Lessons on writing In the Name of God

Original Excerpt:

The church smelled of rotting wood and something deeper—something old, wet, and sour, like the breath of a thing that had been asleep too long. Father Guiseppie stood at the altar, hands clasped, whispering words to himself, though no one else was there to hear. The stained glass behind him flickered with the storm outside, flashes of red and blue staining his skin, turning his face into something both divine and grotesque. He knew what was coming. He had seen it before. The walls remembered. The floor remembered. Soon, so would he.

A groan echoed from the rafters. No, not the rafters. Somewhere beneath the floorboards, a slow, heavy shifting, like a mouth full of teeth grinding shut. He dared not move.

Self-Edit:

The church breathed.

It exhaled through rotting wood and damp stone, a scent like wet ash and decayed incense. The air was thick with something older than time, the rank whisper of a presence too long buried.

Father Guiseppie stood at the altar, his lips moving soundlessly, though no one remained to hear his prayers. Shadows fractured over his face in the kaleidoscope of stained glass, colors bleeding in the flickering candlelight. Red, blue, gold—God’s eye staring back in a prism of judgment.

A groan.

Not the rafters. Not the wind.

Something beneath the floor, shifting slow as marrow thickening in old bones.

The church inhaled.

And Father Guiseppie held his breath.

Analysis of Creative Risks & Choices:

1. Breaking Conventional Description

The original draft leaned on familiar sensory descriptions—rotting wood, wet air, flickering stained glass. While they worked, they didn’t quite capture the essence of a place that could feel alive. In the revised version, I gave the church its own pulse. It breathes, exhaling and inhaling in rhythm with the growing tension. This risk, while feeling a little bold, transformed the church into something more than just a setting; it became a living, breathing character.

2. Using Fragmented Sentences for Rhythm

The original passage had a steady, flowing structure. But in the rewrite, I broke the sentences into sharp fragments:

A groan.

Not the rafters. Not the wind.

Something beneath the floor.

This makes the pace staggered, much like the heartbeat of fear itself—unpredictable and jarring. The interruption of expected flow mirrors the tension in the scene.

3. Balancing Clarity and Ambiguity

A challenge I faced was ensuring the horror didn’t veer too far into the abstract. I wanted to keep the language clear enough to stay grounded in the terror of the moment while still allowing the horror to feel undefined, lurking. The original image of "a mouth full of teeth grinding shut" seemed a bit too obscure, so I changed it to "marrow thickening in old bones". The shift grounded the sense of something organic, inevitable, and deeply unsettling. It became a clearer image, one rooted in decay but still open to interpretation.

4. Embracing the Theme of Religious Dread

In the revised version, I pushed the religious theme a bit further. The stained glass doesn’t just flicker—it bleeds with color. It becomes a prism of judgment rather than a gentle symbol of divine light. This creates a deeper layer of existential dread, painting Father Guiseppie as both a man who prays for salvation and one who might be condemned. It adds a layer of complexity to his internal struggle.

What I Learned from the Edit:

Horror is built on breath, silence, and what’s left unsaid.

A setting can be more than a backdrop. It can be a character.

Rhythm and pacing are as important as the words themselves.

Poetic risks must deepen the emotional experience, not just sound clever.

This rewrite has taught me that horror isn’t just about what happens—it’s about creating the right atmosphere and letting the tension build in the spaces between words. Trusting instinct over convention has become key to capturing that true, unsettling feeling.