[Listen]

[Intro music plays]

Woman’s Voice:

This is Behind the Cut with Christopher Gronlund. The companion show to Not About Lumberjacks.

[Music fades out]

Christopher Gronlund:

Behind the Cut is an inside look at episodes of Not About Lumberjacks and often contains spoilers. If you’ve not listened to the latest episode, “Calling Out of Time,” and that’s a concern, go listen and check this out when you’re done.

And now: onward!

* * *

“Calling Out of Time” started with a tweet.

On May 25^th, author Blake Butler shared an almost creepy post on Twitter. It was a photo of an old rotary pay phone in a booth on a dark corner in a city. The caption accompanying the tweet: “There has never been a phone booth on this corner before tonight.”

If that’s not a story prompt, I don’t know what is.

Most replies to the tweet joked about the Bill and Ted movies, Dr. Who, and that it was probably the entrance to the Ministry of Magic from Harry Potter. But I couldn’t shake the image from my head…and what might happen if there suddenly appeared a phone booth where, previously, one didn’t exist.

* * *

People seem fascinated by where writers get their ideas…as if writers have some strange connection to a magical space where ideas swirl, and all it takes is reaching in and grabbing one. Or, it seems, others believe it must be a difficult thing requiring great effort.

But really, it’s as simple as being open to ideas and asking ourself, “What if?”

* * *

If I’ve learned nothing else at day jobs, it’s that people often shut themselves down before beginning. If an idea doesn’t spring fully formed from their heads, well—how can it be a good idea at all? I once knew somebody who said she didn’t like thinking because sometimes her thoughts were “stupid.” To brainstorm on a piece of paper would mean physical proof that sometimes things they deemed dumb came out of their head.

How sad is that? But while someone that extreme in their own self-denial might not be as common, I’ve been in enough “think outside the box” sessions in meetings to know many people think their ideas are not worth it.

* * *

Right now, I have 85 ideas for Not About Lumberjacks stories at the ready. Some of them are very rough ideas I’ll likely never write. Others overlap. Some seem to come out so ready that entire passages are written in those initial moments of thinking, “What if?”

People who know me sometimes lovingly tease me about my love of the “What if?” game…where I take even the most mundane situation and approach it from all sides, wondering what more it might become. But in being open to this process, I have an Evernote file full of short story ideas. I have novel ideas, ideas for articles, and even ideas for role playing games.

I’m not precious about ideas because they mean very little until the effort is made to make them something more.

* * *

I think you’d be hard-pressed to find a writer who has not encountered the following situation:

“Hey, I have this great idea for a novel. You should write it, and I’ll give you some of the money when it sells.”

Ignoring the fact that most completed novels don’t sell, it says a lot about how some people feel about ideas. While the person I mentioned at an old job limits herself by shutting the door on her mind before anything can step through, others think something as basic as, “This phone booth appears on a corner and a guy sees it,” is worth millions.

And why do the work when you can be an idea-man, right?

I’m usually very kind when people approach me, but I’ve had it in me when I was younger to be blunt with those people. Sometimes I’d even toy with them; other times I’d explain the effort of writing a novel and why I’d deserve far more than the 10% offered when the book “becomes a bestseller.” (Because those kinds of people always believe their shit smells like flowers.)

Today, I just tell people I appreciate them thinking about me, but have plenty of ideas of my own.

* * *

And if I’m being honest, ideas do matter—things have to begin somewhere after all. And I’d be lying if I told you there’s no difference in the weight of some ideas to others. Some ideas really do seem to write themselves.

I‘m not one of those writers who wishes I wrote other things. I’m not prone to jealousy. But there have definitely been times I’ve thought, “Damn! I wish I’d have thought of that…”

In my file of 85 ideas, some of them are better concepts than others. Those are the ideas I often go to when I’m a little stuck and need to remember the feeling of finishing something. Other ideas might result in deeper stories once all the “What ifs?” have played out and starts and stops show me where to go.

“Calling Out of Time” was one of those ideas that seemed to write itself. A phone booth appears out of nowhere…why? “What if it was a prank? What if it was a trap? Or…what if it was magical and let the protagonist call his old phone number and speak to his younger self?”

There, it could have become humorous…an adult imploring his younger self not to make the same mistakes he did. Maybe a few more “What ifs,” and you figure out a way to make the actions of the kid affect the present version of himself.

It could have been a lesson about greed: the grown-up version calling the younger self and telling them to invest in certain stocks to endure wealth in adulthood.

There are so many “What ifs” one can play with if they are willing to let their thoughts go.

Sitting down to write “Calling Out of Time,” I knew Amir lost something when he was younger that shaped the direction of his life. Ideas came and went, and I settled on him trying to stop a household fire that killed his immediate family when he was twelve years old.

