[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:

I should probably begin episodes of Behind the Cut with a spoiler alert. Something like, “Behind the Cut is usually a behind-the-scenes look at the latest episode of Not About Lumberjacks and likely contains spoilers of the latest episode. You’ve been warned…”

* * *

I didn’t like my latest story, “The Cold of Summer,” until its final days.

I mean, I loved the idea of it—a group of strangers contracting a virus that allows them to share dreams? What’s not cool about that? But it became a story that seemed to do only what was expected of it: hitting all the right points, but feeling rather stale in doing so.

For me, a story that goes through the motion of its telling with little more than the effort leaves me flat. And for much of “The Cold of Summer’s” creation, it was that kind of story. It’s not that there was anything really wrong with it, but it definitely lacked that certain je n’est sais quoi.

* * *

Writing is an act of discovery, and for me, I often go into stories with no idea how they end. In the writing world, I’m what’s called a pantser, someone who writes by the seat of their pants…not according to any plan.

Because of this, I often put a great amount of trust in myself and the story…believing it’ll all come together through the effort of putting my ass in a chair and writing.

It’s not that I’ve never tried planning, but I can’t truly know a story until wading in and spending time with it—no matter how much I try. Writing begets writing; ideas lead to more ideas, and it’s often during that effort that the best pathways appear. (Sometimes, granted, too many trails at once, but you work with it and trust the journey.)

* * *

One of the problems with “The Cold of Summer’s” creation was how it quickly bloated. The structure was there: people contract a virus, they get sick, they have dreams, we see how it affects them, and…there, well…I planned another round of full dreams in which the characters crossed over into each other’s dreams.

It was a neat idea, but aside from adding to the story’s length, it became strangers helping strangers in dreams. It all seemed too forced, like, “Hey, I don’t know you, but aren’t you the person I saw the other day in line at the pharmacy? Here, let me fix all that’s wrong in your life…”

Okay, maybe it wasn’t that bad, but it was definitely not good.

* * *

The first time I really considered scrapping the story, I did what I usually do in that rare instance and I sat with it. And in doing so…I knew the old woman needed to play a bigger role. But I had no idea what that was until, in another rare instance, I talked about a story in progress with my wife.

She said something to the effect of, “Maybe the old woman is full of regrets…?”

I ran with that idea, but I still had the bloated dreams issue—and all the stuff that I came up with for the old woman seemed hokey. (Even now, her line about the ripples in the final dream still seems very on the nose to me.)

But those are things that can be fixed. I’m sure some people would have liked seeing the characters crossing over into each other’s dreams instead of the quick info dump, but here’s the thing with any story: any decision you make along the way will be liked by some and hated by others. (I mean, some people like chocolate, others like vanilla…and then there are people who are like, “Oh, yuck!” to it all and want something savory.)

So, the second round of dreams was cut short and the old woman offers some pat advice we all already know, but ya know, hey: sometimes you do that in a story. And in making those decisions, the ending seemed more realistic to me: It wasn’t rushed—it was four strangers who haven’t quite come to grips with what just happened to them, and they’re all like, “Now what?” instead of things concluding in a neat little package where everything is resolved.

* * *

Another thing I need to remember when a story seems off is the stories on Not About Lumberjacks are heard—not read. (Although I’ve been catching up on providing transcripts for people with hearing impairments or those who would rather read fiction than listen to it.)

Lines that might seem a bit heavy-handed while writing can be tempered through narration. Sounds fill in the gaps, and sometimes a music bed can do more for a piece than trying to describe it in greater detail.

When all those elements finally come together, I’ve enjoyed all the stories on Not About Lumberjacks even more.

* * *

I also need to remember these stories are not for me. Sure, obviously, I write the things I want to write, but once they’re out there, they belong as much to the readers as much as they do to me.

I recently shared the opening story of December’s Christmas episode with someone…and they saw in it something totally different than my intent. But, once I think about it, I’d argue that their view is even more valid than mine because they lived through the very subject of the story in a way I never did.

I’m not precious about controlling what people take from the things I write. If I wanted to control it all, I’d not share the stories at all…or I’d only share them with people primed to see in them exactly what I see in them.

Fortunately, the people I hear from—people I know and even a bunch of strangers—like what I’m doing. And when they talk about liking stories I’m apprehensive about, I see those stories affected listeners and readers in ways I might never have imagined.

It’s in those moments that I’m happy I let something go, even if I wasn’t sure about it…because some of the things that have entertained and even helped people are not always the stories that mean the most to me.

