The Book of the Lost Royals is a massive tome of two million words in a realm of nearly as many peoples. Hidden from time in a secret vault that knew no decay, it promises to recount an unknown history from an age of wonders. And now, a meticulous translation has begun.
Starting from the front and reading toward the center, the Book tells of Amethestra Straverian, lost princess of the Kingdom of Evereign. A baby abandoned in the wilds, she was found by the unlikeliest caretaker, the one person in all of Empyrelia who might protect her from those dark forces that sought to destroy the world. Under this mysterious witch’s careful, if unusual tutelage, the girl known as Tildy will discover the world beyond the protective borders of the Garden of Dappledown.
Astute observers might find themselves compelled to flip the book over, finding there the start of the tale of Prince Adamantin Straverian, her brother. His story progresses also toward the middle, recounting how he was smuggled to safety under a dead child’s name, by an adoptive mother who would never love him as equally as the child he replaced. The boy known as Samor has grown up behind the walls of the remote ice fortress Yrrengard, being tutored and trained to recover the crown he is unaware he has lost.Continue reading →
It was late 1998. I worked for the Suncoast Motion Picture Company, which sold movies and related merchandise. I’d recently transferred from the flagship Mall of America store to the Southdale Mall in Edina. The commute was longer, but I didn’t mind for a couple reasons. The one I’ll articulate here pertains to the clientele.
The Mall of America location was great for people watching. At the time, tourists came from around the world to see the spectacle of the largest mall in the Western Hemisphere. But Southdale, due to the prestige of Edina, attracted a number of celebrities. I was thrilled to learn Janet Jackson (whom I’ll call Ms. Jackson cuz I’m nasty) shopped there when she was in town. And she bought her movies from Suncoast.
The Suncoast where I was now a manager.
In 1998, I was still that small-town kid who’d grown up in a town so tiny it was technically a village. I’d never met a celebrity, and the prospect of meeting Ms. Jackson, someone whose music I absolutely loved, hyped me to a ridiculous degree. I’m embarrassed to admit that I was on the lookout on many shifts.
I grew up loving her albums Control and Rhythm Nation 1814, the latter of which I owned. Back in 1990, I knew everything about that album. You see, I didn’t have many albums as a kid, so when I got a new one, I poured through the liner notes, sitting cross-legged on my bedroom floor beside my cassette deck. I memorized the lyrics, tracked the music labels, and learned about every musician or other person connected with the production of the album.
If you’re familiar with Janet’s music, the headline of this post is beginning to make sense.
Back to 1998. I’m working the checkout in our third-floor location, when two well-dressed men came in. I offered the usual greetings, made small talk, and helped them as best I could.
These two gentlemen were Jimmy Jam and Terry Lewis. And they were aware that I didn’t recognize them.
It must have been an unusual experience, especially in the Minneapolis area. Here’s why.
When it comes to the Minneapolis music scene, it didn’t get much bigger than this duo. They formed the band Flyte Tyme, which became The Time under the influence of Prince, and the group would go on to help define the Minneapolis sound in the early 1980s.
After being fired from the band, they started Flyte Tyme Studios, and their partnership went on to earn more than 100 gold, platinum, multi-platinum, and diamond albums. Over their storied career, they’ve worked with some of the biggest names in the biz, including Lionel Richie, Herb Alpert, TLC, Michael Jackson, Aretha Franklin, Boyz II Men, Usher, Patti LaBelle, Mary J. Blige, Chaka Khan, Mariah Carey, Bryan Adams, Spice Girls, Vanessa Williams, Rod Stewart, Gwen Stefani, and New Edition. I particularly loved George Michael’s “Monkey” and The Human League’s “Human” songs. But those weren’t the only memorable tracks.
Forty-one of their songs reached the Top 10 of the Billboard Hot 100. They won five Grammys and got an Oscar nom for their work with Janet Jackson on the song “Again” for the movie Poetic Justice.
