God lives in the pages of fiction. Also babies’ eyes, and the musings of newborn kittens. I do not read much; for I am not a parishoner. I am a preacher, this is my pulpit, and Her thoughts are spoken through me, writ large on the page, for those who wish to hear to see, to taste and smell and touch the truth. God is the wisdom of words, and the novel is Her church, each book a divine testament providing witness to the majesty of Her creation. How dare I blaspheme with the profane filth uttered by my wretched hand? I am not worthy. For although my words are Hers, I do them no justice; they are a perversion to be mocked and scorned as the twisted ravings of a heretic. Do not read them. Honour others’ testimony with your gaze, for mine is wanting, defiled by my sins.
For I am a novel writer.