And that makes the effort worth it every time I sit down to write and record a story for the show…

* * *

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.

Later this month, a guy down on his luck who takes up the hobby of geocaching begins finding the strangest caches out along the lumber roads of northern Minnesota. So strange, in fact, that his obsession with them changes his life forever. Oh, and of course, since it’s November and the anniversary episode of the show, I PROMISE…there is no mention at all about lumberjacks!!!

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, four strangers are brought together when affected by a strange virus.

And now…the usual content advisory: This story deals with illness, including mentions of COVID-19. It’s also not without moments of anxiety, regret, abandonment, nightmares, and even death. I know that makes it sound like it’s a rough tale, but this is still a story of hope.

Oh—and just like almost every episode—there’s some swearing. You’ve been warned.

All right—let’s get to work…

The Cold of Summer

The old woman in line at the pharmacy couldn’t stop coughing. During cold and flu season, it would have been bad enough, but in early summer during an expanding pandemic, it was cause for alarm.

The two people in line who were keeping their distance stepped back ever farther, while two others appeared to regret crowding the old woman seemingly on the verge of producing a lung from the depths of her torso and letting it hang from her wide-open mouth.

“I’m so sorry,” she said between hacking fits. “I’ve had a catch in my throat for weeks that just won’t go away.”

Meesha Salib pointed to the mask she was wearing and said, “Madame, you should be wearing one of these.” Before vowing to come back when it was less crowded, she pointed at the other two and said, “You, too, as well. I am not angry—just concerned.”

“Well, you should be angry,” Todd Bancroft said from the back of the line. “We should all be angry thatthere are still people not wearing masks. They’re putting us all at risk.”

“I forgot mine,” Darnell Walker said. “Seriously…it’s just been one of those kinds of weeks.”

Todd’s mask inflated as he let out a dramatic sigh.

“I’m so sorry,” the old woman said to the remaining three in line.

Keighla Murray said, “It’s okay,” and took another step away.

* * *

Meesha Salib was lying on the couch before bedtime when she started to sniffle. She didn’t feel right—like a balloon was slowly expanding in her head and on the verge of popping.

She got up and raced to the bathroom, head tilted back and continuing to sniffle in an effort to make it to a piece of Kleenex before having her nose run everywhere. Her skull pounded as she blew.

She grabbed the box and headed to bed.

* * *

It felt like a bloody nose when it first hit Todd Bancroft. He was at his desk, posting on Twitter about how rude people were at the pharmacy earlier—how an old woman was likely to give him COVID-19; how only one other person in the pharmacy line even wore a mask. Right before clicking the Tweet button, his nose ran, falling from his face and onto his keyboard.

“Shit!”

He pinched his nostrils together and ran to the bathroom for a wad of toilet paper. Pressing it to his nose, he grabbed another wad and returned to his desk, trying his best to clean what he could reach on his keyboard. It would take more to clean beneath the keys, but as his head began to pound, he said, “Fuck it,” and went to bed.

* * *

Darnell Walker’s nose ran into the open copy of Biochemistry & the Molecular Biology of Plants resting on the kitchen table. He’d been struggling to keep his eyes open through a section about using biotechnology to create genetic diversity in plants for an hour, wondering the whole time why he thought returning for a master’s degree was a good idea. But he wasn’t the first parent with two young kids and a busy job to put in extra time in the hopes of a career that would afford him more time doing what he preferred—not what he had to do to make ends meet.

“Aww, fuck!”

As he rushed to the kitchen and wiped his nose with a paper towel in the kitchen, his wife, Kara, wandered in and said, “Did you say something, babe?”

“Yeah, I just…my nose ran into my book. I’ve felt kinda crappy all day. Think I’ll clean up and head to bed…”

* * *

Keighla Murray was binge-watching the second season of Stranger Things for the third time when her nose began to itch. On screen, as Steve was surrounded by monsters in a junkyard, her nose began to run.

She wiped it with the back of her hand, but it wouldn’t stop.

“Dammit!” She picked up the remote and paused the episode before stepping to the kitchen and grabbing a paper towel. It felt like sandpaper as she wiped at her nose, as though every nerve in her face had poked through skin and invited the pains of the world into her head.

She turned off the TV and went to bed.

* * *

Meesha plops down on the floor with a handful of loose papers, a pencil and pen, and a set of thin markers. She feels like a kid as she draws panels and thumbnails for the next page in a comic book story about a girl whose curiosity shapes the world around her. Her super power: if she wonders why people are cruel to each other, after rolling the reasons around in her head for a bit, the problem is solved.

