Religion for breakfast

BEGINNING

I became a religious writer to cope with my loss of faith. 

Instead of proselytising devout truths, I turned to storytelling—writing what might be called fanfiction infused with myth and magical realism. This narrative approach serves as a bridge: it helps me reconcile the cognitive dissonance of remaining actively engaged with religious communities, even as my personal beliefs shift. It allows me to explore and express my thoughts, drawing on my knowledge of the faith, while still feeling rooted in the community that raised me.

The difference is, I now see religion primarily as story—rich, meaningful, but fictional—whereas my community continues to live it as absolute truth. The key shift is that I’ve gained a measure of power over the narrative. As my readership grows, I’m seen not as a defector but as someone who uplifts and inspires through literature.

In a way, instead of crafting a powerful fiction that garners a cult following, I start with a “cult” and steelman their beliefs—rendering them in their most persuasive and human form—to tell a story drawn from their lived truths. I believe this literary lens can bridge understanding between belief systems. Readers who approach the work not as holy scripture but as literature may still come to recognise the depth, nuance, and shared humanity of each faction. And through that, perhaps, comes a softening of division—an erosion of othering—through the power of a well-told story.

 Memoir Introduction (REVISED)

I became a religious writer as a way to cope with losing my faith.

I was raised in a Protestant Christian household—Bibles at the breakfast table, hymns as lullabies, salvation always one prayer away. The doctrine was familiar, rhythmic, comforting. But somewhere along the way, that familiarity began to unravel. The certainty I once carried like a second skin gave way to questions I could no longer ignore. I lost my faith—but not my fascination with it.

Rather than walking away entirely, I turned toward story.

Instead of proclaiming devout truths, I began to write narratives that blurred the line between belief and imagination—fictional worlds threaded with myth, allegory, and magical realism. It was, in many ways, a form of fanfiction: not of any one holy text, but of the religious cosmos I grew up in. This form of writing became my bridge—between disillusionment and reverence, doubt and devotion. It allowed me to stay connected to the communities I came from, to continue speaking in their language, even if I no longer prayed in their direction.

The key difference now is that I treat religion as story. My communities still practice it as reality. But because I write well, and write from within the cadence and symbolism of their sacred scripts, I’m seen not as an outsider but as someone who inspires, affirms, even guides.

What began with Christianity has since expanded. I've written fictional narratives inspired by Islam, and others steeped in the metaphysics of Taoist-Buddhism. Each is treated on its own terms, as a fully inhabited world—not flattened into universalism, nor smoothed into compatibility. To preserve this authenticity, I use different pen names and identities, allowing each community to feel that the words come from someone within their fold. Someone who believes.

In a sense, I no longer write a piece of fiction that gains a cult following—I begin with the “cult,” so to speak. I immerse myself in its doctrine, its poetics, and I steelman its vision of the world, crafting stories that feel emotionally and theologically true to its adherents. From their lived truths, I draw out meaning.

What results is not syncretism, but empathy. Not a flattening of difference, but an invitation to recognise complexity. When readers from other faiths or none at all encounter these stories—presented not as scripture, but as literature—they glimpse the nuance, the internal logic, the aching humanity at the heart of belief.

If there is a mission to what I write, it is this: to dissolve the habit of othering through the quiet work of narrative. A good story can do that. And sometimes, it’s the only thing that can.

REVISED 2

I became a religious writer to cope with the loss of my faith.

Raised in a Protestant Christian household, I knew the shape of salvation from an early age. Morning devotions, Sunday services, memory verses drilled into my spine. The Bible wasn't just a book; it was the architecture of reality. For years, I carried its certainty with quiet pride—until I couldn’t anymore. Doubt crept in. Then it settled. And eventually, it stayed.

I didn’t stop caring about religion. I just stopped believing it was all true.

But rather than abandon the world I came from, I found another way in. I turned to fiction.

Not the kind meant to mock or deconstruct. Something gentler, stranger. I began writing stories that walked the line between reverence and imagination—fanfiction of the divine, if you like. Myth, magical realism, religious symbolism recast in a speculative key. It became a way to explore what I’d left behind without losing my language, my compass, or the emotional grammar of belief.

This kind of writing gave me a way to stay close to my community. I could still speak in parables. Still evoke the sacred. Still affirm the collective rhythm of worship—without pretending I believed every word.

Of course, there was a shift. A quiet one. Where once I bowed to a given narrative, now I shape it. I write the myths instead of merely retelling them. And as my stories began to find readers—within those same faith circles I once belonged to—I realised something unexpected: I wasn’t being rejected. I was being read, shared, even trusted.

Christianity was just the beginning.

Over time, I found myself drawn to other traditions. I wrote stories rooted in Islamic cosmology—mirrored worlds, jinn lore, Quranic allusions rendered as poetic metaphor. I explored Taoist-Buddhist motifs: ancestral memory, cyclical time, balance and dissolution. But I didn’t mash them together. That felt dishonest. Instead, I wrote for each faith separately, in its own voice, under a different name.

Each pen name is a passport. A mask, perhaps—but one worn out of respect. I want the reader to feel the story comes from within their world, not as an outsider peering in. It must feel lived. Earnest. Even if fictional.

So I don't try to universalise. I don’t aim for harmony across belief systems. These stories don’t agree with each other. They’re not supposed to. Each one exists in its own theological universe, with its own rules, its own contradictions. But they are all sincere.

In a way, I don’t write fiction that builds a cult following. I begin with the “cult,” and I listen. I learn how they speak, how they frame suffering, how they imagine the afterlife. I steelman their beliefs—make them as compelling and generous as possible—so the story that follows feels like truth, even when it isn’t literal.

This is how I make sense of things now.

What I offer isn’t doctrine, but narrative. Not answers, but resonance. And when someone outside that belief system reads the story—not as scripture, but as literature—they might still come to see what’s human in it. The nuance. The longing. The logic. The love.

Maybe that’s enough.

Maybe a good story, told with care, can bridge what theology cannot.