EDINA, MN – SEPTEMBER 1989: Singer Janet Jackson poses for photos with music producers Terry Lewis and Jimmy Jam during the opening of Flyte Tyme Studios in Edina, Minnesota in September 1989. (Photo By Raymond Boyd/Getty Images)
And speaking of Ms. Jackson, they won a Grammy for producing her album Control. Their follow-up collaboration, Rhythm Nation 1814, dominated the charts with seven hit singles and became one of the biggest albums in the world from 1989-91.
Most of that album work had been done at Flyte Tyme Studios, a convenient 5-minute drive from Southdale.
As I look back upon their visit to my store, I like to imagine these world-renown producers were taking a shopping break from their busy studio schedule. Perhaps, the perfect movie would be a nice diversion, or provide some inspiration for the their next movie project. Little did they know they were talking to a guy who knew every beat and could sing every lyric from Rhythm Nation1814, many of which they’d written.
A guy’s whose memory was about to betray him, despite his brain containing most of the information I just shared.
“Lyricists are writers. I like writers. I want to be a writer!” (1990s Mike)
They eventually introduced themselves, likely looking for that spark of recognition on my face. They didn’t see it. They could have said their were Rupert Woppleheimer and Gerry Hickelhooper as far as my brain was concerned.
Probably thinking I was mostly a movie guy, because a music guy would have been at the Sam Goody downstairs, they mentioned the recent movie How Stella Got Her Groove back. “Yeah, yeah, I’d heard of it,” I must have said, even if it wasn’t a movie that interested me. Well, they’d done the soundtrack.
It still wasn’t clicking.
They might have described one or two other projects – I don’t recall. Dear lord, I hope they didn’t mention their affiliation with the Time or work with Janet Jackson. If I didn’t pick up those cues….hoo boy.
Anyway, frustrated, and I hope, somewhat amused, they completed their purchase, and then we all went about our days.
I don’t recall when I actually made the connection. I think I was working for Best Buy’s Music team, 2003-2008. We’d spend many wonderful hours talking about new albums or musicians or producers, etc (it very well could have been during a discussion about Damita Jo, another Janet album they worked on). I just remember having an epiphany like the mother in Home Alone when she realizes Kevin is missing. I probably lost some music cred that day, and I can imagine some former colleagues reading this and shaking their heads.
“You didn’t remember who Jimmy Jam and Terry Lewis were?!” (Katy Perry really didn’t say that in 2008)
I wrote this post because I needed to do some writing today, and this recollection inspired me and made me laugh. Sometimes, that’s just what you need to keep your writing momentum going. If you’re interested in another bit of celebrity-related self-deprecation, be sure to check out My Writing Freaked Out A Rock Star.
I hope this inspires you to find your own ways of keeping your momentum. Good luck with your writing!
Mike
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This is the second in a series of posts I’m sharing about quick little backstories I wrote for a recent retreat. We were doing a painting session and I’d wanted to help my friends bring their characters to life with some brief prompts. To get them to start telling the story, if you will.
It was satisfying to watch them read through these vignettes, sometimes laughing or reading portions aloud. I heard a lot of positive feedback on the names, which was gratifying because I’d hoped to present names that were unusual, but not too awkward. In this post, I’ll share a few stories for which the characters’ names garnered the most attention.
Delish Monté slowly blinked her eyes. Another twelve hours had passed.She didn’t move, preferring her trusted routine of letting her eyes adjust.
Delish frowned. She shouldn’t have been able to see this well. The closet was in an interior room with no windows. By the usual math, it was now midnight, so it should be pitch black.
Delish stood, stretching her limbs and noting that the louvered doors of the closet were intact, but no light filtered through. She looked up to see a ceiling crisscrossed with cracks through which the illumination came. Something had happened.
Her nostrils registered a strong odor of smoke and burning substances. Someone had tried to burn her safehouse down while she was incapacitated. Their intel was good, but not good enough to know she couldn’t be harmed for the twelve hour she waited in suspended animation. The closet doors fell away as she pushed on them, landing in ash and the muck created by water from firehoses. She knew she should worry that the Collective had finally caught up to her, but this was actually a reprieve. No one would be chasing a dead woman. Eleven hours and fifty-five minutes to find a new hiding place.
