Belief

A story of loss and how I learned to tell the truth.

The stories in “The Little Deaths” range from memories of the 1980 eruption of Mt. St. Helens to the details of an absurdist funeral attended by cast members of a hit TV show. Volume No. 2, “Belief,” is the story of what it’s like to lose a parent at a young age and question the world around you as a result.

Book details

36 pages (4.5″ x 6″), limited to 200 copies, signed by the author

Artwork

Each volume of The Little Deaths features original artwork done exclusively for that book. Each artist was given a story/essay and invited to interpret the text as she or he saw fit. There has so far been no arguing. But there has been a lot of trading ideas, sending images back and forth, editing copy, and debating colors and fonts. In other words, these books really are collaborations.

Excerpt from the book:

I stared at a blank piece of paper in the typewriter on the floor of my bedroom. Hunched over it, I practiced in my head the best approach to this lie. I wanted it to be convincing, but I couldn’t overdo it. Too much enthusiasm and effusiveness and everyone would know that it was satire—that I was making fun of them, of myself, of this entire year.

“Why Jesus Christ Is Important in My Life” was the theme of the short essay we had to prepare and read at our confirmation ceremony. The typewriter only produced letters in a script font, lending each word a saccharine appearance, as if they would be perfectly at home on a plaque bearing an inspirational poem. It was perfect for subterfuge.

I typed a paragraph, stared at it. I told myself not to think too much. This was supposed to be in my voice, personalized, heartfelt. I did what I was supposed to do: I capitalized “He” and “Him.” I talked about personal struggle. I constructed sentences about learning to overcome hardship with His guidance. I gave it a conclusion about strength, compassion, and understanding.

When I stood up in front of the congregation of the church in which I would never again set foot, however, I could not be completely numb. These pleasant faces, hushed, maybe a bit bored from hearing 13-year-olds stutter and mumble their way through turgid prose, looked proud of their families and friends and also like they’d heard it all before. What I had written was no different in tone, really, but I imagined I was sharing a secret. I was also horrified to realize as I read it out loud now that some of what was stamped into this paper in front of me was true.