From there, all it took was sitting down and doing the work.

* * *

[Quirky music fades in…]

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks and Behind the Cut. Theme music for Behind the Cut is a tune called “Reaper” by Razen. Visit nolumberjacks.com for information about the music, the episodes, and voice talent.

In a month or so, it’s a story that begins: “The Quaking Bog Man was gone, and Crazy Mike was found dead behind the maintenance barn, covered in grass pink and rose pogonia blossoms.” Who doesn’t love a mystery set in a bog in northern Illinois?

Until next time: be mighty, and keep your axes sharp!

[Listen]

[Sound of an ax chopping wood. Quirky music fades in…]

Christopher Gronlund:

I want to make one thing perfectly clear: this show is not about lumberjacks…

My name is Christopher Gronlund, and this is where I share my stories. Sometimes the stories contain truths, but most of the time, they’re made up. Sometimes the stories are funny—other times they’re serious. But you have my word about one thing: I will never—EVER—share a story about lumberjacks.

This time, it’s a story about a phone booth that appears out of nowhere, helping someone connect to their past in a most-needed way.

Before that, though, a couple things. First: the usual content advisory. This story deals with sudden family loss and grief. But even there, it’s only one recalled scene that might be rough for some. Surprisingly, there’s no swearing in this story.

While I try keeping even some of the darker stories I write, here, heartfelt, this one might even be wholesome.

The second thing before we get to the episode is I’d like to tell you about a book series by my friend, Jennifer Moss.

If you’re looking for a fun and exciting binge, this is it—a series of mysteries with a metaphysical twist. The first is TOWN RED, in which Detective Ryan Doherty has to save his career by solving a double homicide of husband and wife entrepreneurs. During the investigation, he meets the mysterious Catharine Lulling—a psychic empath who knows just a little too much about the murders. As Ryan is drawn into Catharine’s unconventional world, he has to figure out if she’s for real…or the real killer.

Check out TOWN RED by Jennifer Moss—rated five stars on Amazon.com.

I’ll also be sure to include a link in the show notes.

All right—let’s get to work…

Calling Out of Time

There suddenly appeared a phone booth, a thing out of time seeming more like a joke than reality. The booth’s presence startled Amir, leaving him to wonder how such a thing could be set up so quickly. It wasn’t there on his two-block walk to the corner store for Netflix binge-night snacks and a quick chat about movies with the store’s cashier, Francisco. But there it was, not ten minutes later, on the corner a block down from his apartment. It was strange enough to see a pay phone of any kind, but a fully sheltered booth was a thing Amir had not seen in almost two decades. He looked up and down the streets, wondering if anyone might have seen how it got there, but he was the only one out and about. To see no one else out walking in the early evening was almost as rare as encountering a phone booth that seemed to fall from the sky.

Amir poked the phone booth with his cane, half-expecting it to give, like a cardboard prop–maybe even see the cane pass through a holographic projection. But it was solid. He knocked on the glass and wondered if it was an art installation. Maybe he’d see himself in a handful of months, the first person captured on a hidden camera and projected on a wall at the Museum of Contemporary Art. Others would follow, the spectacle of the piece showing how what was once common can become easily forgotten. And in that artistic statement, perhaps Amir Nazari–on the cusp of his 50th birthday–would seem just as out of time as he inspected the booth with an air of nostalgia.

He waited several minutes, hoping somebody would pass by and be as equally taken aback by the booth’s presence. But the quiet streets made the moment slip from a curiosity to something more unsettling. He pushed the center of the door, watching it fold inward, creating enough of a gap that he could slide it fully open. Amir looked around one more time and stepped inside. He grabbed the interior handle, unsure if it was wise to close the door behind him. What if that was the booth’s purpose: a trap of some sort? That made even less sense; he could easily break the glass with his cane and stumble free. It was not a trap.

The last time Amir used a pay phone was in the late 90s. Once he had a tiny brick of a cell phone, that was it–he had no need for any other means of communication. Everything was now in his pocket or hand. Standing in the phone booth, though, he found himself missing slower days and being unreachable on the go. He picked up the receiver and was surprised to hear a dial tone.

How could this thing have been hooked up so quickly? he thought.

Amir instinctively tapped his pockets, knowing he had no change. Credit and debit cards eliminated that need, but he always knew–in the back of his mind–a day might come in which he’d regret not carrying assorted bills in his wallet and some coins in his pocket. So he did what he did when he was younger and without money: he dialed ZERO.

Amid a churning of static rose a solitary beep he’d not heard in decades, and then the sound of the call going through. The line picked up, but the voice on the other end was smothered by white noise.

“Hello? Hello? Can you hear me?”

