Never preach harder than you entertain.

I got the quote above from Jim Butcher,1 author of the very successful Dresden Files series. It’s succinct and, I think, a great mantra for new and aspiring authors.

It’s not that an author can’t write stories with a message. However, if you put THE MESSAGE at the center of the story and force the characters and the plot to slavishly orbit your sermon-in-disguise, the result will not be the kind of story that people who like to read will want to read.2 Examples of this phenomenon abound, so I won’t bother to catalog them here.

If one were looking for examples of how to convey a message effectively, without sacrificing a good story, perhaps few would point to the works of Charles Dickens. After all, one might ask, isn’t Dickens well-known for how his books put a spotlight on the social issues of his day? Oliver Twist was all about how bad the Poor Laws were in Great Britain, wasn’t it? And Hard Times was definitely a “passionate revolt against the whole industrial order of the modern world”3 you must admit?

In a word: no.

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If you’re of a certain age and a certain degree of internet literacy, then you’ll also be familiar with the original version. Investigate all of the lore on your own time, because I won’t go into it here (and I have only a superficial awareness of it myself).

The movie was decent for what it set out to be, namely a psychological/cosmic horror movie that capitalized on a well-known internet phenomenon. There was one thing that I think it did particularly well, however, and I wanted to highlight it because I think writers—especially those who write speculative fiction—can benefit from it.1

What the movie did especially well was that it did not over-explain. There are plenty of unanswered questions and that is a good thing.

Like any horror movie there are, of course, a healthy dose of jump scares. But those aren’t really what makes a scary movie scary, and The Backrooms is no exception. What frightens us is the unknown, the idea that something is lurking just around the corner and we don’t know what that something is. Until the something is revealed our minds play through all the horrifying possibilities. The tension in a monster movie dissipates, or at least abates or shifts, after we first get to see the monster. There has been a kind of visual explanation of the horror that was previously unknown.

There is a bit of a “reveal” in The Backrooms, yet we are ultimately left in the dark about the biggest question of all: What are the backrooms in the first place?

The movie gives us no real answer to that question. People will speculate, of course, and perhaps they can even come to plausible conclusions by rewatching the movie and searching for clues or by cobbling together all the extraneous internet lore surrounding the backrooms. There’s no harm in that and it’s part of the fun of a movie like this.

Some moviegoers, perhaps, will find the ending unsatisfactory. I think it would be fair to say that the ending only leaves the viewer with more questions. I haven’t done any looking, but I would not be surprised at all to find lots of responses to the movie along the lines of: “We need The Backrooms 2 so we can finally know what happened with [fill in the blank]!” If producers give in to such pleas, it would be a huge mistake2

I see only two possible directions for a sequel:

1. Give people an explanation about what the backrooms are; or

2. Continue to leave the backrooms unexplained.

The second option, while preserving the essence of what it is that makes the backrooms scary, would likely prove unsatisfying to many viewers. “If we still don’t know what the backrooms are, then what was the point of the second movie?” The first option, is just as likely (perhaps even more so) to leave viewers unsatisfied because to explain the thing, to remove the quality of the unknown, is to rob it of what made it interesting in the first place.

So then what is the lesson for writers?

Speculative fiction—and here I include science fiction, fantasy, and horror—thrive on (to state the obvious) the speculative element. They do so in different ways and some stories contain more explanations than others. Writers should be wary, however, of trying to explain every little detail to the reader.

To go back to the idea of a monster story, the reader doesn’t necessarily need to know the precise details of how the monster’s physiology works or its diet or the place in the taxonomy of cryptids and other ghastly creatures. Those might be things a writer would want to know if they help him form the story, but they are certainly not essential elements of a good story; they can, in fact, spoil a story by over-explaining. Similar points could be made about “magic systems”3 or the “nuts and bolts” explanations of some “hard” sci-fi stories.

Writers of speculative fiction should remember that not every question requires an answer. Sometimes the best thing a writer can do is resist the urge to pull back the curtain.

After all, once you’ve mapped every corner of the backrooms, they’re no longer the backrooms.

The man in question was an officer in the Roman army — some say a Centurion, others a member of the Praetorian Guard itself. Whatever his rank, the man served his Emperor well, but his heart belonged to a King even higher than the Caesar: the King of Kings, Jesus Christ. The man’s name was George.

And George would slay the dragon.

The Vexation of Verisimilitude

Christian fiction has, I think it’s fair to say, an image problem. Yes, we hold the keys to the Grandpappy of Fantasy, The Lord of the Rings; but we’re also responsible for things like The Kirk Cameron Movie (for there is only one) wherein a Hallmark plot is body-snatched by a screed; the God’s Not Dead series (thanks, Kevin Sorbo); and, for those who prefer paper to celluloid, the Amish Romance novel, which is, let’s face it, romantasy for prudes.

