AMERICAN BANSHEE now complete!

Now and then it’s a good thing to challenge yourself. For a long time I’ve wanted to write a ghost story. Not in imitation of Stephen King. Not even in imitation of Henry James. Rather, a truly original novel-length ghost story. Having completed AMERICAN BANSHEE, I’m proud of my novel, if I do say so. Not sinfully proud, I hope. Proud in the sense of being imbued with a sincere feeling of satisfaction in the accomplishment of a goal.

AMERICAN BANSHEE is the story of “Pastor Mike,” a phony exorcist who plans to make a killing from those he looks upon as ignorant rubes in rural Missouri. Traveling with his girlfriend he soon encounters Jeb and his family, latter-day pioneers who live off the land. Or are they ghosts from a bygone era? In any event, there’s a “haint” on the old homestead, a familiar spirit or demon known as a Banshee who holds the family in thrall. Jeb is counting on Pastor Mike to free him and his brood from the Banshee’s spell, but Mike is more interested in selling out to the powers of darkness. A dramatic series of terrifying events convinces him to repent of his evil intentions and sinful deeds and to rescue Jeb and the others. But is his redemption complete enough and sincere enough to protect him during the exorcism? Or will the forces of evil destroy him and those he loves before he can cast out the demon?

AMERICAN BANSHEE took me fourteen months to complete. I know that’s a pitiably slow rate, but I’ve been busy. Busy with other important things like running a law practice without running it into the ground while enmired in this post-George W. slash-and-burn Great Depression reprise we laughingly refer to as “the economy.” But, as Ben Franklin himself once said, “Out of adversity comes opportunity.” And I seem to remember reading somewhere that screenwriter Joe Esterhaus was under intense financial pressure when he wrote SHOWGIRLS.

As the wordsmith pundits say, if you sit down to write on a regular basis, and keep doing so despite all the petty tyrants of day-to-day urgency screaming in your ear that you’re a fool, eventually you’ll have yourself a novel. And, on 12/31/11 at 11:28 PM, that’s exactly what happened to me: my water broke and there between my legs I had myself a brand-spanking new novel. I eagerly gnawed through the umbilical cord and shipped off the new arrival to my literary agent for swaddling and circumcision.

Don’t let the birth metaphor fool you; I don’t look back upon the novels I’ve written as my children. Not even unacknowledged bastard offspring. Maria and I have been blessed with four children, of whom both of us are exceedingly proud. No, I suffered no post-partum depression after having hammered out another bloated, red-faced screaming opus—nine so far: St. Agnes’ Eve, Private Showings, Wicked King Dick, Devil’s Toll, Conjurer’s Oath, Heartbalm, Dead Man’s Act, Two Shot, and American Banshee, written roughly in that order. After finishing the appellate brief I’m working on today I intend to resume work on what promises to be my tenth novel: the unfortunately titled NIGHTMARE NUMBER NINE, the first 86 pages of which are offered for your perusal on my 9/13/10 blog post. I relish getting back to a first-person smartass narrative voice, which is my true home.

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