Reading Preview and Interview - Owen Egerton Discovers (a) Religion

Oh?

With this particular rewrite we’ve been giving the marching commands of making it edgier, more emotionally deep…take what might have been a kid film and make it a film that the parents will enjoy just as much as the nine year olds in the family.

About the new book…how would you best describe it? A messianic coming of age novel?

I wish it was a messianic coming of age - I like that phrase. It’s the story of a suburbanite living on the outskirts of Houston who believes he is the second coming of Christ. And other people believe him as well, and his name is Harold. So it’s following this fella who is starting his own messianic movement. We get a chance to see the story of an oddball who claims to be the second coming of Christ, but also the story of the actual religion that is born from this movement.

So it’s not giving too much away to say that it did catch on, then?

Yeah. One of the opening chapters describes this fella at a company banquet. It’s one of those annual banquets that they hold in hotel convention rooms where they serve dry chicken, watered-down iced tea and soggy broccoli. And they have little announcements and awards, like “Most Punctual” and “Best Dressed.” And when they get to the sort of lower rank award, “Most Improved Sales Analysis,” they announce the winner is Harold Peeks. Harold steps up, goes to the front of the room and takes the plaque and says, “You know I don’t really know if it’s fair that I accept this, being that I am Christ, the Son of God. But thank you.” And the next chapter says: "Of course we now know this day as Declaration Day." And believers around the world celebrate with the feast of dry chicken and watered down iced tea and limp broccoli. Why is the chicken dry? Because our passions were dry. Why was the broccoli limp? Because our faith was limp. What has changed? Harold has come. In the future, Waffle Houses are holy, opossums are revered, and true saints are recognized as toll booth workers who smile.

My hope is that everyone in Austin reads this book (laughs), and we all get together and celebrate some of the rites of Harloldism and have a few days like that. I think everyone in Austin should buy not just one copy, but two copies - so they can hold one to their heart while they read the other…no, in fact, I think everyone should buy three copies, one to hold to their heart, one to hover just above their crotch, and the other to r…they should actually have four copies. One for each lung, one for the heart and one for the other side where there is no heart (which means something), one hovering above their crotch, the other to be read out loud, and a fifth copy for more formal days.

Maybe the Mayor’s book club could take a hint from that…

Hell yeah! Can you make that happen?

Probably not.

Well, see what you can do. You’re in the press.

Texas seems conducive a messianic complexes in a way that is shared by maybe only a few other states, like California and Utah and possibly New York. Did you feel this was a big part of casting your character here?

We do sort of have a messianic complex. As Texas we sort of see ourselves as something more important - as having a special kind of calling. But I have to say no, that wasn’t a big part of choosing Texas. I chose Texas for a couple of reasons: one, because I’m so familiar with Texas, and two, because a large part of the book is a pilgrimage that I knew was going to end up in Austin. Austin, in this new faith, is a holy city. And so the pilgrimage goes from the suburbs of Houston, and all these people walk to Austin. One of the quotes in the book is “holy travel makes for holy destinations,” and I wanted Austin to be that holy destination. I’m a huge Austin fan, and as I was creating my own religion in fiction, I thought, “Well gosh, where would I want my Jerusalem to be? I know where, that’s Austin! Come on.”

How often did you sympathize with the characters compared to how often you poke fun at them?

I believe satire can only take you so far. Novels that are purely satirical end up being kind of boring. And the reason is the author knows exactly what he’s making fun of, and he knows exactly what he wants you to think by the end of the book. I’m a true believer that if the author isn’t discovering something while writing, he shouldn’t expect his reader to be discovering something. I think the best kind of creation isn’t from a place of certainty. I feel the best stories come out of questions, out of wresting with ideas. I think humor should be a part of that wrestling, but I also believe that to simply laugh, to simply satirize is often just too simple. It’s too much of an easy way out.

One of your main tools is humor. Is there a point where humor also goes to far? Is there anything that just isn’t funny, or where it doesn’t help to use humor?

Yeah, yeah - there really is. For example, in Austin I’m been lucky enough to spend a lot of time making fun of movies at the Alamo Drafthouse with the Sinus show and with Master Pancake theater. And that’s a lot of fun, you know, to take these iconic images and make a joke. But also, I think there’s occasions when sincerity can be so easily mocked simply because it’s sincere, and that humor is cheap. A really dramatic scene can be made laughable by someone making a fart noise over a microphone - and I’ve been that guy! And not that it’s a huge crime, but on occasion it gets too simple. For example, I remember going out to the Kerrville Folk Festival…this is back when I was doing Sinus shows every weekend. If I saw an opportunity, my training at that point was, “Where is the space of silence to make that joke?” So we’re out at the Kerrville Folk Festival, sitting around the campfire, and there are these guys, these folk singers. And folk singers don’t pack too much irony into their songs. Their songs are sincere!

Terribly sincere.

Terribly sincere! I found myself, in my head going, “Please, just enjoy the song. Stop rewriting their vocals, stop changing every phrase into a sexual innuendo.” Humor in my generation...if something can be shattered, we shatter it. Just because it’s breakable, we throw it down. That’s a pity. We lose a lot of the more delicate beauties, because we’re so willing to shatter.