She’s moved beyond the grand designs, and is now left with smaller stories. In them, she sees the greater purpose of the comic book: a character who can see how people feeling like they need permission are given the freedom to pursue their dreams, all from a seemingly chance encounter with a stranger who appears, helps them, and moves on.

It’s better than superheroes beating each other up and rescuing weaker people in need of their help. What’s more heroic, Meesha believes, than helping others help themselves?

The colors of the markers bleed through the paper, staining her older sister’s copy of COSMOPOLITAN used as both a drawing surface and something to catch color instead of the floor. Zahra will throw a fit when she sees another one of her magazines covered in marker colors, but none of that matters. Right now, Meesha’s made something from nothing. A story of hope.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” her mother says.

“What?”

“Wasting your time drawing cartoons.”

“They’re comic books.”

She knows her mother doesn’t see a difference.

“Your sister might not amount to much, but your father and I except better from you.”

“But Zahra’s is popular, Mother; she has it made.”

Something about Meesha’s childhood home does not seem right. It’s a feeling more than anything tangible, like something bad lives inside the walls…like the house itself is alive and ready to close in on them all.

Meesha’s mother says, “It wasn’t easy for us, you know?”

“I know.”

“We just want what’s best for you. You have opportunities your father and I never had. You’d do well to read or study—not draw your little cartoons.”

The room seems darker than it should be. The nearby dining room is lost to moon glow, even though it’s the middle of the day.

Even something about Meesha’s mother seems off. She looks no different, but some primordial instinct deep down says, “Run!”

She wakes to the bright light of a new morning.

* * *

The moving truck pulls away from Todd’s fifth childhood home. There are no friends to say goodbye—no neighbors gathering to wish his family well as they move to a new military base. “What is it like to stay in one place for more than a couple years?” Todd wonders.

He watches the moving truck climb up the street and disappear from view as it turns left at the stop sign. Looking back toward the house, his parents are gone—the family car is nowhere to be seen. Todd tries the front door, but it’s locked. Peeking in the front window, something moves from the living room to the hallway.

He bangs on the front door.

“Mom? Dad?”

He tries the doorknob again, and the door opens wide.

Of all the houses he’s lived in, this one let in the most light. But the house is dark, like twilight settling in, even though it’s a bright morning outside.

Todd hears the door to the basement close.

“Dad? Are you here?”

He wanders the house, listening to his steps echoing in the empty space. It doesn’t even smell like they were ever here. He finds himself in the short hallway, staring at the basement door. He reaches out.

A must settles in his nose. One more breath, and it’s joined by the stench of burned plastic and ozone, like insulation scorched from a wire. Todd descends the stairs by the light of a flickering TV.

It’s not the basement belonging to the house. It’s the basement of the first home he remembers, when his father was stationed at Great Lakes Naval Training Station, in Illinois. A large room with a musty red and black, indoor/outdoor tartan carpet covering hard concrete. A blue couch shoved against one wall, and a TV on an old dresser against another. Metal groaning from the utility room on the other side of the cheap door at the bottom of the stairs.

Todd sees someone sitting in an oversized chair just feet in front of the television. He can almost hear his mother say, “Toddy, you need to move farther back so you don’t hurt your eyes watching shows or playing your games.”

He spots his old Nintendo precariously situated on the dresser beside the TV. The screen is now black, except for Mario’s score, total coins collected, which world he’s in, the time, and the words GAME OVER. It’s funny how much illumination a few white words on a black screen on an old tube TV can give off.

A frail, adult hand holds the game’s controller. Todd moves around from the side of the chair and looks at the hunched frame sitting alone in the basement.

Todd is forty-five years old, but if he had to guess what he’d look like in twenty years, it’s exactly like the dead man in the chair.

He wakes up in bed, covered in sweat.

* * *

Darnell rushes through proofreading a study about improving drought tolerance in corn. He looks at the only personal thing on his desk at work: a photo of him with his wife, Kara, son, Myles, and daughter, Zoey. They keep him going on days like today, when everyone in the lab seems on edge, even though there are no funding issues or pressing deadlines. But somehow, Darnell always has pressing deadlines; the newest person on the receiving end of the all the things at work others believe are beneath them.

Words run together as Darnell watches the clock on his computer creep toward five-o’-clock. He’ll grab a bite to eat on the way to his kids’ school, where he’ll take a saved seat beside Kara and watch a group of sixth graders struggle to play a selection of popular tunes Darnell wouldn’t recognize if they were played by professionals. Zoey will have her moment on bassoon, an instrument Darnell has come to love when he’s not busy trying to cover its honking during practice sessions conflicting with his studies.