Maybe there was no one on the other end–maybe it was just a recording. The whole thing was ridiculous. Amir put the receiver back and picked up his bag of snacks. But…what would it hurt to attempt and actual call?

Amir picked up the receiver again and dialed his old phone number.

* * *

Buffalo Grove, Illinois – 1983

Amir was playing his Frogger electronic game when the telephone rang. He waited for his older sister to pick up–she loved the phone and always raced to answer it–but he heard Soraya shout from the upstairs bathroom: “Amir, Can you get that? If it’s Katie, tell her I’ll call her back.”

He was having a good round, but the sound of the telephone bothered him, a loud and interrupting thing that only stopped with its unrelenting ringing when someone gave up on the other end or you picked up. He answered the phone.

“Hello?”

There was no one on the other end. From the bathroom, his sister shouted, “Is it Katie?”

Amir covered the mouthpiece and yelled back. “It’s no one. Nobody’s on the phone.”

He returned the receiver to his ear and heard an adult voice say, “Amir?”

The only people Amir liked talking with on the phone was his grandma and grandpa in the city, and this voice belonged to neither of them. He ran through family gatherings, trying to recall the voices of uncles, but most of his family was still back in Iran.

The man on the phone said it again: “Amir?”

He took a breath and said, “Yes.”

“Amir Nazari?”

“Uh-huh…”

Amir thought something went wrong with the connection, but the man on the other end eventually said, “Hello, Amir. My name is also Amir.”

“Are you a friend of my father?”

“I…I knew your father, yes.”

“He’s not home right now. And my mother is busy cooking dinner…” Amir’s parents taught him to make it sound like at least one parent was home, but busy, when he and his sister were home alone and somebody he didn’t know called on the telephone or came to the door.

The man on the other end was silent again. Amir thought he heard him sniffle and take a deep breath.

“Uhm…” the man said. “Do you have something to write with, Amir? I need to leave a message.”

“No.” The pen and notepad the family kept for such a purpose was by the kitchen phone, not the living room’s.

“Can you go get something to write with?”

“Okay. I’ll be right back.”

As he returned from the kitchen, Soraya came downstairs.

“Who was on the phone?” she said.

“Some man. He wants to leave a message.”

Amir’s sister took the pen and pad from his hand and went to the phone.

“Hello? Who is this?”

The man on the phone said, “Soraya?”

“Who wants to know?”

There was no response. Amir’s big sister looked at him and said, “Do you know who this is?”

He shook his head no.

“My mother and father are upstairs watching television and cannot be bothered. Call back tomorrow.”

Soraya hung up the phone, and then looked at Amir and said, “Stop talking to people you don’t know.”

* * *

Amir put the phone booth’s receiver down and wiped tears from his face. It was a futile battle, so he let go, not caring if someone happened by and saw him in the glass box on display, sobbing like a storm. When he was done, he looked at the phone. When he called his old number again, all he heard was static.

* * *

Amir moved through the next day tangled in a haze of memories and emotions. He woke up late and could not stop thinking about the call from the phone booth the night before. It really was Soraya. And he recognized his own young voice from an old recording of himself reading a Legion of Superheroes comic book on cassette. There was no explaining what happened; the best Amir came up with was his subconscious taking over. Still, it would be one thing to quickly drop a phone booth on a corner, but a complete impossibility to set up a phone that could call out of time. He logged into work, hoping it would give his mind something else to focus on. No matter how hard Amir tried distracting himself, though, his thoughts were pulled to the past. He emailed his manager, telling her he wasn’t feeling well and was going to take the day off.

Amir got dressed and and walked down the street. His neighborhood bustled with its usual morning activity, a stark contrast to the previous evening. His heart raced when he reached the corner where he encountered the phone booth. He felt his pulse pounding in his temples when he saw it wasn’t there. He trotted around the block and then the others, looking down streets at every corner. Nothing. He returned to the spot where he found the phone booth, hoping to see scratches where it might have been dragged away–any bit of evidence that he wasn’t losing it. His doubts about everything only grew.

 At the corner store, Amir bought a cup of coffee and a Hostess cherry pie. He waited until the short line at the register cleared before paying.

“Morning, Francisco.”

“Hey, my friend. Long time, no see. Watch anything good last night?”

“No. I ended up a bit distracted. Saw something interesting, though.”

“What’s that?”

“I know this might sound strange, but did you pass a phone booth when you closed last night? At Leland and Troy? It wasn’t there when I came by last night, but it was there when I was walking home. It’s not there now, though.”

Francisco shook his head. “I didn’t see that, no. I’ve not seen a phone booth in ages.”

“Same here. But it was there last night…”

“Like a full-blown Superman booth? Door and everything?”

