writing process

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Writing Exercise – The An-Teak Desk

A writer never knows when inspiration will arrive or from where. Because algorithm, I stumbled upon the podcast of a friend’s wife. It was a clip in which she discussed junk drawers with her friend. They laughed in delight at the idea of the drawer opening up like the wardrobe to Narnia.

An hour later, I had 1,700 words.

Jammie, so nicknamed for her love of footie pajamas, followed her brother Matt up the dim creaking stairs, her eyes fixed on the close-cropped black hair that had earned the slender boy a moniker of his own. “Gramma missed a spot, Matchstick,” she teased, pointing at the tuft on his head.

He reached back and felt for the place, his lips hissing a derisive sound when he found it. “That’s my lucky spot. She says if you find one of those, you’ll be lucky ‘til your next haircut.”

“I think that’s one of those things grown-ups say to hide their mistakes,” she retorted.

He looked over his shoulder as they neared the top of the stairs. “With all that reading you do, I can’t believe you’ve never heard of that.”

“You read as much as I do and I bet you’ve never heard of it, either.”

The dark shape of the heavy oak door emerged from the shadows before them, a dull brass doorknob reflecting the oil lamp at the bottom of the stairs. Instead of reaching for the knob, he turned and looked down at her. “You read way more than I do.”

“Yeah, but you read en-cy-clo-pedias,” she replied, drawing out the enunciation as a sign of reverence. She’d always wanted to enjoy them – knowledge was important, her daddy advised – but she just didn’t have the head for it, her grandma said.

“I didn’t have a choice, you know.”

“But you like them now, right?”

He stared at his sister, her face aglow with wonder and curiosity. Her eyes could drink in all the details of the world, and still her inquisitiveness would not be sated. “I guess. They’re now like reading an old story you know by heart.”

“I know all about that. My books never showed me that symbol you found, though. My stories are all made up, and writers are liars.”

“Who do you think they use for encyclopedias? Are they liars, too?”

Jammie was undeterred. “They’re the non-lying kind, I bet. Exception to the rule.”

“Uh huh. Grandma said the story of the desk is made-up, too.”

“Then how’d that symbol get into the Book of T?” Jammie retorted with a self-satisfied smile.

“They don’t call them the ‘book of such-n-such letter’. They’re called ‘volumes’.”

“My name for them is more fun, though.”

Matt couldn’t disagree. He shrugged. “You wanna stand here on the threshold arguing or go take a look?”

She reached past him and twisted the brass knob, which resisted. He put his hand over hers and they turned the knob together. It released with a click.

He pushed the door inwards, the hinges protesting like a ghost fighting its ethereal chains. Darkness poured out at them like ink spilled from a bottle. “You still got dad’s lantern?” The metal cranking sound was the only response she offered. He laughed, “That thing must be a thousand years old.” She stood beside him but still didn’t say anything. “Hey, you OK? You’ve been here before you know.”

“I was five with dad and grandpa and it wasn’t the middle of the night.”

“You’re twice as old now.”

“And I’ve read a hundred times more scary stories.”

“Give me the lantern and I’ll go in. You stay here and slam the door shut if some goobitty-gah eats me and tries to escape.”

“You’re funny,” she said, but he knew his humor had done the trick. They walked together into the room, the old lantern’s light surprisingly strong.

The attic spread out before them, a cacophony of clutter draped with dust and deep shadows. Old suitcases and steamer trunks lined the wall to their right with mixes of cardboard boxes scattered around and on top of them. To their left stood clothing racks under dingy sheets, covered mirrors, hat boxes, and a few bare mannequin toros. An old radio the size of a small refrigerator stood nearby, as did some old speakers nearly as tall. Odds, ends, and sundry haphazardly filled much of the other available floor space, and they passed through like strangers navigating a crowd.

At last, they reached the far end of the attic, where waited an enormous shape covered with floral-patterned sheets.

“So that’s the an-teak desk?” she asked enjoying her play on words.