“Walker,” his boss says, “when you’re done with that, we need you to take a look at these.”

His desk vibrates as a stack of paper several reams thick is plopped down.

He points at the lower right corner of his computer monitor. “I have to leave by five today.”

“We need this reviewed before you leave, today” his boss says.

“I can’t miss another thing with my kids.”

“You either want this, or you don’t. We’re paying for you to finish school. I understand that family’s important, but family doesn’t pay the bills.”

Darnell thinks about how he imagined it would be: no more field studies. Lab work and then jumping to a museum that would allow him evenings and weekends with his family.

He runs a finger along the stack of papers and picks up his phone.

He types, “So sorry—I have to work again.” and sends the text message.

When he arrives home, the house is dark. No dinner left out for him, just a note from his wife reading, “It’s getting old.” He sees pillows and a blanket tossed on the couch.

He looks at Biochemistry & Molecular Biology of Plants on the dining room table, but he’s too tired to study tonight. He opens the refrigerator door, but nothing looks good.

He goes to check on Zoey. She stirs and sits up as he cracks the door and peeks in.

“Daddy?”

“Yeah, sweetie,” he says. He sits on the edge of the bed and pats her arm.

“I’m sorry I missed your solo.”

He listens to her sniffle and force an, “It’s okay,” meant to make him feel better, even though they both know it’s not.

It’s dark, but Darnell can make out something wrong with Zoey’s face. Her mouth is a black hole.

“What happened to your teeth?”

“They fell out, Daddy.”

“What? What happened?”

“I was playing bassoon and saw you weren’t there and they started falling out. Everyone laughed at me. They said I ruined the concert.”

Darnell rubs her arm; skin flakes off in big chunks, like dry, cracked earth. Before he can say anything more, Zoey is reduced to dust, and he bolts upright in bed.

* * *

It’s such a slow morning at Crofter’s Crafts that a fourth cup of coffee does nothing to help with Keighlas’ focus. The empty cups in the small garbage can by her feet—hidden away from the view of customers—remind her nothing will help get her through the long day ahead. One register over, Haisley Nash watches TikTok videos at full volume, despite being told by their manager not to. When Manager Brad walks the floor near the registers, a burst of adrenaline from the anticipation that Haisley is about to actually get in trouble—maybe even fired—does more for Keighla than caffeine.

“’Mornin’, Haisley,” he says.

She stops smacking her gum long enough to say, “Huh?”

“I said good morning.”

“Oh…yeah.”

As he walks off, Keighla calls after him. “Hey, Brad?!”

He turns back toward the registers, and Keighla points at Haisley.

“Oh, yeah.” He walks to Haisley’s register. “I’d normally have this conversation in my office, but…we’ve decided to give you a two-dollar-an-hour raise.”

Haisley pops her gum and says, “Cool,” and then returns to her phone.

Keighla chases Brad down as he heads toward his office.

“You gave her a raise?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“She deserves it.”

“What?! Why?”

“She’s our best cashier. We’d hate to lose her.”

“She’s the worst! She ignores customers and blares her phone all day. She smacks her gum and takes breaks whenever the fuck she wants to.”

Brad’s eyebrows come together; his face turns red.

“You need to get back to your register.”

“There’s no one here, Brad. We need to have this talk.”

“You need to get back to your register…now!”

“Or what?”

“Or we’ll have to let you go.”

Back at her register, Keighla breathes deeply—in and out; in and out. Between Haisley’s phone and Brad’s chiding, she realizes maybe the four cups of coffee did have an effect.

When Keighla’s nerves settle, Haisley turns down her phone and says, “So what did you do this weekend? Did you work on that novel you’re always talking about?”

Keighla’s face grows warm; she tugs at a burning pink earlobe. “Yeah.”

“Did you really?” Haisley says.

“Yes, I did!”

“Don’t lie to me, Keighla. I can see in your face you didn’t do shit this weekend.”

Keighla’s earlobe droops. She brings her hands to her cheeks and feels loose flesh. She pulls her phone from her pocket and opens the front-facing camera. A face lined with wrinkles; hair brittle and white.

“You’re never going to finish that book,” Haisley says. “If you’ve even started it at all.”

She turns the volume on her phone back up, and Keighla wakes up covered in sweat.

* * *

Meesha rarely called in sick to work, even though a teaching assistant could always fill in for her. She had her father’s work ethic and a strong desire to make her mother proud. This cold, though…she knew it made no sense that she could get it that quickly from the pharmacy line. COVID took days—even over a week—to appear. This was a matter of hours.

