This weekend I zoned out and read Three, a 404-page thriller by Christian author Ted DeKker this weekend. It’s real page-turner — or more accurately an easy, easy read. I don’t spend all of my time reading Christian fiction. I spent most of my 20s and early 30s reading Bukowski, Henry Miller, Proust. I had set a goal for being the next fiction writer to be banned in the United States.
I no longer use the “f” word as subject, verb, adjective, subjunctive, imperative — although a perjorative thought bubble or two has formed over my head since I’ve plead the blood of Jesus, much to my shame. I’m one of those dour, fuddy -duddy Christians who think swearing and faux-swearing (freaking, hecka, etc.) are wrong. But there I go, making value judgments again.
Ah, where was I. Oh, yes, my foul mouth, depravity and cheesy taste in derivative Christian fiction. Mr. DeKker’s plots have been floating around for years. A little Stephen King, a little Dean Koontz. I buy them because I don’t have to think and it’s — listen to me, the addict justifying his habit. I’m getting the shakes just thinking about it.
Please tell me I’m not the only one with a guilty literary pleasure out there. Anyone else care to confess their sin?