“Yes.”

“That’s wild. And it’s not there now?”

“Nope.”

“Wow, crazy. Sounds like something from a story you’d write.”

“Yeah…”

* * *

When he wasn’t coding software enhancements for release sprints at work, Amir was obsessed with stories. As a kid, comic books offered something few prime time TV shows did: ongoing arcs and timelines. Aside from watching the occasional soap opera with Soraya over summer break from school, comic books and fantasy and sci-fi novels gave Amir what took decades to finally reach television. But once streaming services took off, Amir daydreamed about turning one of the old novels he’d written and put away in a drawer into a series.

He worked on writing in the cracks of life, jotting down ideas during meetings at work he wasn’t needed for, but that his manager insisted he attend anyway–just in case. Sometimes he was up early; other days he stayed up late, writing and piecing things together. Weekends were his escape into the life he wished he lived: up early to write, breakfast, and then more writing; researching for stories and how to sell the scripts he planned to finish. Perhaps that was the way to discern how a seemingly magical phone booth came to be: approach it like a story he was writing.

Amir spent the day in a notebook, jotting down ideas of who (or what) placed the phone booth on the corner. He worked out myriad explanations for how the call to the past could happen. By the afternoon, he had no acceptable explanation–only more questions. Sometimes life, like stories–Amir believed–benefited from a willing suspension of disbelief.

He stretched out on the couch hoping his subconscious would figure it out, but all his thoughts blurred into dreams.

* * *

It was dark when Amir woke up. His stomach growled, but it could wait. He put on his shoes and headed into the night.

The phone booth stood at the corner of Leland and Troy, just like the previous night. And just like the previous night, Amir stepped inside and dialed his old number.

* * *

Buffalo Grove, Illinois – 1983

Amir was brushing his teeth before bed when the telephone rang. He spit and rushed to the kitchen.

“Hello?”

On the other line, the man from the night before said, “Hi, Amir. I called last night. Are you in the kitchen or living room?”

“The…kitchen.”

“Good. Can you write something down for me?”

“Okay.”

“Tell you mother and father–“

Soraya picked up the phone in her room. “Hello? Katie?”

“No,” Amir said from a phone booth in another time. “I called to speak to Amir, but either of you can help.”

“Are you the guy who called last night?” Soraya said.

“Yes, I am.”

“You need to stop calling us or I’ll call the police!”

She hung up and charged downstairs.

Amir got as far as telling his younger self, “Tell your mom or dad to check–” before Soraya hung up that line, too.

When Amir called again, he was greeted by static.

* * *

The next morning, Amir emailed his manager, letting her know he was still not feeling well and taking it easy for another day. After that, he walked to the corner store for breakfast, again, taking a moment to look around to see if he could find any evidence of what happened the two previous nights. But he saw nothing out of the ordinary.

When he entered the corner store, Francisco said, “Good morning, my friend. Seen any phone booths, lately?”

Amir laughed and said, “No. But I’ve been thinking about it…like you said yesterday–it would make a good story.” He looked around to make sure they were alone. “I’m thinking it would be cool if someone could call back to their past to try changing something. But I’m not quite sure how to explain the phone booth just appearing…and why it would even work.”

“I don’t think you’d have to,” Francisco said. “That kind of thing gets in the way. Primer didn’t stop to explain anything, and it’s a great movie. Back to the Future doesn’t work when you think about it, but it’s a lot fun.”

It wasn’t the answer Amir wanted–he’d hoped his movie-loving friend would have enough answers to make sense of the past two days.

“What do you think about the idea of calling back in time?” Amir said.

“It’s good.” Francisco glanced up in thought. “I know there are stories like that with radios, but I can’t think of any with a phone.”

“Do you think someone could stop a bad thing from happening like that?”

“Sure. Not much of a story, otherwise.”

“Cool. I’m leaning toward someone saving people he loved who died when he was younger. If the main character pulled it off, do you think he’d get to see them again?”

“Maybe. If that’s what the story needed. It might be hard to explain, though. Or maybe he creates an alternate timeline where they’re safe.”

Amir nodded and paid for his coffee and fruit pie. “Thanks. See you later, Francisco.”

“Goodbye, my friend.”

* * *

As perplexing as the phone booth’s existence was to Amir, he knew one thing for certain: it was there in the evening, but gone during the day. All he had to do was wait.

At five-o’-clock, he brewed a small pot of coffee. He drank a cup and poured the rest into a water bottle. When it was cool enough to carry, he headed out.

The phone booth was not on the corner when Amir arrived. He surveyed the area for the best place to wait and watch. He considered standing on the corner, but if it took more than an hour, Amir was certain somebody would call the police, saying there was a suspicious person lingering in the neighborhood. He found a spot in an alley behind a dumpster where he’d be out of sight, but still have a view of the corner. He guzzled the rest of the coffee and waited.