She thought about keeping her work laptop on after sending email to the department head, telling them she would not be in. There seemed to be no line between work and life now that she was home all the time on lockdown. But she logged out and closed her laptop, tucking it away into the backpack usually used when going in.

Meesha made a cup of mint tea and headed back to bed. From her nightstand, she pulled out a pencil and sketchbook. She wondered if her parents were right, that she wouldn’t have the life she had if she had kept drawing all the time. She did everything she was supposed to do. But as she drew a woman sitting on a tree stump on the sketchbook page, she wished she knew how her other life would have turned out, had she not done all that was expected of her.

When she was done with the drawing, she set it in her lap and cupped her hands around the warm mug. She brought it near her face and inhaled, letting the steam soothe her; for a moment, taking away all the pain from whatever it was she picked up at the pharmacy.

Is this what days could have been like? Slowly waking up instead of rushing to the university? Time to ease into the days before doing what she always wanted to do, rather than all she did for others?

She placed the mug and sketchbook on the nightstand and stretched. It didn’t take long before she returned to sleep.

* * *

Todd typed, “COVID dreams” into a Google search and was not surprised to see a list of results. The first thing he read: “People are reporting strange, intense, colorful, and vivid dreams—and many are having disturbing nightmares related to COVID-19.” Another link, and he was surprised to find a WebMD article that didn’t attribute a condition to cancer. Ten minutes later, after scanning several articles, he was convinced he didn’t have the virus—but he definitely had something.

The dream seemed so real, and the lingering dread didn’t ease its grip on him. He hated moving so often while growing up—not having a sibling or any friends. The closest thing he had, now, were a few people on Twitter who were as ready to pounce on others as him.

He did another Google search: “Fisher Vitale.” The first search result displayed a Facebook link. The second: an obituary.

He clicked the Facebook link. Todd hadn’t seen Fisher since fifth grade, but from what he was able to see, it looked like what he’d imagine one of the few friends he ever had with a few decades added on. He saw old photos posted by Fisher’s longtime friends with messages about missing him. Birthday wishes, even though it looked like he’d been dead for three years. One photo in particular caught Todd’s attention: a group of kids at a birthday party he attended. There were comments below the image about how much fun that day was; how great it was being a kid. They were right: Todd remembered how excited Fisher was when he unwrapped the Grimlock Transformer Todd bought him with his saved allowance.

And then he saw it: a comment from someone he didn’t remember and a response from Fisher:

“Who’s that kid on Mikey’s right?”

“Oh, man…I can’t remember his name. His dad was in the Navy, and he moved away that year. He gave me a Grimlock Dinobot. I bet it’s still in my mom’s attic…”

The day seemed already done, so Todd went back to bed.

* * *

Darnell wandered out to the kitchen, where Kara was making a pot of coffee.

“You okay, babe?” she said.

“Yeah. Just wiped. Why?”

“You were doing that weird dreaming snore where I know you’re alive, but you were kicking and muttering and doing that nose whistle thing.”

“I had a bad dream.”

“About what.”

“Just…” He didn’t want to talk about it. It was one of those dreams that seemed so real, the kind that take over all thoughts the rest of the day. “I don’t remember much about it, other than it was bad. I’m so damn tired. I’m not going into work today…”

“Want me to make you breakfast?”

“That sounds great, but I think I’m going to call Tom and head back to bed…”

* * *

When she woke up, after checking her phone, Keighla called her boss. She was happy to get his voice mail.

“Hey, Brad…It’s Keighla. I’m sick and I won’t be in today.”

Not a minute later, her phone buzzed. She thought about not answering, but not enough time had passed to say she fell back asleep and missed the call. At least she didn’t have to put on a fake sick voice.

“Hello.”

“Hey, Keighla—what’s up?”

“I’m sick.”

“Can you try making it in today? We really need you.”

“I have the Coronavirus.”

“What? Have you been tested?”

She hadn’t, but she still said, “Yeah.”

“How long ago?”

She wanted to say, “This right here? This is why no one likes you, Brad.” Instead, she said, “Last week.”

“What?! You’ve thought you had COVID for a week and you kept coming into work?!”

“Well, Brad, it’s not like you let us use what little time off we have. People gotta start their pandemic scrapbooks while the rest of the world burns.”

“You need to fax me the results?”