Heck, I liked Cameron’s Fireproof. It’s not a bad movie. But it and the vast bulk of modern Christian fiction have created the perception in the general public that Christian stuff is made for Christians, as a sort of parallel economy of storytelling. You can’t touch a Christian book, the feeling goes, without being preached at.

Now, this is not an issue unique to Christian fiction. I can remember my eyes just about rolling back through my skull and out my ears when the second book in Paolini’s Inheritance Cycle featured elves who happily went on r/atheism-level rants about their disdain for superstition and religion. It was deeply satisfying when, in the third book, it was revealed that the Dwarves, at least, worshipped very real gods, if only to stick it to those knife-eared New Atheists. And James Cameron’s Avatar films are blatant anti-Western propaganda (someday I’ll put pen to paper on my Two Camerons Theory). But, because of where we stand as a post-Christian culture, these sorts of things are generally excused by the public. Fish ignorant of water and all that.

The frustrating thing is that the Christian publishing industry, across all media, seems perfectly content with this. Gospel-First, Story-Second is the default setting. And anything which threatens that equilibrium, anything which offends the senses of Dana Carvey’s Church Lady, must be done away with in favor of something squeaky-clean and utterly unappealing to the average red-blooded, uninitiated man or woman who might (gasp) judge a book by its cover and pick up something at Barnes & Noble for a few hours of pleasant reading.

“Okay, EJ, when are you going to get to the plopping point?” I hear you ask. “I was promised swords and foreskin bride-prices.” Yes, settle down, Peanut Gallery, I’m getting to that presently.

I believe that a not-insignificant part of the issue is that this Gospel-First, Story-Second approach leads to the removal of parts of life which are unpleasant results of the Fall but are no less legitimate tools in the storytelling utility belt. Things like violence. Yes. Let’s talk Violence.

The Value of Violence

Why don’t we start with the Ur-Example (for, after all, he did hail from Ur of the Chaldeans). Abraham (née Abram) had a nephew named Lot. Lot is not particularly well-known for good decision-making, but he did choose the most fertile land to settle when Abraham gave him the choice. And when the overlords of that region decided to put down a revolt, they carried off Lot, his people, and his property as spoils of war.

What did Abraham do as a result? Pray about it and sit back to hope God would sort things out?

No.

He belted on his sword, rallied his frankly impressive number of able-bodied servants, and gave chase, striking the overlords and rescuing his family in a daring raid. God was with him, the raid was successful, and Abraham refused any spoil but what his men had already taken and gave tribute to Melchizedek, the wise and saintly King of the city that would one day be named Jerusalem.

And what of David? (I told you we’d get to the foreskin bride-prices). Here is a lad who has tended sheep all his life, fighting off wolves and lions and bears, oh my, and who enters the historical narrative as a major force by slaying a giant. He then goes on to double the challenge of King Saul’s price for marrying his daughter Michal, giving the King two hundred Philistine foreskins (think counting coup but far more painful for the recipients) and, once he is crowned King, proceeds to wage successful war against all of Israel’s enemies throughout his life.

In fact, while God tells David “You shall not build a house for My name because you are a man of war and have shed blood,” (1 Chronicles 28:3), the Bible also tells us “Yahweh has sought out for Himself a man after His own heart, and Yahweh has appointed him as a ruler over His people…” (1 Samuel 13:14), and from that ruler’s line came the Messiah Himself. How could a man after God’s own heart have so much blood on his hands?

Well, gentle reader, I’ll tell you. God uses the violent purposes of men for good ends. Sometimes it’s turning evil into good (see the story of Joseph MacJacob in Genesis), and sometimes it’s using the strength of good to punish evil (see 1 Samuel 14 where Saul refuses to wipe out the Amalekites and has his dynasty taken away from him). God sometimes appoints men to positions of violence to enact His will (the book of Amos is an excellent primer on this whole concept, and an easy read). The book of Romans as well points out that the sword is given to governments by God to punish evil. Swords have only one use. God intends violence on evildoers.

So Christianity is not, in fact, a stranger to violence. Even if you’re a “New Testament-Only Christian,” I ask you this: how does God describe the sort of equipment the Christian ought to bear in the world? As armor and a sword. The shield of Faith and the belt of Truth, the helmet of Salvation and the breastplate of Righteousness, the sword of the Spirit. The “full armor of God,” to quote Ephesians 6. What we do in the world is called spiritual warfare, so why is Christian publishing so averse to violence?

It was not always so. Tolkien’s Aragorn was a wandering Ranger, a warrior against the darkness that everyday folk only dreamt of in their nightmares, before becoming Elessar, the King who held healing for Good and war against Evil equally in his hands. C. S. Lewis took things a step further, having Saint Nicolaus himself distribute swords, bows, and daggers to children to save Aslan’s kingdom from a wicked witch. Even John Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress, the popular originator of the parable-disguised-as-story genre, had Christian doing battle against Apollyon, blocking the demon’s fiery darts with his shield and bearing a sword to defend himself with.

