One day, I’m going to write a novel. It’s going to feature Saul, an aging evangelical demagogue – a Billy Graham sort of figure with a bit of televangelist sleaze – and he’ll be trying to continue his career without letting the public find out about his steadily worsening mental health. His son, Jonathan, will be an attractive but reserved seminary student whom everyone expects to take up his father’s mantle one day. One day, he meets a fellow student, David, who has ambitions to become the kind of spiritual warrior he sees in Saul’s public persona. David quickly becomes Saul’s protege and a close friend of the family. Michelle, Saul’s daughter, falls in love with David, and the two begin dating: the perfect storybook romance. But slowly things start to go sour; Saul becomes increasingly paranoid and jealous of David’s increasing success, and Michelle starts to suspect that David’s only courting her because she’s the closest thing to Jonathan that he’s publicly allowed to have. The triangle between the three becomes increasingly more intense; trapped between the people he loves most, and realizing that he’ll never fill his father’s shoes, even Jonathan begins to wonder what David’s ultimate motives really are . . .
(And of course, the sequel, describing the next generation, would be just as exciting: public nudity! rape! incest! murder! sexy men! familial warfare! Plus, everyone’s favorite machiavellian political advisor, Joab!)
All of this, of course, is predicated on me having the time to write anything but papers. Which is never going to be the case at this rate.