It came out of her mouth before she could stop it. “Who the fuck has a fax machine in their house these days, Brad. I’m sick! I’m not going out to fax anything. I’m going back to bed…”

She hung up, not caring if she’d still have a job when she was better. She wondered if she actually did have the virus. It wouldn’t be so bad, being so sick that in days, she might go to sleep and not wake up.

She put her phone back on the nightstand and closed her eyes.

* * *

The dreams continue for days: struggles with desires versus expectations; a lifetime of abandonment; time always seeming to slip away; trying to figure out what to do with a hollow life.

Meesha is shocked when the man without a mask at the pharmacy steps into a dream one night and tells her mother to let her be. In return, Meesha’s there for him the following day, telling him to relax and breathe during a nightmare—that soon, he will have more time with his family. Todd apologizes to Keighla for his outburst in the line at the pharmacy, and she tells him she was also raised by a parent in the military and understands. 

None of it makes sense.

* * *

On the final night of the cold, the old woman stands in a sunlit meadow in an otherwise dim forest. Her hair is loose, long and gray and hanging down to her thighs. Before her on the stump is a dark-gray stone basin. Meesha, Todd, Keighla, and Darnell approach to see what she is looking at. The basin is full of water, the color of the stone dark enough to create a mirror effect on the surface. The old woman from the pharmacy smiles when their four faces come into view of the water’s reflection.

“I’d like to show you something,” she says.

She touches the center of the water with her fingertip, sending out ripples to the edge of the basin. They bounce back, and when they meet in the center, the water swirls in a kaleidoscope of colors. Minds are awash in the strange haze of dreams, where understanding is compressed by time, where a lifetime can be felt and comprehended in a moment.

The life of the old woman unfolds before them: her mother telling her only good girls find good husbands; they see no friends outside of her family. All the hard work she put into keeping a home that, in the end, became an empty vessel holding only regrets.

The colors in the water basin stop swirling. The old woman turns to the group and says, “None of you need permission. But if you feel you do, I give it to you. In the end, the happiness you feel and the ripples you send out is what really matters. I wish I had known that sooner.”

She touches the water’s surface again, and the four others feel it’s where they belong.

“I’m going to sleep, now,” the old woman says.

For the first time in days, they awaken feeling refreshed.

* * *

Meesha Salib was looking at a cluster of flowers along the side of Hosack Meadows Trails when Darnell arrived.

“Claytonia verginica,” he said. “Virginia spring beauty. It’s one of my favorite flowers in the area.” He pointed to his face. “I remembered my mask this time.”

Keighla arrived next, kicking her way through the long grass ebbing and flowing like a green tide. Her eyes crinkled into a smile when she spotted the other two.

“So this is for real?” she said from behind her mask. It wasn’t a question—it was a lifetime of hoping one day something bigger would happen that would change the way she looked at everything.

“So it appears,” Darnell said.

Todd Bancroft lumbered his way along the trail, huffing the entire time.

“Do you still have the cold?” Meesha said.

“No,” Todd replied. “I’m just that out of shape. I need to get out more.”

After giving Todd a moment to catch his breath, Darnell said, “All right—question: how did you all know to come here?”

“I don’t know,” Keighla said. “I had a dream last night about the old woman from the pharmacy. She touched a bowl of water on tree stump in the dream. I just knew to come here.”

Darnell looked at the other two. “I assume we all had the same dream?”

Todd and Meesha nodded. When they all turned to look, growing from the stump’s center was a red and yellow flower that looked like a tiny fire in the breeze.

“That shouldn’t be here,” Darnell said.

Meesha was the first to approach. “What is it?”

“A pine lily. They don’t grow up here.”

“Her name was Lily, wasn’t it?” Todd wasn’t alone in the knowledge.

“This does not make sense,” Meesha said.

Darnell crouched down for a closer look at the flower. “And yet, here we all are.”

“So, what do we do now?” Keighl said.

Meesha pointed down the trail. “I suppose we go for a walk and figure it out.”

“That works,” Darnell said. “But first, I think we should all agree right now to stay out of each others’ dreams…and if anyone gets sick…stay the hell away from the rest of us…”

[Quirky music plays…]

Christopher Gronlund:

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks.

Theme music, as always, is by Ergo Phizmiz. Story music this time is by Oscar Colling and Ethan Sloan, licensed from Epidemic Sound. Haisley’s tune is “Toss the Salt” by Sionya, featuring Emmi…also from 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.

November’s tale is Not About Lumberjacks’ anniversary episode, which is always the most NOT about lumberjacks story of the year. It’s narrated by Jesse Harley, an award-winning filmmaker and one half of Canadian Politics is Boring, a history and comedy podcast.