Delish Monté is my favorite name of the characters I created. There’s a fun rhythm to it and it’s somewhat provocative in a couple ways that could influence the story you start to tell yourself when you hear it. Similarly, the next character, Jonny Gunsel, is evocative for fans of gangster noir (gunsel: a criminal carrying a gun; I assumed it was short for “gunslinger”, but the word has a Yiddish origin instead). It’s also occuponomous, if you believe in that sort of thing.
In my last post, I described this amazing retreat that I attend every year. It’s probably 75% gaming, 25% whiskey, and 100% fun.
I promised to share the short backstories I’d written as part of the swag I was giving everyone. But before I get to that, let me describe the writing challenge I gave myself.
I had limited time to prepare, once I’d decided on my plan. I needed to print at least a dozen miniatures, then clip, clean, cure, and prime them all. I did the same with another dozen bases or so (I had some failed prints, I mean, some were battle damaged! Waaagh!) I also printed labels for each story card and for the bottom of each base so you’d remember the name of your character and the event where you got it.
And then I needed a dozen backstories of about 200 words each, which after printing, I’d affix a label and laminate. Buuuuut, because I’m a writer who needs to challenge himself, I ended up with sixteen. It wasn’t that much of a hardship because I had more than twenty ideas that I thought would be fun. So let me get to the challenge.
Every year for the last four, I’ve attended a tabletop gaming and whiskey retreat that we call Whiskey Weekend. I wouldn’t be exaggerating much if I said we played games from sunrise to midnight.The titular game of the weekend is a double-blind tourney where we pit our whiskeys against each other.
Entries in the blind whiskey tournament, placed from 12-1.
It’s an unbelievably fun time filled with camaraderie, laughter, self-deprecation, and good conversations about gaming of all forms. The event is in its 16th year, having started as a Dungeons & Dragons getaway for a few friends. Over time, the event has morphed into the amazing experience it is today. We have a social media following and even have swag sometimes.
This year, I was no longer the rookie, as we were adding two people to the invitation. I figured it was my turn to bring the swag. So, when the event organizer suggested we take some time to paint tabletop minis, my partially formed idea sprung to full life.
My idea was to not only 3D print some minis in resin, I would also give people the option to choose a custom base and a backstory. The writer should use his skills, right?
A selection of tabletop minis and bases.Sampling of the backstories I wrote. Printed, labeled, and laminated.Choose your character, base, and story!
3D Models source: Adaevy Creations (except the tall Viking, which was created via Hero Forge)
Within a few hours, I’d whipped up sixteen 200-word stories. I’m never sure whether I should tell people just how quickly I created each one: I worry that their response will be disbelief or a derisive “well, obviously“. Each one sprung to life relatively easily, which is partially due to their nature. They’re not intended to tell a complete story, but to inspire my friends into considering what comes next. Each one centered around a simple concept, like these:
A curse is causing a village to forget their entire spoken language. The town chronicler is trying to choose the last word he’ll think about before it’s also forgotten.
When he sees his doppelganger, a man with a strong regenerative power wonders, “If I can regrow a part, can a part regrow a body?”
She slipped into a time paradox which causes her to see stages of a tragedy in reverse.
He thinks he randomly turns invisible. Often he’s right, but that also means, sometimes he’s not. He can’t tell the difference.
It was a ridiculously fun writing experience, and not just because the stories came effortlessly. No, it was also freeing, a way to re-engage my creativity, which has been dormant a few months. And, it was a gift to friends that I hoped would make their weekend experience better. It worked.
Over the next week or so, I’ll be sharing these stories in a series of posts. It’s partially a way to showcase a project I’m proud of, but also, like the stories themselves, I’m hoping to inspire you to consider how else you might use your writing skills. So, tell us….what comes next?
It’s a word of Yiddish and German origins, and for some reason, it popped into my head this morning.
If it’s a word unfamiliar, it’s often used to describe a bit of unidentified something on a person. Usually their face. For many of us, that’s followed by your mother wetting her thumb with saliva to wipe it away.