And what does secular fiction give us? John Wick. A man who, when his dog is killed, embarks on a crusade that leads to the dismantling of an entire criminal empire. I don’t know anyone who doesn’t enjoy John Wick on some level — whether they like it for its thematic Trueness or its excellent cinematography — we all agree that if you shoot puppies you deserve to get Wick’d. Or take Jack Reacher. An observant titan doling out righteous fury regardless of the legality of his punishments. Alan Ritchson’s portrayal of the character is a runaway success on Amazon Prime Video. That bugbear of publishing, the Modern Audience, craves hard justice. Even if they won’t admit it.

The Virtue of Veracity

So, what’s the point?

The point, gentle reader, is this: Christian fiction could be a much broader category than is currently perceived and marketed.

Sandy Petersen is a game designer. If you’ve played TTRPGs you’re probably aware of Call of Cthulhu. He made that. If you’ve played video games you’re probably aware of Doom. He helped make that. Sandy Petersen is a Mormon, and while I’m not going to get into the whole Mormon-vs-Mainline debate here, I think it’s fair to say that no one exemplifies the Ned Flanders perception of Christianity quite like Mormons, except perhaps those who took Ferrell’s Church Lady as an instruction manual rather than a critique. And yet Petersen is in part responsible for the franchise which spawned the phrase “Rip and tear, until it is done.”

To paraphrase a comment by Petersen on how a Christian could inflict such gore as Doom offers on anyone, “We’ve been at war with demons for millennia. It’s only a matter of time before someone takes the fight to them by kicking down the door with a shotgun.” This is, of course, not his exact words, but I hope he will forgive my attempt to capture the spirit of what he said.

My own book, Redlanders, features a protagonist heavily inspired by King David. I shopped it around to various secular publishers. “Too New Testament,” they said, in more words. I shopped it around to various Christian publishers. “Too Old Testament,” they said, in more words. One Christian publisher was kind enough to provide their criteria for publication; that list would have disqualified the Chronicles of Narnia three times over. So I self-pubbed it on Amazon, throwing myself properly into the hellscape of Indie Publishing.

But sometimes violence is necessary in a fallen world.

Saul was dispossessed for failing to annihilate the enemies of Israel. David’s Messianic line was instituted because he had no such compunctions and yet loved the Lord. Violence is never a wholesome choice, but it is sometimes the choice God ordains. An oft-reposted meme is the tale of Gary Plauché, a grieved father who shot and killed his son’s rapist on live television and received nothing more than community service from his judge. I have two sons. To quote Plauché in the immediate, camera-captured aftermath, I’d “do it too.”

Christian fiction, as it stands, is too concerned with remaining wholesome. The protagonist must never take up one of those pointy things, despite Jesus warning His Apostles that they ought to sell their cloak and buy a sword (personally, I prefer polearms, but who am I to question my Creator?). While any Christian author ought to be careful that the violence they inflict on the page is either to demonstrate the wickedness or righteousness of its perpetrator, we cannot shy away from the fact that the reader has an innate sense of justice, and that they recognize on some level that even if the court denies Justice, she still cries out in the street.

The Gospel-First, Story-Second approach has neutered Christian storytelling and has relegated its preaching to the choir. The Gospel is, indeed, Good News. But it needs to be new to be News, and you’re not going to get that message in front of people who haven’t heard it before by sticking to your own cloister. The Man of Violence (not to be confused with the Violent Man) is a useful tool in the storyteller’s arsenal.

Sir George slew a dragon. He saw wickedness, girded his loins, and confronted it by the means of his profession. You don’t have to be Christian to cheer him on. Anyone who would rather see Silene in the power of the child-devouring dragon over the princess-rescuing Sir George is sick in the head. The Christian (and thereby Western) tradition is replete with warriors who took up the sword and shield to defend innocents and even the guilty from those who would do them harm by way of violence. This trope speaks to us on an instinctual level.

Christian publishing ought to take heed, plunder Egypt, and direct the reader however subtly to the Good, True, and Beautiful. Even if the GTB means cutting off the heads of serpents now and then. We should not write violence for its own sake. But we should acknowledge violence as a tool in God’s box, and be unafraid to use it properly in our stories.

E.J. Free’s novel, Redlanders, can be found at: https://www.amazon.com/Redlanders

“It was not always so. Once we knew the Oyarsa of your world—he was brighter and greater than I—and then we did not call it Thulcandra. It is the longest of all stories and the bitterest. He became bent. That was before any life came on your world. Those were the Bent Years of which we still speak in the heavens, when he was not yet bound to Thulcandra but free like us. It was in his mind to spoil other worlds besides his own.”