You probably want to know what you’re in for, eh? Well, When Wayne finds strange items in geocaches along the old lumber roads of northern Minnesota, he becomes obsessed with discovering who’s leaving the items behind. What he discovers changes the way he looks at life…

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

[Listen]

[Intro music plays]

Woman’s Voice:

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

[Music fades out]

Christopher Gronlund:

In the mid-80s, a friend had a cassette tape of the Dead Milkmen’s Big Lizard in my Backyard. Before long, I had one, too.

My introduction to punk rock mostly came in the form of humorous bands, with the Vandals and The Dead Milkmen at the top for me. A borrowed copy of The Vandals’ Peace Through Vandalism lived in my car’s tape deck, and that friend and I almost wore out our copies of The Dead Milkmen’s Big Lizard in My Backyard.

When the Dead Milkmen released their second album, Eat Your Paisley, I was ecstatic. To this day, I still love every tune on that album. The ninth song on it is called “The Thing That Only Eats Hippies,” a tune about a kid who makes a monster in his bathtub for a 4-H project. The monster breaks loose [in the middle of the night] and then, well…true to the song’s title, it runs around eating hippies.

There’s a lot to like about the song; it’s one of many by the band that still finds its way into my head, where I never mind the earworm. The concept of a kid making a monster in his bathtub stuck with me for years.

Jump forward some time, and that seed of an idea came together one day when I sat down to write. I thought, “What about a story about a kid making a monster in his bathtub to take on a bully…and then things going terribly wrong?” It wouldn’t be the thing that only eats hippies…it would be a lonely kid’s only friend. Then I had to think, “Why is the kid so lonely?” Well, he’s in a messed up, broken family. He’s tired of being picked on by a kid named Chad Earnst. All that, and face it: junior high school sucked!

Making a monster in his bathtub makes perfect sense! And so, Booger became more than just an idea.

* * *

I really released my inner twelve-year-old when it came to the sound design for Booger. I’d seen a video about the sound effects behind one of the Mortal Combat videogames. In the video, the sound designer showed someone at Vox just how gross chewing a banana close to the mic could sound. He showed him how ripping apart green peppers can sound like a chest cavity being torn open with the right surrounding sounds. It was enough to get me really thinking about the sounds in Booger when it came time to record.

One night while cooking dinner, the sound of stirring rice and beans caught my attention. I grabbed a portable recorder and recorded the sounds, but it’s not used in Booger because the ambient sounds of the kitchen really stood out. Still, I knew a similar sound needed to be in the recorded story.

And so, one morning my wife shook her head as I went into a quiet closet at the back of the apartment with some sound gear, a banana, a bowl of oatmeal, and a glass of water with a straw. (Now, my wife’s a very patient woman who often takes part in helping me create sounds, but it still cracks her up at times, the efforts I go to record what I hear inside my head.) I thought the resulting sounds were funny. I figured as ridiculous as Booger is, why not go all-out with vile sound design?

* * *

Sound is a strange thing. You can shoot a mediocre video, but if it has great sound, it’s watchable. But if you watch a strong video with terrible sound…well, most people will move on. Good sound design often goes unnoticed because it helps people lose themselves in a story…whether it’s an audio tale like those on Not About Lumberjacks, or a multi-million-dollar movie.

While I thought the sound design for Booger was simply fun and funny, it really got to people. I heard from more listeners about Booger than perhaps any story I’ve ever told on Not About Lumberjacks. One morning alone, several friends messaged me about how gross the story sounded. During a recent board game night with friends, one of them mentioned about how hard it was for him to listen to, and another friend admitted the sounds got to him as well.

I listen to every story on Not About Lumberjacks multiple times before I let them go online. The reward for me is listening with my wife. By the time we sit down together, it’s more a visual thing for me because I’ve heard the story so many times. I don’t like hovering when people read a story I’ve written because I know it makes them nervous. But watching my wife hear a story for the first time is one of the reasons I do this show.

Watching her listen to Booger, though…I realized what I’d grown used to really was really quite vile. Seeing her face twist into shocked expressions with each new layer of sound made me wonder if I’d gone too far. I don’t talk about it, much, but I’m in the process of querying agents with a “serious” novel. I almost didn’t post Booger in fear that, no matter how strong an agent might feel the accompanying sample of the novel was…if they did just a little bit of research, they’d find Not About Lumberjacks, click the top story, and think to themselves, “Oh…oh, no. No. This cannot stand…This is a very wrong person!”

At the same time, I often think about my life in these terms: would younger me like the adult I grew up to become?