Ah, mothers. So loving. So sanitary.
In my part of the world, it’s an uncommon word, which usually means I’m going to work it into my book (and apparently, a blog post).
And then my writer’s brain was off to the races.
In 45 minutes, I whipped up about 550 words, or a page and a half, inspired by the idea that Tildy has schmutz on her face, but due to her ability to unconsciously shapeshift, the schmutz avoids her mother’s efforts to clean it away. It’s actually a pimple, and it disappears and reappears across Tildy’s face.
I immediately fell in the love with the scene, and not just because writers often fall in love with their writing (a PAINFUL truth, except when they hate it). No, it’s because it accomplishes many things in service to the story.
It fits into the first chapter of Tildy’s second book, helping reintroduce our characters to the Reader with things like Tildy’s abilities, her relationship with the witch (her adoptive mother), and a little bit about their personalities. Additionally, we get the melodramatic woes and annoyances of a teenager.
But to me, the best part is the humor. You see, it’s actually an outbreak of acne, but Tildy’s skin is trying to prevent the pimples from surfacing.
“I no longer think it is a simple pimple moving around your face. I believe there are many, but your skin is resisting the outbreak. I wonder what would happen if you stopped doing whatever you are doing?” the witch mused, as she turned Tildy’s face, that way and this, as she looked for the next pimple’s appearance.
Tildy didn’t particularly care, but as the thought entered her mind, her face grew red and itchy.
“Oh ho!” the witch laughed, her face delighted. “Now they are everywhere! You really are a sight.”
I think it also creates some tension for Tildy. She has the ability to fight acne, something that many teens would be jealous of, but she can’t control it. Quite the opposite. Ironically, her efforts only seem to make it worse. Her struggles, however, eventually result in new mastery of her abilities, which is a recurring theme throughout the series. It helps us see Tildy growing up.
Sometimes, inspiration comes as simply as that. A single word demands several hundred in response. If only it was always as easy as that.
It’s a good start to a day, and as I write this, it’s now time to get to my office job. Good luck with your own writing (and that other work that pays the bills).
Mike
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While working on the new story “Chew”, I found a lost folder of horror stories I’d started more than 10 years ago. Intrigued by tales I’d forgotten, I started opening files. This one is dated February 8, 2007.
NOTE: this is a classic writer procrastination trap.
I read it quickly at a coffee shop and was pleasantly surprised. There are some quaint things, such as references to VCRs and a payphone, but I’m also referring to my writing style. The double space after a period and using space bar to indent are notable examples. But otherwise, I think it holds up and I could see myself returning to it.
In the spirit of the Halloween season, I present the opening of “Witch Hunt” unedited. I hope it puts you in the mood to write your own thrilling tale, or to sit down in a cozy place with a favorite scary book, movie, music, or video game.
A man in his early sixties sits at his kitchen table, surrounded by the typical breakfast accoutrements: a plated of eggs, bacon, and toast, a cup of coffee, a pitcher of orange juice and a newspaper, which is folded upon its spine to hold open an interior page. Dressed for the pending workday, the man ate casually, reading the paper while keeping an eye on the small white television on the counter. His wife, in a white terrycloth robe, busied herself with the clean-up, while keeping an eye of her own on her husband.
“Looks like we’ve got a nice weekend coming up,” he said. “Be perfect for taking the kids and grandkids out to the lake for a picnic.”
“Yes,” she agreed with a smile. “I saw the same thing on the internet this morning.” She never missed an opportunity to remind him that she was more computer savvy than he.
“How you learned how to work that thing, I’ll never know,” he said, referring to the computer she had insisted they purchase.
“Oh, you know how I like to fiddle,” she said, still keeping her night classes a secret. He has his secrets, she had hers.
A loud beeping from the TV drew their attention. “Ladies and gentlemen, good morning,” interrupted a tan news anchor. “We have late-breaking news and exclusive footage from a breakout in Split Rock prison in upstate Vermont.”
“Split Rock?” she asked, “I’ve never heard of it. Have you, Hank?”
