writing process

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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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Stories for Whiskey Weekend #1

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.

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Prologue: Stories for Whiskey Weekend

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.

A row of whiskey bottles, placed from 12-1.
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?

3D printed minis and bases
A selection of tabletop minis and bases.
Sampling of the backstories I wrote
Sampling of the backstories I wrote. Printed, labeled, and laminated.
Choose your character, base, and story!
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:

  1. 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.
  2. 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?”
  3. She slipped into a time paradox which causes her to see stages of a tragedy in reverse.
  4. 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?

Mike

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© Michael Wallevand, February 2024

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Driven to write by a word

Schmutz.

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

Enjoy what you just read? Leave a comment or like the post, and we’ll ensure that you see more like this!

© Michael Wallevand, October 2023

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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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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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