- C.S. Lewis, Out of the Silent Planet

It has all been one dirty trick: the books, the movies, the news articles. The storytelling and special effects have felt so real and so persistent that we started to think we have been to Rigel VII, Tatooine, and LV-426. Every day it feels like we are on the verge of discovering distant alien civilizations with our powerful telescopes and listening satellite dishes. Christians might as well throw in the towel because any second now it’s all going to be proven as bunk.

But none of that has happened. Science Fiction still remains science fiction (except perhaps the dystopian part they have an odd fascination with). We really haven’t discovered alien life elsewhere (UFO encounters notwithstanding) and the Big Bang still sounds just as silly as it always did. I think “they” know that, but a lie told long enough begins to be believed.

What is wrong with most of these tales of wonder is that they are all steeped in pure and unadulterated materialism. In fact, all of modern, Western society is steeped in this materialism and the culture machine that is Hollywood have changed the way we think about the world. Even as Christians, we think of the world as a series of physical causes and effects. We have started to believe that the only wonder in this world is what we can see on the Webb and Hubble telescopes (colorized and graphically altered for your viewing pleasure!).

This is by design. If you don’t believe in the soul you won’t guard it. The human soul is under siege. We are surrounded by an army of nihilistic, materialists orcs. We are being starved out by siege towers designed by the finest brutalist architects. Orc soldiers wear deconstructed post-post-modern mail armor made of mostly chinks, because imperfections make us beautiful or something. Their swords are dull and held by the blade in order to be subversive. The soldiers themselves regularly indulge in alcoholism, depression, and a healthy dose of narcotics and now an alarming rate of castration. They are the sickly kine devouring the healthy kine in Pharaoh’s dream.

The soul-cities that have not fallen are typically the Christian ones because, though cut off from the father heaven and mother earth in almost every way, they still get glimpses of the true structure of the universe in church. By this narrow resupply line the ramparts of the inner keep are still held. The enemy is largely through the gate and most defenders have retreated to that last extremity. It is not possible to lift the siege yet, but it is possible to sally forth and retake the city walls.

The solution is to drop the orc way of thinking. Drop the science fiction materialism and the loser-heroes. Instead of thinking of the universe as a watch or a factory churning out “science,” think of the world as a cathedral being maintained by humans and invisible angels alike. Every ounce of matter is being driven by the commands of God who dispatches his ministering angels to be flames and winds. Consider the true meaning of the physical reality. For instance: the symbolic meaning of the tree as a mediator between Heaven and Earth is more important than learning about photosynthesis. Which sounds more bogus: dark matter or angels? The stars are billions of light years away and billions of years old. If that’s true, who cares? How could this ever mean more than what God has said their purpose is? Which is more useful and pertinent to our existence?

This publication is not the first to ask these strange questions. Many of us cut our teeth on C.S. Lewis’ Space Trilogy, especially the final volume That Hideous Strength. We followed Lewis’ train of thought back to the Middle Ages in his short book The Discarded Image. We discovered how wholly alien the Medieval mind was to our own and how horribly the modern mind has understood it. In light of this new knowledge, The Chronicles of Narnia made more sense. We read Tolkien’s essays, we found strange folks saying strange (read: old) things on Twitter and encountered podcasts and comic books from the fringe. Everything was up for grabs, everything could be questioned.

What happens when you change your perspective and vocabulary? What happens when you drop the scientism and pick up the supernatural? What kind of stories would you tell? These stories are about the different perspective, the far older and far more useful perspective. We are not so much killing science as we are killing science fiction (though you may use “redeem” if you’d like).

Do counterfactual universes exist in the mind of God? Do angels travel through time as well as space? Why are cryptids always on the edge of our sight and pictures? Is it a hoax, or are spiritual creatures notoriously hard to see by lens and eye alike? Does the government communicate with demons believing them to be “aliens?” Maybe a nuclear blast is a portal to hell.

Our modern world is breaking down, and everyone knows it. Those materialist rules and thought-patterns are breaking down too. What rushes in and fills the vacuum? What devils and spirits haunt the desolate city? Read on.

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I’m pretty sure Hogwarts Legacy was the last video game I ever really looked forward to. Rowling’s Wizarding World has pretty much everything you could want for a game: an obvious progression system (learning new spells); clear potential for choices-matter mechanics (choosing a house); mini game options (quidditch); and a vibrant, mysterious world ripe with secrets to uncover. What could possibly go wrong?

Even if you haven’t played it, you can probably guess at the answer. The modern machine is what went wrong.

To be clear, the game isn’t all that bad. Some of the design is beautiful even, and the combat was somewhat enjoyable and certainly visually appealing. But it’s just not all that good either, despite the five years and $150 million that went into making it. The characters are flat, the dialogue…

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