Hank O’Leary didn’t respond. He stared intently at the television, his fork hanging loosely in a hand raised partway to his mouth.
“Got any big plans today?” the cashier asked as I inserted my card into the machine. It was the typical checkout small talk we all experience, but never give much thought to.
“Going to do some writing,” I replied. I had my laptop in the backpack hanging from my shoulder.
“Oh, that’s nice,” she said mechanically, but politely. Probably her typical response. If you’ve worked in retail, you probably still reply this way sometimes. Like when you tell a cashier, “Thanks for shopping today.”
Her eyes widened as she comprehended what I’d said. “Ohhhhh! That’s interesting.”
“Thanks!”
“What do you write?”
“Horror and fantasy.”
“That’s so cool. I used to write in middle school, but you know, I don’t have much time. Maybe this winter I’ll get back to it.”
Writers say similar things all the time, especially the lapsed ones. But I know from personal experience that it often takes a simple nudge to push us back into the chair. So I replied, “You really should get back into it. I think you’ll enjoy it.”
The smile that crossed her face contained something more than the typical expression that customers get during idle chitchat. “Thanks. I will!” she promised.
And I hope she does.
I doubt I’ll ever know if she kept that promise to herself, but I like to think so. There are so many of us writers who need just a little more encouragement. I’ve gotten plenty myself, which I always appreciate, and I like to pass it on when I get the chance. Who knows what amazing stories could come to life as a result? Who knows how many masterpieces have been lost because someone said, “I just don’t have the time”?
Take the time. Accept the encouragement. Pass it on.
The world needs more stories. Good luck with yours!
Mike
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I’ve always loved the idea of writing poetry, but I viewed my attempts as the equivalent of chopping at rocks with a chisel. I suppose this comes from reading so many things of beauty as a literate person who went on to study all kinds of literature in college. You feel a fool for even making an attempt.
However, a person walking through a museum never sees the thousand scrapped canvases that preceded the masterpiece.
I do not profess any particular skill in this medium, though like many writers, perhaps I make up with passion what I lack in other areas. Regardless, a man celebrating his wife on their 25th anniversary should be given a little grace, in my opinion. And so, here we are.
A breath, taken away
Not for a day
But forevermore
As I remain
Entranced
Within a love
I dared not dream
–
The years pass
Still, I am enamored
Both lost within a love
And found
A man, content
Never searching
Filled with incandescent joy.
Sometimes, you write a poem, and it flows effortlessly from the wellspring of inspiration and love. And usually, that’s more than enough. Happy 25th Anniversary, my love.
Mike
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Last weekend, we were at a park with Benji, enjoying the trails. He kept pointing and giggling, saying “Chew!”, which is his word for his Chewbacca. We didn’t have the stuffie with us, but this isn’t unusual behavior for him. After a few exclamations, my writer brain switched on.
What if he was actually seeing a figure that he mistook for Chewbacca?
A thrill ran through me, and only a little of that feeling was terror. Then The Idea came.
A heartwarming, family story that lies somewhere between Harry and the Hendersons and Gremlins, with a leaning toward the funny PG horror films of the 80s. Chew, which Benji names the monster after his Chewbacca character, is a tall hairy sasquatch kind of creature with an oversized mouth that makes the name “Chew” very apropos.
I worked out some details in my head as we walked. After my wife explained that they’d hidden Chewbacca at that park before and that Ben was remembering it, I shared my idea.
She told me I had to write it out. That means I’m on to something.
In about 2 hours, I had four and a half pages, or about 2,200 words. The work was divided into three parts. First, the treatment, which helped me set the scene, as well as describe the protagonist, whom I modeled after Benji. Second (and bulk of the writing) was the beginning of the story, and finally, a list of foreshadowing items, which any good horror story needs.
Here’s an excerpt from the treatment. It was important to me to show how Ben’s autism impacts the dynamic of the story. Also, representation matters. As Ben’s father, one my responsibilities is to help the world understand what it’s like to be him.