Like watching the clock during a workday, watching the corner made time drag on. Amir wondered if a truck would pull up with a couple guys who’d open the back and put the booth on the corner, or if it would fade into existence like the TARDIS on Dr. Who. Around eight-o’-clock, Amir regretted drinking all his coffee. He shuffled side to side, fighting the urge to urinate. It was unlikely he’d be seen if he stepped fully behind the dumpster to empty his bladder, but he was not willing to risk it–not for fear of getting a ticket for public urination…he simply refused to let the corner fall out of view. When the urge became too much, Amir closed his eyes and took a deep breath to center himself. When he exhaled and opened his eyes, the phone booth was on the corner.

A moment before, the streets were busy with evening walkers. Now, they were empty. It seemed darker as well, like everything in Amir’s field of view had been caught in a spell. He didn’t care how troubling it was–he walked right into the booth, closed the door behind him, and called his old number.

* * *

Buffalo Grove, Illinois – 1983.

The Dukes of Hazzard had just started when the phone rang, startling Amir. His parents were out to eat, and Soraya was spending the night at Katie’s. He thought about letting it ring, but it was about the time his mother and father would be returning from dinner, and he wondered if it was them saying they’d be late. He got up, turned down the TV, and picked up the receiver.

“Hello?”

The man who called the last two nights said, “Amir, before anyone else picks up, I need you to tell your mom and dad to check the wires in the attic. If they don’t, you must insist, do you understand? There’s a bad wire in the attic, and I don’t want you to stop bugging them until they check. Do you understand?”

“A bad wire?”

“Yes. Go tell them right away.”

As soon as Amir said, “They went out to eat,” he panicked, wondering if he’d given too much away and was now alone and in danger.

“Then go tell Soraya. And then write it down: ‘Check the wires in the attic.'”

Amir almost told the man on the phone Soraya wasn’t home, either, but said, “Okay,” instead.

“Say it back to me, Amir. What are you going to tell your mother and father and Soraya?”

“To check the wires in the attic?”

“Good! I need you to go write it down, too. Okay? You can’t forget.”

“Okay.”

“It’s going to be all right, Amir. Don’t be scared. Can you go write it down right now?”

“Okay.”

Amir set the receiver down and ran to the kitchen. He wrote CHECK THE WIRES IN THE ATTIC on the notepad by the phone, and put the pad on the kitchen table. He ran back to the living room phone, but all he heard on the other end was static.

In the phone booth, Amir wiped the tears from his eyes. He didn’t care if he was seen–he stepped out of the booth, rested his cane against the side, and peed like he was putting out a fire.

* * *

The following evening, when Amir walked to the corner store for snacks, the phone booth was not there. Something told him he could wait every night for the rest of his life and it would never appear again.

When he entered the corner store, Francisco smiled and said, “I missed you this morning, my friend.”

“I was up later than usual.”

“Working on a story?”

“Yes…in a sense.”

“How’s it coming along?”

“Good. I think. I still have some questions about it I’d like to figure out, but I think it’s there.”

“What questions?”

“What would you do if you could call your old self back in time? What would you tell them?”

Francisco pondered the question a moment and smiled. “I would call my old number and tell my younger self to invest in Microsoft stock. Apple and Google, too. Not that I don’t like all this and the people I get to chat with every day, but…you know…”

“Yeah. That’s a good plan.”

“I agree,” Francisco said. “What about you? What would you do if you could call back in time?”

“I’d leave a message to my younger self to have my parents check the wiring in the attic of our old house.”

Francisco cocked his head to the other side and said, “Why would you do that?”

“When I was twelve years old, my house caught on fire. My bedroom was downstairs because…” Amir tapped his cane on the tile.

“I heard something hit the floor upstairs in my sister’s room so hard that it woke me up. I didn’t know at the time, but it was my sister, Soraya, passing out. I remember dreaming my mother was lost in a fog, calling our names. When I finally woke up, I smelled smoke. I grabbed my cane and checked the bedroom door like they taught us in school. It was cool to the touch, so I opened it. The smell of smoke instantly became heavier, and the night light in the kitchen glowed in a haze.

“I raced to the living room. Smoke rolled down the stairs in a dark column illuminated by orange sparks. I shouted for my parents and sister, but nobody answered. I went back to the kitchen and called the fire department. By then, the smoke was getting thicker in the rest of the house. I made it to the front room before passing out.

“When I woke up, I was in the front yard surrounded by neighbors and firemen. My family was nowhere to be seen. That’s when I came to the city to live with my grandparents.”

