Mining My Own Experiences to Create a Cult 

By Alexandria Faulkenbury

As an author about to publish my debut novel, I’m often asked about the inspiration for the story. And at this point in the roller coaster that is publishing a book, I have a standard answer: I’ve always been interested in cults, so I wanted to write about one.
But that’s only part of the answer. Because as I researched cult leaders and the ways they love-bombed and guilt-tripped their followers, an uncomfortable truth about my own life emerged. 

I grew up the daughter of a lapsed catholic father and a mother who had rebelled against the strict confines of her pentecostal upbringing. Like Teresa and Tom in the novel, my parents had their first child (it’s me, hi) and married as teenagers. Unlike Teresa and Tom, they had lots of loving family around them. But when my dad joined the army, that support dimmed with the distance of ever changing posts. Somewhere along the way, my parents found themselves drawn back to the religion of their youth. Perhaps some of the same tactics I’d later research pulled them in, or maybe it was the longing for stability amidst the constant tumult of military life. Either way, they discovered a new kind of support in a rotation of churches from Texas to Hong Kong. 

There were many things about those churches I cherished. I loved feeling a part of something larger than myself while enjoying the closeness of an extended family. I loved the friends I made there. I loved knowing when to stand, when to sit, and when to say Amen. I loved the songs and the stories most of all. All that knowledge gave me ownership over some part of my life when the rest of it felt transitory. 

I never questioned why it was always us versus them or why we had so many rules or why I thought it was a good idea to argue against evolution with a random boy in the sixth grade hallway. I knew I was doing the right thing because I’d been told I was doing the right thing. It was my job to be a fisher of men, to make others see where they were wrong, to make them see they needed my version of God. I had the cheesy t-shirt that said so. And I needed that version of God, too. Because every Sunday I heard how the only redeeming thing about me was that God loved me. Everything else was ash.

For all that I loved about church, high school brought doubts that stuck in my brain like crumbs I couldn’t brush away. Doubts about our theology (if we were to love our neighbors, then how come that one neighbor couldn’t join our church?), doubts about our rules (were spaghetti straps really such a bad thing?), and doubts about the very existence of God. I’d been led to believe that uncertainty was a moral failing on my part, so these thoughts were terrifying. I wanted to keep my faith so badly, but no matter what I did it seemed to be slipping through my fingers like water.

Naturally, I decided the best way to deal with my internal conflict was to attend a Christian college and become a missionary. I’d get sorted out there. I was sure of it. But college is a funny place, and despite the conservative theology of my university, I had professors who showed me things weren’t so black and white. It didn’t have to be all or nothing. Spaghetti straps didn’t mean you were going to hell. I started down the long road of deconstructing my faith and trying to salvage the wreckage of a belief that had once made me feel whole. 

So years later, when I sat down to write this novel, my readings on manipulation and fear tactics felt more familiar than I cared to admit. I had never feared for my safety or been locked in a place against my will. I had never been told to cut off communication with my family. I had never been in a cult.

And yet. 

The message of the professor who told me writing stories could never bring glory to God, the tone of the youth leader who said girls would be wads of chewed up gum if we had sex outside marriage, and the chastisement from my Sunday school teacher for questioning the creation story all began to echo alongside the words of famous cult leaders in my notes. 

I realized religious trauma can come in many forms, and I recognized how I was still untangling my identity from the quiet and obedient church girl I’d left behind. Understanding how my experiences shaped me and transformed my faith became key to finding the voice for this story. In the book, Alice’s journey is about exploring life after the worst thing happens. And for me, the worst thing was leaving the church I thought I knew. I couldn’t picture what the after would look like. But life is long and knowing what’s around every bend would make for a pretty boring story, so I stepped out of faith. Eventually, I found my way back to belief and to the beginnings of Alice’s story. And I can wear spaghetti straps whenever I want. 

SOMEWHERE PAST THE END

Alice Greene knows it’s a hoax when the leader of the cult she’s been raised in announces the end of the world.

She also knows it’s the perfect chance to escape before he finds out she’s pregnant with the baby she’s not supposed to have. But as she watches his prophecy come true and over 100 members of the group disappear into a plume of smoke and light, all her plans crumble.

Still reeling from the disappearance, Alice finds the other survivors and reconnects with her childhood best friend, Edwin. He’s got a message from their vanished leader: He and Alice will shepherd the remaining members of the Collective. Certain she’s the wrong person for the job, but terrified she’ll lose the only family she has left, Alice struggles to find a way forward until she discovers her mother’s hidden journal. In it, she learns the secrets and lies that built their community, including one that will change her friendship with Edwin forever. As the consequences of these revelations come to light and Edwin’s convictions grow feverish, she must confront the faith of her past or risk losing the future she longs for.

Told in dual timelines, Somewhere Past the End offers a panoramic view of one family and how the repercussions of their choices muddy the lines between truth, belief, and delusion.

PREORDER HERE

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Alexandria Faulkenbury holds an M.A. in literature and lives in South Carolina with her family. Her work has been featured in The Maine Review and Mom Egg Review, among others. Find her at alexandriafaulkenbury.com

 

Tags: featured, women writers

Category: On Writing