He groaned. “Your jokes are worse than dad’s. It’s a teak desk from antiquity. That’s older than antique.” He grabbed the sheets. “Close your eyes and hold your breath.” He watched her cheeks puff out then tugged the filthy coverings away. Gentle as he was, the disturbed dust still filled the air like someone had shaken a desiccated snow globe.

They coughed and rubbed their eyes, and when the air had settled, they beheld the magnificent and monstrous desk.

“There’s no way granddad’s granddad stole that thing and carried it across Asia,” Jammie said. She placed the lantern on a nearby crate to illuminate the area. “It must be ten feet across and a thousand pounds! You’d need an elephant to pull it.”

“Maybe he stole that from the raja, too.”

“I thought it was a maharajah,” she said, her eyes tracing the intricate carvings of animals and unfamiliar symbols.

“Close enough,” he replied, himself distracted by the marvel before them. He began to circle away from her to the place on the other side.

“Nuh uh, ‘cy-clo-pedia boy.”

He sighed. “Fine. A raja is a lesser king, whereas—” he cut himself off as he heard his sister snickering.

“Nerd!” she jibed.

He laughed in spite of himself. She loved her little games.

“I can’t believe you still remember that symbol you saw five years ago,” she said as she ran her hand along the desktop’s smooth surface.

“Me either. I don’t think I would have ‘cept granddad slapped my hand away from it as though it was hot. Grab the lantern, it’s here on the front of this drawer.”

She joined him and the lantern’s light revealed a single oversized drawer that occupied the lower two-thirds of the desk’s right side. “I could almost fit in there, I bet,” she said with not a tiny amount of suspicion.

Matt squatted and pointed to a symbol above the dull brass handle, both of which were dwarfed by the massive front of the drawer. “See, this trident-shaped symbol is called a Trishul, though this is much more intricate than what I found—”

“In the Book of T?”

“In the Book of T,” he laughed. “Stand back, I’m going to open it.” Jammie leaned against the wall, lantern held high. He grabbed the handle, but the drawer wouldn’t budge. With both hands, he pulled harder and finally it slid open. The two of them leaned forward as the lantern illuminated the dark depths of the space.

“It’s a junk drawer,” Jammie said flatly.

Indeed, so it appeared to be. In the sharp light of the lantern, they saw a spool of thread, some fishing lures, a scissors, some knives, and a whetstone. There were scraps of paper and quill pens. A dried-up inkpot. A thimble and measuring tape. Some dice and a battered playing card. An inventory of bobs-and-ends that would have filled a page, maybe two, piled upon one another, layer over layer, and waiting for an excavation by an archaeologist with nothing better to do.

There was nothing at all interesting to the two children who’d spent the morning dreaming of the treasures they’d find in the mysterious desk of their granddad’s granddad’s legend. There wasn’t a single coin or pirate map or firecracker anywhere to be seen.

“It’s just junk,” she repeated.

Her brother, who had just enough knowledge to make anything interesting, tried to save their quest from ruin. “Now wait here, young lady!” he said, raising his hand with a flourish before plunging his arm up to his shoulder into the compartment. He rummaged around, ignoring her dubious face. “I present to you, hidden long years beneath the roots of the Yim-Yam tree,” he straightened up and presented the object in his hand, “the cork of the most noble king of the Whippoo tribes.”

Jammie rolled her eyes. “Is the Whippoo even a real people?”

“They could be,” he whispered conspiratorially. “Who knows what lost peoples may have contributed to the contents of the World’s Most Magnificent and Magnanimous Drawer of Oddments!”

“If I wanted to play with junk, I’d dig into my toybox for the broken doll parts that still live at the bottom.”

“Fine, fine. Well, I tried to make an adventure of it for you. I didn’t really know what to expect, other than that symbol might mean more than a decoration.” The memory of his granddad slapping his hand returned.

“Well, you sounded like you’d hoped this old thing would transport us to far-off lands, like a flying carpet.”

“Whatever,” he replied, pushing against the heavy drawer with his hip.

A metallic click stopped him short. It caught Jammie’s attention, too. “What was that?”