Benji is a young nonverbal teenager with severe autism. He loves stuffed animals and action figures, but his prized possession is a medium-sized stuffed Chewbacca he calls “Chew”. As this the case for many people like him, Benji repeats the known word over and over and again, occasionally adding a “rowr!” to bring his person to life. “Person” is the term his family uses for any stuffie or other character in Benji’s toybox. You see, for a kiddo with a limited vocabulary, you believe you have to choose your words carefully, often using broad terms to ensure comprehension.
Perhaps his family doesn’t give him enough credit for what he does understand, but they are doing the best they can. As is Benji, who doesn’t seem to mind, except when they are too dim to understand what he is communicating, which is a combination of gestures and repeated words. He might have to repeat “Chew” incessantly and with increasing volume to completely convey his message.
But thirty minutes of the word “Chew”, either resulting from playing with his person or because Benji wants something, can try the patience of even the most easygoing person, and Ben’s parents, while not angry people in their nature, do have their limits.
The treatment describes a bit more about the house, Ben’s brother, and some other details. I remember my typing picking up steam at this point, and the treatment suddenly transitioned into the opening of the story.
…Benji often sits at the window, clutching his Chew. Sometimes the Wookiee dances on the sill; sometimes he leans against the glass, staring into the woods with his person, Benji. “Chew” and “rowr!” are usually repeated frequently. Today, there is a new level of urgency, as Benji sees a tall shaggy figure at the forest edge that he thinks is….
Our family lost our bonus grandma (great aunt and great-great aunt Carol) in August. I’ve always struggled finding the right words at times like these because I’m not great in social situations when emotions are raw. What I can do, however, is write something that helps others manage the loss.
I share this obituary as an example of how a writer helps honor – and celebrate – the life of someone important to him. Some info edited out for privacy.
“Will my father recognize me?” Carol asked.
A telling question, it spoke to one of the people she wanted to see most in the next life. But he wasn’t the only one she longed to see. She also yearned to be reunited with her husband, Maynard, who’d passed in 2014.
Born to William and Marie Oberg of St. Paul on December 20, 1930, she was one of five children. The “baby of the family”, she would often say, and we suppose none of her siblings let her forget it.
She graduated from Johnson High School and worked for a short while at St. Paul Fire and Marine. This was followed by Carol returning to school to learn keypunch, a career in high demand at the time. She went to work for Northern Pacific Railroad, where she stayed there for the rest of her career, finally retiring in 1995.
As many born on the East Side will proudly tell you, there are no good reasons to leave, and Carol was no exception. When she married Maynard Larson, a quiet Korean War vet, they remained in the area, not far from where she grew up. They had been married 57 years when Maynard passed. Together, they were long-time members of First Covenant Church in St. Paul, generous with their contributions and time.
While they never had children of their own, they loved their dogs, Molly and Yorkie, and many of the other four-legged friends the family introduced to them over the years. And if they ever needed a bit more noise or excitement in their lives, they had their great-nieces and their kids, who revered Carol and Maynard as a bonus set of grandparents. For their part, there was more than enough love to go around, and Carol and Maynard attended numerous birthdays and holiday celebrations with their growing family. Carol particularly enjoyed hosting Christmas parties with games.
Carol was preceded in death by her parents, her siblings, her nephews, her niece, and her loving husband, Maynard. She is survived, and greatly missed, by nephew and his extended family.
We recently found a photograph of Carol from 1935, when she was about five years old. She wears her trademark smile, the one that shone her entire life. So, to answer Carol’s question, “Will my father recognize me?”, I think we can take comfort in knowing that, yes, he most certainly recognized you and your smile, Carol. And he’d watched over you as you grew up and held you when you needed strength. We know you feel blessed to be reunited with him and with Maynard, as well as the rest of the family who greeted you when you arrived.
So many people said nice things in response to this. It made them laugh or smile, and while they were also sad, they appreciated how it made them recall the fondness and love they had for Carol. And that is perhaps the highest praise I could receive.
Hug that person you love and never forget to keep doing that. Sit on the floor and play or call them on the phone. We never want to regret that we didn’t have just one more day.
The Lost Royals 