Jeff Somers: Electric Church

JEFF SOMERS was born in Jersey City, New Jersey. After graduating college, Jeff drove cross-country and wandered aimlessly for a while, but the peculiar siren call of New Jersey (a delicious mixture of chromium, cut grass, and indolence) brought him back to his homeland. He worked as an editorial assistant at a medical/science publisher in New York City. In 1995 Jeff began publishing his own magazine, The Inner Swine (www.innerswine.com). He’s created a Web site specifically for this book: http://www.the-electric-church.com.

Look out for Jeff Somers’ The Digital Plague .

When I handed my gorgeous wife, Danette, this manuscript, seeking her usual wisdom and necessary support, she wrinkled her nose and said, “I don’t usually read this stuff, do I have to?” But when she brought it back to me she slammed it down on my desk and said, “This is the one that’ll make you famous!” and, as always, my beloved and cherished wife was right. I couldn’t do anything without her.

When I was a kid and I segued from wanting to be a brain surgeon (too much math) to wanting to be a rock star (too little musical ability) to wanting to be a writer (a terrible, terrible mistake), my parents not only allowed it but encouraged it, and that has made all the difference. Although I suspect my sainted mother has had some regrets.

When I was but a lad with few, if any, impressive credits on my CV and I had the temerity to submit a novel to amazing agent Janet Reid, she not only refused to believe the Internet rumors about me but signed me up despite a typo-riddled manuscript and a noted tendency toward drink. She’s offered nothing but brilliant guidance and affectionate verbal abuse since, both much appreciated.

When fate put me in touch with the ultra-talented Lili Saintcrow and she began editing the original manuscript of this book, she did not flee in horror, trailing lame excuses, as she would have been justified in doing, but instead improved the book immensely. She took such a liking to it that she said, “Hey, let me show this to my editor,” and I’ll always be indebted to her for that act of generosity.

When that editor, the megacool Devi Pillai, received the manuscript she not only bought it, thus making me incrementally richer and more famous than I had been, she also overlooked the many flaws in my personality and worked diligently to raise the book from a mere work of genius to a work of immense genius. Her brilliancies often flabbergast me-I’m supposed to be the smart one.

When my first novel was published some years ago, the editor of my local newspaper (and celebrated novelist in her own right) Caren Lissner cheerfully dispatched a reporter to interview me, and has shown me support ever since, for which I am grateful.

Back in my school days, spent watching TV in a windowless apartment and scientifically testing the limits of human endurance, my friends Ken West and Jeof Vita never made fun of me when I told people I was a writer, though of course they made fun of me for plenty of other things, beginning with the unfortunate mullet I sported back then, and their friendship is still valued today.

At the same time, when few people took me seriously as a writer, I went over to my old friend RA’s house and found the first cover of my magazine The Inner Swine on her fridge, which touched me greatly. And she still acknowledges my friendship, which is even more unbelievable.

When I was forced to have my photo taken for promotional purposes, the fantastic Barbara Nitke not only acceded to my strange request to be unrecognizable, but made me look cool as well, a monumental achievement I am eternally grateful for.

When, from time to time, I have suffered the cold sweat of self-doubt and thought, momentarily, that perhaps everything I write is not instantly a classic of literature that will be celebrated by future generations, Karen Accavallo has always been available for a fast, abuse-laden proofreading job on my work, sometimes accompanied by hilarious and accurate insults. Her willingness to wade into the jungles of my prose should be celebrated.

For years, when I needed someone to have a cocktail with, crawling through divey bars and complaining, Misty Vita and Lauren Boland were my reliable cronies and provided a lot of unintentional inspiration and appreciated friendship.

When, a few years ago, clint johns showed up unexpectedly at a reading in Manhattan that did not go particularly well for me, he lied convincingly that I’d been brilliant and I’ve appreciated his wisdom, enthusiasm for words, and cleverness ever since. Finally, over the years there has been, unbelievably, a dedicated group of subscribers and readers of The Inner Swine who have endured questionable grammar, typo-ridden issues, and my own boorish editorial presence with good humor and, more important, crumpled dollar bills in the mail-huzzah for them!

Jeff Somers

September 2007

Where were you born?

Jersey City, New Jersey, one of the hottest places in the universe. Scientists can’t explain it, but Jersey City in the middle of August is almost hot enough to cause a nuclear reaction resulting in a new sun rising out of the charred remains of the Earth. Unless you like playing stickball, I wouldn’t recommend visiting. Although I do have a lot of stickball-related memories.

What is your greatest ambition in life?

To pay off the humongous debts I have accrued in such a short time. Who knew there was a price for my recklessly Herculean binge-drinking? Not me.

You’re on a plane with your best friend and your wife. Who gets eaten first, and why?

Me. Absolutely. Within a few days, too. It wouldn’t take long. First of all, I’m meaty. Second of all, I’m marinated with cheeseburgers and beer-I’m delicious! Finally, I can be talked into anything, so it wouldn’t be long before I was convinced that my purpose in life is to be digested.

When did you start writing?

There was a head trauma when I was about ten years old involving an open fire hydrant, a large red-haired kid, the concrete curb, and my skull. When I stopped speaking in Mandarin and came back to myself, I had the strangest urge to write stories. At first all of these stories were suspiciously similar to The Lord of the Rings, with titles like “The War of the Gem” or “The Lord of the Necklaces.” I’ve been writing short stories and novels ever since-my 2001 novel Lifers was reviewed favorably in the New York Times Book Review. In 1995 I started publishing a zine called The Inner Swine (www.innerswine.com), which has done absolutely nothing for my writing career. Except, perhaps, inhibit it.

What inspired The Electric Church?

Back in 1989 I was reading Douglas Adams’ Dirk Gently’s Holistic Detective Agency, which contained a character called the Electric Monk, a machine whose function is to believe things for people too lazy to do so themselves. It was really just the name that struck me, and I wrote what would be the first version of the book over the following few years. Naturally, I took an amusing concept and turned it into something horrifying. Naturally, I let the first draft sit in a drawer for fifteen years, because that’s what we writers do: We nap a lot.

Where do you live now?

Hoboken, New Jersey, about ten minutes from where I was born. I live in a small house with my lovely wife, referred to in public only as The Duchess, and our three cats. The hierarchy in the house goes: Duchess, cats, me.

Do you have any hobbies?