I'm uncomfortable with talking about matters relating to the spirit. It's such a personal thing, like discussing sex or the proper technique for picking one's nose.
The dedication inside my novel So Dark the Night reads: "for my Creator".
Can't get much more public or explicit than that. But, see, I felt I had to give proper credit, allude to the long, difficult gestation of the novel, the times I almost gave up...but something wouldn't let me. Resolve would return, the words would start flowing again and I'd be drawn back into the novel. At one point, I gave up for more than six months. What was the point? Based on my track record I knew I likely wouldn't sell the book any way. Why continue abusing my body and mind for no practical purpose? I dunno. Ask Sam Beckett ("I can't go on, I'll go on")
Something brought me back to the book. Something re-instilled my belief in its power. That sense of wonder I need to work returned. I won't put a name to it, there was only the awareness of a steadying, guiding hand, a presence in the room with me as I struggled for over three years to bring shape to a 470 page, 125,000 word manuscript.
I could never have finished this book by myself. I could never have written it as well. I am not one to stand on the mountaintops, proclaiming some kind of divine revelation, irrefutable evidence of a conscious, benign, loving God.
Causes Cliff Burns Supports
The Stephen Lewis Foundation, Community Radio