Francisco shook his head and sighed. “I am so sorry. I didn’t know. There are no words…”

“Thank you.”

“No, thank you. I’m glad I know this about you. We see each other almost every day, but most of what we talk about is movies.”

“If this were all a movie and I could warn my family, do you think I’d see them again?”

“It would depend on the story, I suppose. If it were a fun story, you could do anything–like Back to the Future. But if it were more realistic, it would probably be more like Looper or Primer. It would be nice to see them again, but unless you actually traveled back in time physically through the phone and could watch them from a distance, saving them in another timeline would have to do.”

Amir smiled and said, “Yeah, I suppose you’re right. I’m sure I’ll figure it out in do time. Right now, though, it’s time for some snacks…”

* * *

Epilogue – Buffalo Grove, Illinois – 2021

Amir’s grand-niece, Bibi, pumped her legs and shot high into the air on her swing set. She shouted, “Uncle Amir! Grandma! Look!”

She leaned back, gripping the swing’s chains tightly in her hands, and leaned back–hanging almost upside-down as she fell back to earth. She swung back up to a sitting position on the other end of the arc.

“Be careful!” Soraya said. She looked at her brother and playfully slapped his arm. “Why are you laughing?”

“You always gave Mom and Dad a hard time. Now you have a second mini version of yourself. I just think it’s funny.”

Amir’s father chuckled and winked at Soraya. They were all together at the old house to celebrate Amir’s birthday.

“I’m going to check on the food,” their father said.

When he was gone, Soraya said, “Well, you can laugh at me all you want, but at least turning fifty didn’t bother me.”

“It doesn’t bother me, either,” Amir said.

“Then why are you so quiet today? Thinking about your next book?”

“I’m always thinking about my next book. But that’s not it, either. I’m thinking about the phone call we got when we were younger. About the wires in the attic.”

Soraya took a gulp of iced tea and said, “Ah, yes. It’s that time of the year when you do this.”

“I just wonder who he was–how he knew? Why we shared a name? But it’s not even so much that this year. Maybe you’re right; maybe I am thinking a bit more about time this birthday. I wonder what happened to him.”

“He’s probably a lot like you,” Soraya said. “Eats too much junk food and watches lots of movies. You got a good book out of all this wondering–isn’t that enough?”

“Yeah. I guess it’s a thing I’ll just always think about.”

“I know. Sometimes I do, too. Not about who he was, but what might have happened if something bad happened back then.”

Soraya watched her granddaughter swing back and forth, higher and higher, until letting go at the apex and soaring into the air. She kicked her feet and righted herself just in time for a landing in the grass that would have wrecked Amir or Soraya’s knees.

Behind them, Soraya’s husband knocked on the kitchen window and waved them in.

“Bibi,” Soraya said. “It’s time to eat.”

She shot past her great uncle and grandmother and held the door open.

“Happy birthday, Uncle Amir.”

“Why, thank you.”

He scooped her up in his right arm and carried her into the house where he and his sister grew up.

* * *

Christopher Gronlund:

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks.

Theme music, as always, is by Ergo Phizmiz. Story music this time is by Gabriel Lewis, licensed  through Epidemic Sound.

Sound effects are always made in-house or from freesound.org. Visit nolumberjacks.com for information about the show, the voice talent, and the music.

Next time around, it’s a story that begins: “The Quaking Bog Man was gone, and Crazy Mike was found dead behind the maintenance barn, covered in grass pink and rose pogonia blossoms.” Who doesn’t love a mystery set in a bog in northern Illinois?!

Until next time: be mighty, and keep your axes sharp!

[Listen]

[Intro music plays]

Woman’s Voice:

This is Behind the Cut with Christopher Gronlund. The companion show to Not About Lumberjacks.

[Music fades out]

Christopher Gronlund:

Behind the Cut is an inside look at episodes of Not About Lumberjacks and often contains spoilers. If you’ve not listened to the latest episode and that’s a concern, go listen and check this out when you’re done.

And now: onward!

* * *

“A Deathly Mistake” is a bit of a departure for me—not in the sense that, thematically, it’s about the struggle between day jobs and creative pursuits (that’s kind of my thing), but in having characters verbally espouse the philosophies they hold dear.

It’s important to know where characters stand on things, but rarely do I have them open their mouths and let their views spill out and rise in a flood to their knees.

I generally avoid that because people often assume everything mentioned in a story is the author promoting their beliefs. Trust me: I’m a liberal vegan atheist—if I used all my stories as a platform, it would be quite apparent.

Still, if you listen to more than a handful of stories on Not About Lumberjacks, certain themes become obvious.

