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It was the summer of 2004, and like most liberals, I was absolutely steaming out the ears about George W. Bush. Unlike most liberals, though, I had taken it upon myself to write a novel about it.
Looking back, I’m not sure what exactly I was thinking. Even if I had completed the book in three months, it would never have reached an audience before the 2004 elections. But regardless, there I was, sitting in hipster cafes on Portland’s Alberta Street, writing a novel about a preacher who had gathered together an odd bunch of bicyclists and zinesters and strippers, and who was preaching to them about the evils of the Bush Administration.
