Birth of a Novel

The Story Behind Kayin and Abel

My debut novel, Kayin and Abel, grew out of a season of pain—a ruptured disc during a fitness competition that forced me to confront what faith looks like when the body fails.

In August 2022, during a CrossFit competition, I ruptured a disc so completely that my body decided pain should become my native language. After pursuing YouTube PT, free friend advice, and a round of pointless steroids, I eventually got PRP; the seven months of day-in, day-out, can't-sleep-or-walk-or sit burning pain taught me to savor the six-week mark when the PRP kicked in, and my pain evaporated. I was free to begin rehab and recovery.

Or so I thought.

For four weeks, my body seemed to follow a steady, predictable rhythm of repair until pain, sly and familiar, crept back in through the seams. People told me not to panic. I grumbled and growled at the universe instead. I got to the point where I could run and lift light weights. Then I couldn’t. Then I could. It was a frustrating game of my blind body leading my blind training.

Then, after six merciful months without the searing sciatica that once made me writhe in every position, it returned without warning. At first, a flicker. Then a flood. I found myself staring down a tunnel, unsure whether I’d know a life without sciatica ever again. Extremes, poor me.

What happened over the course of the next several years is a novel within itself, but the relevant part here is that I took a creative writing course and began this story. It boiled up out of the depths and refused to stay put as a short story. It roared to life, and saved my life in the process.

This story is for all, but mostly it's for me. To honor the words that God has put in my heart that I so often would trade for a good workout. In the space where body abandoned me, my mind kept me company. Thank God for the Word that heals and even when it doesn't heal, at least it reveals. If the world sometimes seems too full of pain, too full of suffering, know that this story is for you too. Not because it will heal you, but because it will lie beside you in the dark and keep you company. It will remain when all else fades.