Matt stepped away from the desk and knelt in the lantern light, seeing only a Trishul-shaped hole. He probed it with his longest finger but couldn’t locate the button. He peered into the dark drawer again, expecting to see his fingertip. He didn’t: the inside face of the drawer was solid where the other side of the hole should be. “That’s weird.”

And then, from within the depths of the drawer, a gearwork mechanism whirred and clicked. Too eager to remove his finger safely, Matt fell onto his backside as the front of the drawer came apart, unravelling like a bundle of wood when the twine breaks. When the motion stopped, the wood had mysteriously created two steps that led up into the drawer.

Together they peered down into the opening that had been filled with miscellany.

The junk was gone. The bottom of the drawer was gone.

But a path of glowing green stone led away from the steps and down toward some unseen light at the end of a corridor. The space that had been the drawer was now a low archway through which two children could squeeze.

“I told you I could fit in there,” Jammie said, wryly.

With a shared look of excitement, she took the lantern, Matt took her hand, and together they took their first steps down into the hidden world that lay beyond.

I have 2 criticisms, though I’m otherwise happy with how easily this came together.

First, “An-Teak” is a terrible joke and a worse name for a story. I might leave the pun, since Jammie clearly has a “dad joke” sense of humor, but that title will have to change.

Second, I need to do a better job describing the desk drawer (and probably the desk itself to lend to the build-up). I have a vision but don’t think my words capture it.

I had a third criticism, which I changed before sharing the story here. I leaned in too heavily with the nicknames, and felt silly on my first read-through. So, I gave Matchstick the name Matt and stuck to that. I might just remove it all together. It depends on how serious the story is.

Anyway, I share this as an example of how easy it is to start writing sometimes, which is advice I need to take to heart. I’ve been struggling the last 2 years, and it’s nice to see my tools aren’t rusted away to nothing.

Good luck with your own writing!

–Mike

(C) Michael Wallevand, April 2026

Chapter One available
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Chapter One available

As I mentioned in a previous post that announced the Prologue, I’ve started working on publishing my book, Tildy Silverleaf and the Starfall Omen. As I release chapters, I plan to write an accompanying post that provides a behind-the-scenes look at the work. To skip right to reading the new chapter, click here: Chapter One – Spring in Dappledown.

I started my writing with Chapter One, not the Prologue, because getting a feel for my protagonist and her home were crucial to understanding whether I had a story worth pursuing. I needed to establish my unnamed hero, her home, and the witch she reluctantly called “mother”. The ideas flowed effortlessly from thought to word, and Tildy, as she would became known, nearly flew from the page into life.

I had something.

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What do you call a book without a cover?
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What do you call a book without a cover?

I wish I had a better punchline for that set-up. It’s been a long day.

Let’s try another one: if an author writes a story and it doesn’t have a cover, is it still a book?

OK, OK, now I’m just procrastinating.

In a recent post about publishing my book, I mentioned looking for a cover designer. An online gaming buddy connected me with a graphic artist in Australia named Hoomie. Her portfolio was excellent and I found her to be a consummate professional. And as the conversation progressed…I knew she would be out of my price range. That’s on me: I have champagne tastes and a lite beer budget. It’s unfortunate because I liked her and was excited to see what we could accomplish together.

What I was able to witness, however, was an expert who knew the right questions to ask. It required me to articulate things I knew – things churning about in the cauldron between my ears – but hadn’t put into words. I find this extremely valuable because it’s challenging to distill thousands of hours of writing time into an engaging and succinct description. I’ve written about the importance of it here: Learn about your writing by talking with people.

The following questions are among the things I will continue to contemplate in this and future writing projects.

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Writing Exercise: Monday Positivity

I’ve been trying to work on my positivity.

Correction, I’ve been working on my positivity.

CORRECTION: I have improved my positivity.