* * *

As much as I’ve always wanted to write fiction full time, that is not my reality. And so, I take care of responsibilities most of us have through a day job. Technically, I have a career: I am a technical writer. But I see that writing as a means to an end—definitely not a thing I would do if I paid the bills with the writing I enjoy most.

I’m not a fan of the Monetize Me economy, where every hobby must become a dreaded “side hustle,” a thing often sucking the joy out of simple pleasures. With fiction, I’ve always pursued it knowing that if I sell a novel or script, it will be changed [perhaps drastically] during the editing process. And I’m fine with that; in fact, one of the reasons I started Not About Lumberjacks was to always have a place to share stories only I control.

For me, fiction straddles the line of something that makes me happy, but also something I’m willing to release if the money or creative view is right.

For me, fiction has always been more than just a hobby.

* * *

When I was twelve years old, I went into my backyard and taught myself how to juggle. And while I always dreamed of paying my way writing novels, I became a good enough juggler that it became a thing I also considered making my life’s work. In the end, though, the stories I have as a street performer are better than the money I made passing the hat.

At a certain point, juggling returned to hobby status—and I loved it even more.

* * *

At the time of this recording, I’m a month into my fifty-second year of existence. Two years ago, I picked up a mandolin. A few years before that, I picked up an ukulele.

Because I like listening to people talk about making things they love, I have been a fan of Adam Savage’s “Still Untitled” podcast since the beginning. During an earlier episode, he talked about keeping an ukulele in his office…just to strum a few chords while thinking through problems.

The thought of filling my office with simple music and thoughts appealed to me. So…I bought an ukulele with the goal of learning three chords to roll through while giving my subconscious problems to work out.

It is important to know this: my wife plays several instruments. Outside of a month of violin lessons in fifth grade, I have never played an instrument.

It turned out I wasn’t content just to play a few chords on my ukulele: I actually learned some tunes. Later, I wanted to play music with my wife, an Irish fiddler and harper.

A mandolin is tuned like a fiddle, so I figured that was as good as any instrument to pick up. If I got stuck, my wife could always help me.

* * *

I once watched the CEO of a company I worked for step down after decades of service. By all accounts, he was everything we’re told to aspire to: the little guy starting out at the bottom, who ended up shaping a company that shaped an industry.

But on the morning he stood before us saying goodbye, he said his final decision to retire came when his family begged him to stop answering text messages from work in the middle of Thanksgiving dinner. He was given an ultimatum by his family to not ruin Christmas by constantly working.

He broke down. Not just a sniffle, here and there, but full-on weeping. Why?

He told us, for all his accomplishments in business, that he missed his children growing up. He really didn’t know them, and he wondered what damage was done to his family in his pursuit of what society holds most dear: money and power.

He closed by saying something along the lines of, “And so, I’m retiring. But here’s what really scares me…I don’t know what I’ll do with myself.”

He talked about making up time with family, or maybe even writing. Perhaps he’d sit on the board of a charity he believed in.

Want to know what he’s doing today?

He’s the CEO for another software company.

(I hope he at least makes time for his grandchildren…)

* * *

What does all this have to do with “A Deathly Mistake”?

I wanted to write a story imploring people to do things they love, simply because it brings them joy. Not monetizing every pursuit or working 80 hours a week, only to one day look back and regret all the things never done.

And I didn’t want to be subtle about it—I would have the protagonists hide nothing in their conversations.

What better way to make a point by showing how, in death, there’s no more power. As an atheist, I obviously believe there’s no more anything, but that’s not much of a way to inspire an audience.

In the end, the regrets most people have are:

• Working too much.
• Living a life others expected of them—not the life they wanted to live.
• Not spending as much time with family and friends.
• And finally: Not doing the things they wanted to do.

* * *

I’ll be the first to admit it’s not always easy to work less, pursue what makes you happiest, and have time for others. It would be a smug assertion that just because I’ve sacrificed certain comforts and security to do those things that others should do the same.

At the same time, I wish others extended similar courtesies to those of us wired differently. I wish others understood that just because some of us are not willing to give our lives over to day jobs, that we can still be serious about the work we do. Instead, many managers act as though we should do as they say and consider ourselves fortunate to stand in their shadows.

For me, “A Deathly Mistake” comes down to two character quotes:

John saying, “The weird thing about having cancer and all that time to think were the epiphanies. You’d vow that if you made it, everything would change. You’d cherish every second of life like few other people could. Then you get through it and, at first, others are happy for you. You’re the center of attention. But that goes away so fast, and then you’re back at a job to make ends meet and no one cares. You know how fleeting life is, but you still have to survive, so you go back to living like nothing ever happened. Such a profound experience wiped away by the rush of everyday life.”

And then Tommy saying, “Figuring out how to find some kind of happiness in spite of all the shit we eat day in and day out…that’s the closest thing to enlightenment I know of.”

