My Guilty Pleasure

I read the Agatha Christie novel And Then There Were None. I know the title is not the original. The name of the setting was according to the title. The story is what it is however. Its characters are believable, the setting ambient and the plot immersive. It is a murder mystery about murderers as the victims.

My suspect was not the killer. Everything is explained. I felt tricked but not cheated. There was a clue I missed until a character mentions it outright.

I began reading just past midnight in the first hour of Wednesday July 9^th and finished nearly a quarter past 4 PM on Friday, July 11, 2025. I thought to only read at night but read most of the book in the light day. Though scary, it is a murder mystery, not technically a horror story.

What I loved most about the novel was my sympathy for the protagonists. Though they are all guilty of dastardly deeds, I am shown the world from their perspectives. They are not sadists but rather normal people who crossed a line. They are horrified when their dark secrets are revealed.

I dream a recurring theme since my young adulthood. I am guilty of a murder. I do not know who I murdered or if it was deliberate or not. I am living my normal life and at peace when I forget my crime, thinking I got away with it. When I remember, however, I am sickened with dread. I know everyone will turn on me and my life is over if anyone finds out.

Such was my interest in reading And Then There Were None… and I was not disappointed.

Scribe of Dreams

I fancy myself one of the best writers of fiction ever. My opinion is either correct or a delusion of grandeur.

I illustrate my own covers. My covers are not the best ever. They are amateurish more often than not, actually. I create the title fonts. They are not the best ever either.

My excellence is my style of writing. I emphasize dialog and minimize descriptions. I mind the perspectives of the characters, main or supporting, having them speak as if real people.

Style is not enough for fiction to be the best. The stories must be immersive and the characters endearing. The themes must be relevant. The cause and effect must be credible. The ending must satisfy.

I have written many books but garnered few readers. Only a few of the few love my work. The evidence implies that I am not actually one of the best writers of fiction ever.

I read the complete works of H.P. Lovecraft... twice… and intend to read it again. Like me, he wrote many stories but garnered few readers in his lifetime. Few of the few loved his work, most of them fellow writers he corresponded with. He died in obscurity and poverty.

My “delusion of grandeur” may prove otherwise. Then again, I may not be around when that happens. I shall continue to write in the meantime.

https://www.amazon.com/stores/Shawn-OToole/author/B07C28S75Z?ref=ap_rdr&isDramIntegrated=true&shoppingPortalEnabled=true

24 Years Ago

July 4, 2001 was my last day working for the grocery store Winn-Dixie. I did not want to leave. It was a good job. Alas, the chain was going out of business in my area. I was already employed elsewhere, with Walmart.

I worked many busy hours at two stores for over two weeks. It was against the rules in both but the managers pretended not to notice. I did what I did with their blessing. I did not stay at Winn-Dixie for my own sake, to be clear.

By the rules of the part of the world I live in, I am morally obligated to give my employers a two week notice before leaving. Working at Winn-Dixie till July 4^th exceeded this expectation.

In my country, July 4^th is Independence Day. It is among the busiest days of the year. When I gave my two week notice, the manager of Winn-Dixie despaired. He remarked that Walmart deliberately hired me quickly to keep him from having enough workers on July 4^th. His accusation was probably true, since the new Walmart supercenter being built was intended to put smaller businesses like Winn-Dixie out of business.

I stayed days longer than I wanted to. Not only was I tired, but there was drama between myself and a co-worker at Winn-Dixie I would rather escape. The manager was not a friend of mine. I did not owe him a favor… for anything. I heard the despair in his voice and saw it in his face. I did what I did for him… to give him peace of mind.

I worked very hard on my last day. I did more than what was ever required. I did not leave until the manager said all was well. He smiled. He shook my hand and swore that if I ever needed him for anything, he would help. There was nothing he could do for me… but I knew he meant what he said. I was glad I did what I did for him.

I did what I did twenty-four years ago. It did not change the world. It meant nothing in the grand scheme of things. It gave one man peace, however. Rather than say “Peace be with you” and leave him to his fate, I acted instead. It was not what I wanted to do… and I had every right to do what I want… but I am what I am.

Clean of Itself

Literature is propaganda when its writer is trying to indoctrinate you. Art is pornography when it is rendered to sexually arouse you.

What if the writer is telling you the truth? What is the real harm of a sexual fantasy?

Propaganda is not always a lie. Fantasy is imagination, not reality. There is nothing innately wrong about sexy propaganda. On the contrary: If it inspires me, I shall have more ideas and energy to write and render my own work.