It’s tough. I have a pragmatic, neurodiverse, and often all-or-nothing view of the world. I like to identify problems and find creative ways to fix them. I’ve often said that the old Lexus commercials of the 1990s especially resonated with me.

a car with martini glasses stacked in a pyramid on its hood
Lexus: The Relentless Pursuit of Perfection

As I’ve matured, I’ve come to understand that this also creates the relentless pursuit of imperfection. Nothing is ever good enough, which often means, things remain bad until they are. It’s a helluva thing to overcome to publish a book. But if I put my “reason mind” to work (If you want to publish, you have to stop puttering about), it begins to drown out the “emotion mind” that’s often loudest in my head (Just one more edit and it’ll be perfect. Just one more. You’re so close. But just one more.)

This morning, I was looking for a way to start my Monday with a positive attitude, which is tough for many of us. Part of our social contract in America is commiserating over the start of the work week. It’s probably a multi-million dollar industry, when you consider all the merchandise dedicated to grumpy Mondays.

I thought back to how good my Friday was. It started with this: A Day Bright, and Full of Promise. It was a simple writing exercise that got my brain moving, and the creative outlet got those feel-goods coursing through my veins.

Instead of simply jumping into work, with who knows what surprises awaiting me, I took a few minutes to jot this down in a coffee shop.

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Chapter available: Prologue

A few weeks ago, I started publishing my book on this site. My intent was to finally, actively, truly work toward publishing it in full digital and physical formats, instead of cowing to those fears that always tell you: It’s not good enough. It’ll never be good enough. There’s a point where the author has to listen to voices that aren’t internal. When Trusted Readers regularly provide positive feedback and encouragement, that should carry more weight.

It does carry more weight.

This post isn’t simply an announcement, though you can start reading this chapter here: Prologue: The Children’s Gifts. Consider it a behind-the-scenes look at how a chapter and book come to life. I might not have this context for every chapter I release, but we’ll see. It’s very easy for a writer to procrastinate when fun new post ideas come to mind.

Prologues have been integral to fantasy books for decades. Thoughts on this are cyclical: from “must-have” to “cliche” to “must-have” and around again. IMO, if your writing is chasing what’s fashionable, you’re doing your story a disservice. You’re also not being honest with your Readers, which to me, is the more egregious matter.

Early on, I knew I wanted a prologue for each of my books, and they would all have a corresponding epilogue, as well. This was part of a larger decision: each book is told from the hero’s point of view. You know what they’re thinking, you see the world through their biases, you see how they grow based on their reactions to stress and other factors. Which meant I had a problem for the antagonists of the series. How do I help the Reader understand the machinations of their schemes?

I didn’t want to keep any of that hidden from Readers. In Lord of the Rings, you get a limited sense of Sauron’s plans. The Harry Potter series offers a little more visibility to Voldemort through a prologue or monologue. I wanted more for my Readers.

And so, the bookends of the story are devoted to the primary antagonists of the series: the dark god Delosh and Its thrall, the Mellifluent, the last survivor of a genocide committed by its master. This is where I communicate their motivations and plans, but also how the actions of our heroes affect those plans.

When I wrote the prologue, I took inspiration from the cinematic opening to the Fellowship of the Ring and the writing of Tolkien himself. It was formal and grand; it had depth and history; and it had necessary exposition to set up the entire series, not just the first book. It was heavy.

It was too much. And Trusted Readers were right to call me on it.

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Writing Exercise: A Day Bright and Full of Promise

It was time for the school bus. Following Benji, I stepped into a beautiful Autumn morning. As though someone spoke to me, this line popped into my head.

A day bright, and full of promise

I stopped in my tracks, my brain beginning to answer the question I no longer had to consciously put into words: “What happens next?” Even after so many years of writing, I continue to be surprised by the amount of creativity sparked by that simple question. Most notably, What if I paused my writing about the lost prince and started a female-centric story about his sister?

It’s a tip I use not only for writing, but in my office job, as well. “OK, we have an issue. What happens next? And then what?” And so on.

The following is about 2 minutes’ work. It’s a minor piece of writing, but I wanted to capture it because it helped inspire me. It’s about having days ahead of you that you want to spend writing. It’s the promise that you’ll create something worthwhile. It’s the power of positive thinking, if you will.

It’s Hope.