* * *

In “A Deathly Mistake,” John finally does something he always wanted to do: he learns how to play the mandolin. At first, he has a difficult time and feels a sense of shame. That shame is quite common in people who excel at their day jobs, but feel awkward struggling through something entirely new.

I’ve worked in factories and warehouses; as a consultant and in offices—and a constant in all those jobs was an expectation of a perfection that never existed (especially in the hurried and stressful conditions in which most people work). But people have a knack for convincing themselves that flipping a few digital switches for a salary makes them more important than people moving boxes. They have a difficult time not being perceived as essential, even though they are likely easily replaced. They cling to what they know, and don’t like feeling clumsy when exposed to new things.

In death, John is still bound by the fears of the living.

He worries that struggling when initially picking up the mandolin means he’s not good at all.

* * *

When I taught myself how to juggle, I had no idea what I was doing. I didn’t know the basic cascade pattern was a thing—my impressions of what I set out to do were shaped more by cartoons than actual jugglers.

I attempted to figure it out on my own, and it was frustrating. But then, on the afternoon it clicked, and I could keep things going, juggling became one of the things in life that saved me.

Juggling is a funny thing: to get good, you have to suck. A lot. You drop much more than you succeed. And if you’re wired a certain way, it’s humiliating—a thing best left on the ground and not pursued.

There was a time two years ago, when working my way through a beginning mandolin book, that I became that frustrated person. I wanted to throw my hands up in defeat. If I could have afforded it, I might have smashed the instrument like a rock star on stage.

But I know that’s part of the process, and I can now play a handful of Irish tunes with my wife.

* * *

I obviously chose to have John play the mandolin in “A Deathly Mistake” because it’s the instrument that I play. But still, there was a moment in putting the episode together that I was worried it would not come out the week I intended.

Originally, I hoped to get permission to use a tune I love by a musician I respect in many ways. That didn’t happen, though, so I had to learn something with a similar feeling at the last minute. My wife suggested Turlough O’Carolan’s Sí Beag, Sí Mór.

I learned how to play the first half of the tune, but the second section gets more complex. And because it was easier to record sounds for the episode than practice, I put things off until…one afternoon, the episode was almost complete. The only thing holding me back was the second section of Sí Beag, Sí Mór—the part with some notes that always give me trouble on other tunes I’ve learned.

I resolved to spend the evening—maybe even several evenings—working on the section I’d never attempted. I watched Baron Collins Hill play it on mandolessons.com (where I’ve learned most of what I know), and gave it a try.

Know what?

No section of new music ever came easier to me.

I set up my recorder and found myself with a problem I’d never had before with music: deciding which of the three good takes I laid down from the start to use in the episode.

I had my pick!

* * *

Earlier, I mentioned not using characters as mouthpieces, and I mean it. If John and Tommy dwelled on what I really believe—that most of humanity is miserable and suffering—a hopeful story would be dismal. There are writers who do a great job shedding light on human suffering, but I’m not one of them…at least not where that suffering is dark and deep. I believe that kind of suffering is common, but it’s not what I choose to write about.

If I can write a story that touches somebody in a positive way, even if it’s just a chuckle at one of my more crude or ridiculous tales, my job is done. And if I can inspire someone to something better, that’s an honor I hold dear.

I wish everyone could experience the joy I felt when I could finally juggle; the satisfaction I feel when putting together a story like “A Deathly Mistake”; the giddiness of recording part of a tune that worried me, only to have a hard time choosing in the end which take was the best.

I rarely ask anything of anyone, but I ask you right now: if there’s a thing you’ve always wanted to do, but haven’t: why not?

Maybe you have valid reasons—maybe you are the sole caretaker for someone in need and that’s not an option for you…at least right now. Or maybe you’re like Tommy in the latest episode: content to take care of responsibilities and then watch TV and play video games. (Nothing wrong with that!) Or maybe you’re like my wife and me and already doing plenty of other things—and lack the time and money for another hobby or pursuit.

But if you have the means to do something you repeatedly talk about doing, I hope you give it a try.

No matter what you believe comes after death, it would be a shame to meet your end full of regret, instead of carrying good memories of the things you loved and did during the time you had.

* * *

[Quirky music fades in…]

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks and Behind the Cut. Theme music for Behind the Cut is a tune called “Reaper” by Razen. Visit nolumberjacks.com for information about the music, the episodes, and voice talent.

In a month or so…well, it’ll probably be a story about a strange phone booth or a tale about a geeky teenager who finds something incredible while shopping in an antique store with his grandmother. (If you’re taking bets, it would probably be best to take the phone booth story.)

Until next time: be mighty, and keep your axes sharp!