Back at It

Man, it’s wild how much time can slip through your fingers. I hadn’t touched any real writing in years—the kind that’s seen more midnight ranting and cold coffee than I care to admit. Writing used to be my thing, right? But life barged in: music gigs, work, family dinners, you name it. Still, that itch to write never really left. More like it was buried under a pile of “grown-up” stuff, just waiting for a reason to flare up again.

One random afternoon, I’m flipping through this book, “A Time to Stand” by Bishop James Heiser. The book is a straight shooter, no frills, just laying out truth with the kind of punch that makes you sit up and rethink your life. The conviction in his words… reminded me of why I ever bothered wrestling with words in the first place. I used to write with that kind of fire, too, though primarily through fiction.

Anyway, fast-forward: I’m tidying up (okay, more like frantically shoving books back on the shelf), and what do I find? This dusty, battered scrapbook from high school, the one my grandparents made for me. Flipping through those pages felt like hearing distant voices again—corny as that sounds. And then BAM—wedged in a corner, there’s this crumpled short story and a comic book I drew when I was eight. Like some kind of time capsule, except way more embarrassing.

I mean, the handwriting? Straight-up chicken scratch. I still haven’t improved on that even today. The story itself? Total pulp cheese—think capes, evil geniuses, the whole overblown nine yards. But, looking at it, I just grinned. That was me, right there. No filter, no self-doubt, just pure, wild creativity. For a second, it was like I could feel that kid inside me, just itching to make something out of nothing.

It hit me then—this is what’s been missing. I’d let everything else fill the space where my stories used to live. And honestly, nothing else scratches that itch.

But it’s not just any old writing bug that bit me. What really got me going again was that urge to mash up all the stuff I love—gritty noir, creepy horror, and those heavy theological themes that keep me up at night pounding away at a sermon that will give Christ to my people. My style’s shifted over the years, but the core’s still the same: stories about the clash between good and evil, faith slugging it out with darkness, all that messy, real-life stuff with a dash of the divine.

I’ve always felt at home with those noir heroes—people who aren’t quite saints, stumbling through shadowy city streets, trying to do the right thing even when it hurts. Then there’s the horror side—the hidden monsters, the adrenaline you get when you realize there’s more to life than what you see. And don’t even get me started on the Bible’s epic showdowns—grace, redemption, evil lurking in the corners, humanity tripping over itself again and again.

So, picture me there, clutching those old scraps of paper like some weirdo, and realizing—this isn’t just nostalgia. I want to dive back in, but this time with all the scars, doubts, and depth I’ve picked up along the way. The old pulp heroes have new company now—like Ezekiel Creed, who’s just as likely to quote scripture as he is to swing a sword at a demon. Or Jonathan Brooks, a private eye crawling through corruption, hunting for truth in a world that loves hiding it.

The seed for all this? Planted ages ago, when I was a kid making comics on the living room floor. But it took a book and a scrapbook find to set the whole thing on fire again. Now, I’m back—pen in hand, ready to write stories that don’t just entertain, but wrestle with the big stuff: good versus evil, faith versus doubt, light versus all the crap this world throws at us. Because, let’s face it, storytelling’s at its best when it’s real, raw, and pointing to something bigger than ourselves. The Word of God is still standing firm. Maybe I should, too.