Author: Wallevand

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Lost Horror Story: Witch Hunt

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.

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Give that writer a little nudge

“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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© Michael Wallevand, October 2023

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Sometimes you write a poem

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

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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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© Michael Wallevand, October 2023

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Writing Exercise: Chew.

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….

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How do you honor a life? #2

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.

Mike

© Michael Wallevand, September 2023

Similar topic: How Do You Honor A Life?

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Sometimes the universe gives you a sign

I’ve connected with enough writers and other creatives that I know many of us doubt the work we do. It varies from the kind of art we’re creating, the subject, the time we’re devoting to it, or the work we do to promote it. Generally speaking, these are all variations of the question “Is it worth it?”

I suspect that for most of us, if you sat us in a room and grilled us under hot lights, we’d answer “Yes.” Of course we would. But that doesn’t mean doubt isn’t poking its finger into our brains occasionally.

For me, it’s been a rough 18 months, where the doubt was amplified by compounding stresses. Neither are unfamiliar sensations, and while I have mechanisms to cope, it’s been a lot. The writing has taken a backseat. In some cases, it’s gotten out of the car completely.

Recently, the universe seemed to give me a sign. Four of ’em, actually.

  1. The son of an author I loved as a kid emailed. I’d written a post about his mother, posing a philosophical question about taking inspiration from a book and putting it into your own work. He was communicating her blessing. I’m pretty much geeking out about this one.
  2. A friend who owns a bookstore asked when he’d be able to put my book on his shelves.
  3. A colleague stopped me in the hallway and asked for an update on my books.
  4. A friend stopped by my desk and also asked for an update.

This all happened within a week. I suspect my smile grew larger each time as I recognized my good fortune.

I don’t share these examples to brag, though I am proud that my work has elicited responses like this. I share them for those creators second-guessing the work they do. While I love the idea that the universe, or the Muse, sends us signs, I did contribute by putting myself out there. They didn’t happen only because of magic. Sigh. So, let’s take another look at the interactions I described above.

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Waiting is the hardest part

We’re sitting in Children’s Hospital this morning while our son Benji has a heart procedure. As medical procedures go, especially ones concerning your child, an invasive cardiac electrophysiology and ablation is relatively straightforward and routine.

And yet, it’s a medical procedure involving the heart. Of your child.

It’s a hard thing to watch him wheeled away, even when you have absolute faith in the medical staff. It feels impossible to let him go. And yet, you do.

Then you sit. Then you wait.

And wait and wait.

I thought I might play games on my Steam Deck to pass the time, either some brainless distraction or immersive experience, but my wife wisely suggested I try writing instead. So, I brought the laptop and left the Deck behind. An easy decision, I had hesitation, nonetheless. You see, writing has been hard for the last, hmmm, 18 months or so as stresses piled upon each other. I was out of practice and easily distracted.

As we sat in the waiting area, I set my phone aside and opened the laptop. I’d recently started an alternate prologue for Tildy Silverleaf and the Starfall Omen that brought the reader into the action sooner. The approach was more Show and less Tell, and based on feedback Trusted Readers had provided, I thought it would be better received. As I read through rough paragraphs, the visuals resurfaced in my mind. Perhaps it is more accurate to say that I submerged into the world I’d created.

And I wrote.

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Twenty-four bucks for a quarter turn

Our washing machine stopped working this week. It wouldn’t proceed to the spin cycle, which meant water didn’t drain. I tried some rudimentary troubleshooting, which led me to believe it was the washer lid switch. I was pretty sure I could figure out how to replace it. Anything more serious, and I’d have to hire someone.

It actually took more time to scoop water from the tub than to replace the part. At least it should have. The ground wire ran to a screw on the underside of the top of the unit, which meant a tight space at an awkward angle. I tried a variety of wrenches and pliers but couldn’t get the grip I needed.

After 30 minutes of frustration, I ran to the hardware store for the right tool. A ratchet socket wrench for $24. I wasn’t thrilled, because that was more than the replacement part, but I wanted to get the project done. Fortunately, it was the perfect fit.

The screw loosened after a quarter turn.

–broken washer lid switch–

And I thought, “a 30-minute round trip and twenty-four bucks for a quarter turn?”

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Fourteen weeks and fourteen years

Autobiographical account of our son, Benjamin. Writing can help process things that we struggle to verbalize.

Ben remained in the hospital fourteen weeks after his birth.

To save his life, he was delivered ten weeks early, becoming an April baby instead of the June one we’d anticipated. I’ve never seen so many medical machines in my life, but neither had I fed a newborn with a syringe nor seen a nurse cry for another family. In that time, trauma flourished and threatened to overwhelm a love and joy we thought we’d have.

It seemed like an eternity – no, scratch that. An actual eternity passed as we watched him cling to life in that time, hardly able to hold the baby we were desperate to protect.

10 weeks premature and living in a protective isolette, Benji squeezes Sam’s finger, the 9-year-old big brother who grew up a lot after that.
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Author’s Journal – I Put Myself In Editing Purgatory

Altar from Franciscan Monastery of the Holy Land in America, Washington, D.C.

In December 2019, I finished the final draft of Tildy Silverleaf and the Starfall Omen. I exhaled, wrote a post, and put the book aside for the holiday season, intent on querying in 2020. I started researching agents over the winter and began querying in earnest in early spring.

Around that time, rumors had begun, followed by vague news reports, about a new disease that would eventually be known as Covid-19. In March 2020, I said goodbye to my office desk and began working remotely for nearly 3 years. In May, riots erupted in Minneapolis and elsewhere over the murder of George Floyd. As the year progressed, the political landscape in America became fraught, then angry, then vicious, and civil discourse became less common.

The world seemed to stop.

And so did I.

I tried to write, and in two years, I had about 100,000 words of my next book, which featured Samor, Tildy’s brother. There was some joy, but the weight of things beyond my control pressed upon me, and the work became more grind than pleasure. I struggled to recapture the magic.

I decreased my blogging output in that time, too. After all, what did I have to write about my process? I wanted to share positive things and my passion for writing, but they were hard to think of, much less give enough attention to bring to life. There seemed to be more important things in the world.

I started Project 3 in that time, hoping a return to Tildy’s familiar story would help me push through. For a time, it did.

It wasn’t enough.

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