I had originally posted this in the group Bachman’s Blasphemers, the fan group created for fans and others that would like to stay up-to-date more regularly than the author page and the series page for the books, but for whatever reason Facebook glitched and wouldn’t allow it to be posted. I took that as an opportunity to post it on the website in a more expanded version. I always love, as a reader, hearing about an author’s process in creating a book I enjoyed or even details behind the stories that didn’t make the cut into what got published. I’m not the only one, I’m sure, so here are some behind-the-scenes and spoilers from the book, The Blasphemer Series: Maxwell Demon.
The original beginning of Maxwell Demon was much different than what made the final cut and went into publication.
Visions of wisped crimson hair across pale naked shoulders quickly burn into flames of the swords that clashed, the magic that spilled over across the field of Heaven, and blood poured like rain upon the Earth in those days. The Clash of Angels was and is still the most epic of battles. No amount of bodies upon the Earth’s soil can compare to the magnitude of loss that occurred during that great battle. Maxwell, alongside Lucifer and many others, were chained and cast from Heaven into a special pit far from the wonderful grace that is Heaven and God.
Maxwell remembered it well, the great battle and striking down his friends that had turned to the foe. As time passed, the irony of magical immortal energy beings trying to kill each other grew within him. He damned God, he damned others, but eventually he damned himself. He wasn’t alone, there were many other Fallen Angels, but he wasn’t like many of them that twisted and contorted into evil, horrible, and vile creatures punishing humankind. He and a small group took to a lighter pace of life, those like him chose to live amongst the humans they once stood up for and lost the grace of God for.
Keeping a journal, he logged every thought to pass the time. He knew he wasn’t like everyone else and he knew he was solitary in his existence amongst humankind. It was depressing to see once magnificent creatures, humans, turn against one another living with their emotions running amok and living for devious means. Greed, wrath, vanity, gluttony, and the rest were all human made creations and not of God themselves.
Night after night his heavy boots stomped the streets of New York, Tokyo, London, Paris, but he found a home in the City of Angels, another irony that wasn’t lost on him. Night after night he found himself reflecting upon his memories of better times and her, Lilith. Sitting upon the middle of the H on the Hollywood sign, his head tilted back and his eyes shut, it was exhausting prancing around the world using his energy to mask his demonic form.
“You’re thinking of her again, aren’t you Maxziel.” A low voice interrupted his rest from a black hovering mist. As the darkened mist moved closer it transformed into a human wearing a long black trench coat, jeans, boots, and a white shirt mirroring Max’s own apparel. “I’ve lost count on how long it has been, but you eventually have got to stop thinking about her. No one has heard from her in countless centuries. She just stopped existing. If she had changed planes of existence we would’ve heard something.” The man then kicked Maxwell’s boot to get his attention.
Max’s eyes finally opened and stared across from him at the other Fallen Angel, “She couldn’t have just stopped existing, that’s now it works. Perhaps her soul went elsewhere? Azriel, she’s in the world, I just don’t know where. She can’t just be simply lost to time and space. God doesn’t do that, they don’t work that way.”
The scene continued into him finding Adele, but I removed all this and started over, this isn’t unheard of for me to do. What I had written didn’t feel right and I had shelved the entire project until I decided to start over. I do like how this scene showed a love/hate of the Fallen Angels, but I didn’t like how Azriel wasn’t more aggressive. I saw him as a forceful type of being, an in your face ‘admit it’ type.