The unimaginative believe in thought crime. They confuse feelings with intent. They expect everyone to be mindless and numb. Well, everyone else. These people are typically hypocrites. Their sanctimony is to keep a secret.

I am inspired by the art and fiction of liars and perverts. I am not corrupted because I am neither a liar nor a pervert. I am simply energized by the passion they charged their product with. Their art and fiction are like batteries I can use to power my own art and fiction.

Do not fret enjoying what you know was made by nasty people. Quality counts, even when by the hands of the wicked. If you are sincere, only good shall come of it.

My Insightful Ignorance

I have no way of knowing much. I can only assume things are true more often than not. I make the effort to be honest in what I see and hear, however. I try not to spin things to my favor or to my shame.

God is real. Jesus is God. Jesus rose from the dead. He holds the keys to hell and death, as in no one can die or be damned without his authorization. The Shroud of Turin is real. The Prince of Peace by Akiane Kramarik is a portrait of what Jesus actually looks like.

It is irrelevant whether anyone agrees with me or not. They are not me. They do not hold their thoughts to the same standard, not even close. They learn rather than think, more often than not, and are indoctrinated accordingly. When they demand “evidence” they mean an “authorized” opinion. Your argument is supposed to be echoes of “credentialed” strangers.

Judging myself is the hardest thing to do. I must be willing to dislike or appreciate what I see, and honestly. I have judged myself. I shall not be judged.

I am sincere. I am compassionate. I am diligent. I am friendly. I generally distrust people but the world has proven me right. You shall never hear me say “I hate people” because I do not. I bother to notice when someone does something good, and I appreciate the goodness. I praise it. I do not admire strength or intellect. I am not contemptuous of weakness or ignorance. The best to me is the best one can do, not what is expected of them.

There is nothing I dislike about myself. I am naïve. I am confounded by some of the simplest things, especially regulations and technology. I am passionate about freedom and justice and may go to extremes to assure them. I am capable of cruelty. I can kill… and for reasons most people would consider unreasonable.

I am imaginative and creative. These are two things not of my spirit. They are of my nature. My humanity is sanctified by the Spirit, however. My imagination and creativity are sacred accordingly. They are expressions of my sincerity, compassion, diligence, friendliness and distrust. They are parables as art and fiction.

https://www.amazon.com/stores/Shawn-OToole/author/B07C28S75Z?ref=ap_rdr&isDramIntegrated=true&shoppingPortalEnabled=true

The Divine Novel

Our reality is a fiction. It is real but as something imagined and created. The characters are alive and make their own decisions but within the plot of a story. The fiction is already written. It is currently being proof-read. Our moment in time is the page the reader is on.

I write fiction. I imagine and create. I have a basis of comparison for understanding what God is doing and why. He wants us to understand. He gave us the ability to figure it out.

People ask, “Why does God allow evil in the world?” and “Why does God allow the innocent to suffer?” and as a storyteller, I can answer the question.

The heroes are heroic because of the villains. The villainy is an evil that must be stopped or avenged. The innocent suffer or there is no point to the story. If there is no wrong to right then the action is meaningless. The bad is good in context.

Our favorite stories are scary or adventurous… or both. We enjoy comedy and romance but even these are especially interesting if in a context that is scary or adventurous… or both.

God allows evil in the world because it makes the story interesting. He allows suffering because it makes the villains especially villainous. Our reality ends with the triumph of good against evil. The victory is earned, not granted.

Sickly Souls

Evil is spiritual disease. Physical diseases came of it. The world was contaminated by sin and has been sickly since.

Original sin is congenital evil. It is your natural tendency to be lazy and cruel. If you live by your nature, the dust settles and the water grows stagnate. You die.

Jesus was born without original sin, as was Adam, our ancestor. Jesus was tempted, as was Adam. Jesus chose goodness, however, so developed an immunity. Adam chose sin, so became sick and died.

The blood is the life of the body. Jesus and Adam are of the same blood, quite literally. There is only one difference... and it makes all the difference. Adam contaminated his by sinning. Jesus did not. By shedding his blood, Jesus offered a cure.

Sin is not always contagious… but it is always unhealthy. It weakens the sinner.

A contagious evil is a plague that spreads across the world. It starts with individuals and ruins their personal relationships. It becomes societal. Entire cultures die out because of it. The world is dying because of it. The End is Nigh, indeed.