery baritone lulls the congregation, makes them feel like he’s taking care of them. But I know what happens next. They know too, and they keep coming back.
“We must fight the good fight, save those sinners or convert them, do whatever needs to be done, with love, of course.” He stares up at heaven, as if waiting for a message. And then…a slight increase in tension and intensity: “We parallels have a duty to uplift and support the misguided brothers and sisters, to save them from themselves. Perpendiculars are children of God also, simply children gone astray.” He focuses on the floor, hands folded. And then…wait for it…he lifts his chin and, eyes blazing, points at some unlucky person in the third pew. “What have you done today to help God fix the situation?” he thunders. People squirm uncomfortably.
Oh, yes. Perpendiculars. If we could just get rid of those opposite-sex couples, everything would be just fine. I personally never saw what the big deal was. I mean, if you love somebody, anybody, isn’t that great? I’ve never loved anybody, I mean not romantically. Not even a little crush. I think I’m asexual. I’ve looked at guys, but I’ve never had that soul-crushing adrenaline rush people talk about. Where your heart kind of stops and you forget to breathe, and time stands still and you’re in a movie musical in soft focus.
Again, I realize this is not where my mind should be. But I’ve heard this sermon dozens of times. You know what’s fascinating? Watching people watching David. Some have glazed eyes, but mostly you see fear and lust. Weird that they'd look all lusty when David is talking about deviants. Maybe they’re all imagining their own soft focus movie moments, and no one is really listening at all.
He finishes with one of his best tricks: “So, my friends, remember that when God asks for help in doing his almighty work, he asks all of us. He asks you,” points to a guy in pew three, “you,” a kid in row ten, “you,” a deacon in the front. “All of you. God sees into your heart, and knows if you are truly of the Word, or simply parroting what you’ve heard. Do, don’t just be!” His voice echoes off the old stone walls.
Time to sing. People creak to their feet, and strains of Amazing Grace rasp from old throats. Sometimes I wish I went to a black church. Nobody in here knows how to sing. Seriously. And then when you have the deaf old people, well…I hope God has earplugs.
Almost communion time. I have perfected the art of swallowing as much wine as possible while still making it look like I’m only taking a delicate sip. It’s not enough to get buzzed on, really, but it’s sort of fun to do anyway. I’m not a drinker or anything, oh, no. I’ve seen what merlot can do. My fathers like their grape. I will never drink. It makes you tell the truth. But you know, communion is totally excusable. It’s a sacrament.
"Blood of Christ," the deacon mutters as he wipes the rim of the gold chalice and hands it to me.
"Amen." I do my deep-inhale suckage of cheap, nasty communion wine and start to choke a little…David would not like that. I cough to cover it. Saved. Amble back to my pew, and Mrs. Macaffrey is already kneeling and praying so hard her blue hair is smoking. Or maybe that’s just the incense, but either way, it’s a cool effect.
Sometimes I write in my head while I’m sitting here trying to commune with God. My writerly description of church: White smoke twists toward the hard-candy translucence of stained glass windows. Mid-morning sunlight makes highways for motes of dust in the crowded old church; the autumn chill as a real, tangible animal nipping at the constantly crying babies (God, David hates those babies!) Even the votive candles look worn out, sputtering their saintly devotions in fits and starts.
Candles! I can light a candle. I have to get up and move around. I piously scoot over the knees of the people praying, shivering, or simply napping with their eyes open. What can I light a candle for? World peace? An end to hunger? A first kiss before I'm thirty? That last one sounds good, but I’ll probably burn in hell if I even consider praying for that.
At the votive station, I select a long, wooden match from the red glass holder, and approach the unlit candles with the calculating eye of a Vegas gambler. The third candle from the right, second row, had always been lucky for me...that's how I got a puppy for my eighth birthday (but it had died the following winter, so maybe the candle was really faulty.) Best to try a whole new approach: row five, column C — you sank my Battleship!
I light the match from another sputtering candle, and have the target in sight, but the wick is stubborn; it doesn’t want to take the flame from the match. I arch my forearm, lean in a bit, and brush against another presumably bored candle lighter's arm.
Blue electricity. A wave of heat, the liquid-fire burn of 100-proof whiskey combined with the sensation of careening wildly down an open road at 3 a.m. with the top down on a red Corvette.
Lust.
Who is that? What happened?
I stop breathing.
I pull my hand back as if I’ve touched a flame, and stare, horrified, at the stranger. Her face is a blur of dark hair, pale eyes, pink lips, red blouse. She smiles back, politely, apparently unaware of the catastrophe that has occurred. A scent of exotic flowers mingles with the smell of burning wax—I want to touch her again, to talk to her, dammit, dammit, why does it feel like I stuck my finger in an electrical outlet? She turns toward me, closes the gap between us. Caramel-colored skin, blues eyes—yes, they are blue—widen, question, then panic; she smiles apologetically, blinks, and walks away.
Don't look at her. Don't look at her. Where is she sitting? I’m shaking, seriously, but I light the stupid candle. When I turn around, I scan the church for a sign of the red blouse. Can’t look too obvious, of course; if David notices me noticing anything other than the service—not good.

Less than a month left. I'm still working on the book, and have now transitioned into POV first person. Although there are only 27 days left for me to obtain the funding threshold, I'm hopeful. (In case you didn't read the fine print: if I don't reach my goal in 27 days, none of the funding is available.) Anyway, I am continuing to write, and summer is 15 days away, so I am still going to finish this book. I know it will get out there somehow.

Again, if you want to see the first person rewrite, email me directly, lpreble at cox.net . I am trusting that all you backers are getting these updates....

Memorial Day. Time to remember those who've been killed for their work and beliefs.

Hey all...
June is fast approaching, which is great. I'm considering making the book first person POV rather than third person. If you're interested to see the difference, email me at lpreble at cox.net and I will post a few pages of the reformatted chapter 1. It's very similar but feels more immediate to me.

I am still hoping to make the funding goal, but it's looking doubtful. I'm only about 1/5 of the way there, and I do really appreciate the confidence you all have in me. If the funding doesn't come through, I'll keep working on the book, but I'd really love to get it out there, so if you know of anyone you can personally invite to help, I'd be very grateful.

More later.