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Stories for Whiskey Weekend #3
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Stories for Whiskey Weekend #3

OK, I’m going to be completely straight with you. I forgotten I’d been working on this series. It happens. Best laid plans and life gets in the way and all that. LOL

Recently, the previous posts (Post 1, Post 2) have seen an increase in traffic, so I thought I’d share a few other stories. Before I do, let me restate their purpose. For a gaming and whiskey weekend, I’d 3D printed characters for my friends to paint. To serve as inspiration for their characters, I wrote some quick backstories that they could mix n match as they desired. More info can be found here: Prologue: Stories for Whiskey Weekend.

Now, let’s meet Molli and Noe (painting by Whiskey Weekend guys).

Molli McGillman sighed. She stopped her nomad’s journey and studied the young person’s face. Another death. Perhaps, this is the one I can prevent.

One year ago, Molli had taken a strange path through the woods and fallen into a time paradox. Of course, she wouldn’t have put it into those words, and she was barely aware anything had happened. The next day, she came upon a drowned man on the riverbank. Making her way upstream, she heard cries ahead. There struggling in the water, though she told herself it was a different person, was the man whose body she’d seen. A few hours later, she saw him a third time as he crossed the river on slippery rocks.

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When your writing pays off
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When your writing pays off

Congratulations! Your site, The Lost Royals, passed 10,000 all-time views!

This week I received a surprising notice on my website. I’ve passed 10,000 views! And I’m now on pace to have my best year ever. Considering I do only a little promotion, aside from sharing links on my social media accounts, this feels pretty good!

The website has served as marketing tool, a place to practice my writing skills, a fun way to share tips and traps I’ve discovered, and an opportunity to share a few personal stories. Some posts resonate with my growing audience; some don’t. And that’s fine – it’s a good learning experience, if nothing else.

Even more rewarding, to my writer’s heart, is that I’ve seen a significant uptick in traffic since I started sharing chapters of the completed novel, The Starfall Omen.

Additionally, it’s not just book content that’s receiving attention. Here’s my most popular post 0f 2024: I Still Owe Jimmy Jam and Terry Lewis An Apology, from March.

That post still has a ways to go to reach the Number 1 spot, however. Nothing like a heartwarming family story to get readers to show up: Fourteen Weeks and Fourteen Years, which has 265 views.

To everyone who’s visited, commented, shared, and subscribed, thank you so very much. I’m thrilled to be able to share our world with you, and I can’t wait for you to see what happens next!

If you’d like to keep an eye on my activities, feel free to check out my Progress Tracker!

Mike

Enjoy what you just read? Please give us a like, add a comment, or share this post – thanks!

(C) Michael Wallevand, September 2024

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Let’s get this thing published!

A few weeks ago, I posted this on Facebook:

OK. Time to get serious again. Starting my novel on the path to publishing. Current step is putting it on my website while I look for a cover artist. First four chapters are here, with more posted every 1-2 days. Our hero Tildy is a neurodiverse teenage girl who can’t control her shapeshifting abilities, and she’s about to learn what happens when you refuse the call to adventure. I think this will scratch your itch for fantasy!

I’ve shared updates on social media, but weirdly enough, didn’t announce it here to my subscribers (whom I value very much!) So here’s the latest, especially for you!

The prologue and 11 chapters are available here: The Starfall Omen. We’ve had about 100 readers visit the site, with more arriving every day – even when I haven’t shared anything, which is gratifying. I’ll need to figure out how to manage that landing page when the chapter count hits 30 so it doesn’t look daunting to visitors. But I suppose that’s a good problem to have.

I’ve put out feelers for cover artists, with an email to one already. I’m also talking with a mapmaker to see if she can turn sketches into something that brings my world to further life!

In a future post, I’ll describe why I’m getting serious again, and perhaps I’ll explain what’s taken so long to get back to this point. It’s a thing I’ve held very, very close to my vest, but it’s probably time to put it in the open, much like this book.

To end this post, let me offer some encouragement to other writers. The work is hard but it won’t only be hard. Don’t give up on your story or yourselves.

Thanks for reading!

Mike

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© Michael Wallevand, September 2024

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Stories for Whiskey Weekend #2

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.

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