I think younger me would be quite impressed to see that we’re finally skilled enough to pull off the kind of serious fiction we were never quite sure we could write, but aspired to nonetheless. Younger me would be happy to see that we still play Dungeons and Dragons and that we can finally play some musical instruments with at least a vague proficiency. And younger me would think the sound design in Booger is the greatest thing ever!

So, if Booger grossed you out, blame the awkward kid I once was…and, of course, The Dead Milkmen.

* * *

[Theme music fades in]

Christopher Gronlund:

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 two weeks, it’s the November anniversary episode in which I go beyond my normal promise to never – ever – tell a story about lumberjacks. Join Cynthia Griffith and me for a tale called…The Lumberjack of Williamsburg.

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

[Listen]

[Intro music plays]

Woman’s Voice:

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

[Music fades out]

Christopher Gronlund:

I wasn’t sure about releasing Under the Big Top. Not only is it almost twice as long as the longest episode of Not About Lumberjacks, but it breaks a lot of rules for mysteries.

It’s an older story I’ve let sit for some time, thinking the day would come when I’d trim the long opening and get into the story quicker. I’d tighten up some of the writing that seemed off and improve some issues with its flow.

But I’ve not released a story in some time, so I released it as-is. I figured I could use this episode of Behind the Cut to talk about how good enough is often, well…good enough. (Or to say, “Hey, some of my older writing had issues, but you get better with practice…”)

A funny thing happened with this episode, though: people really seem to love it. Where I see room for so much improvement, others see a story that took them away from everything for an hour. I feel mysteries have an inherent problem of deception, with red herrings and other misdirection placed there for no other reason than to give readers and listeners more to consider, but that’s a big part of the fun for many.

I’ve released other Not About Lumberjacks episodes I wasn’t so sure about, only to realize, when I sit down and listen to them with my wife, that I like them quite a bit.

Sitting down with a splash of bourbon and listening to “Under the Big Top” with my wife reminded me what we’re not-so-sure about often isn’t as big a deal as it can be in our minds.

* * *

While I believe all stories are mysterious—at least in the sense we don’t know everything about them and how they will end—I’ve not read many actual mysteries. A few Tony Hillerman novels, and a couple other things, is about it.

Oddly, while I’m not much of a mystery fan, my second novel—which I tucked away in a drawer—is a paranormal mystery set in Chicago in the 1920s. Two novels ago, it was a story about a recently divorced celebrity chef who moves to a small town in northern Wisconsin right about the time the town’s most-hated resident goes missing.

I think the reason I rewrote the Wisconsin story until it felt right, but shelved the Chicago story, is the point of that one was the mystery. (The Wisconsin story was about so much more…)

When the mystery is the point, stories often feel forced to me. Characters are placed there to give readers options to roll over in their minds. If an investigator is looking for just one person we know did it…well, it’s not very mysterious, is it?

None of this is to knock the genre…it’s just not my preference.

And maybe that’s why I was never so sure about “Under the Big Top”: it’s not the kind of story I normally write. Most tales shared on Not About Lumberjacks have a quirky side to them…and I understand those stories, like mysteries to me, might not be one’s preference.

So why did I write “Under the Big Top”?

It was a challenge in my old writing group. I wanted to see if I could pull off something I wasn’t sure about. Because here’s another thing about mysteries and me: while they are not my preference, I respect good mysteries as much as I respect anything.

I know there’s a different craft that goes into them. In many ways, they’re harder to write than the kinds of things I normally write. There are more rules to follow…and to learn which to bend or break. Mysteries require a different kind of effort than most of the things I write.

* * *

One of the other reasons I don’t prefer mysteries is I don’t like trying to figure things out when I read. This might sound strange to some, because often writers say they can’t enjoy reading or watching movies because they can see where a story is likely to go.

I prefer to lose myself when I read, so thinking, “Whodunit?” is not my thing.

* * *

I have a general rule about stories: I only discuss stories I’m not fond of with a couple close people. I don’t see the point of talking about something you didn’t like in the open when you can spend that time talking about something you loved.

But I’m going to break my own rule and talk about a story, at least in part, that left me flat. And maybe it’s that, “at least in part,” aspect that makes me feel like it’s okay to talk about Dennis Lehanne’s Mystic River, which I largely adored. (Maybe part of where it lost me was in the marketing, which billed it as a master work of mystery and not a literary novel about the past haunting the future.)

The actual mystery aspect of Mystic River felt a bit like a cop-out. The writing and overall story was great, but it was also like, “The murderer was really only there in a passing scene…” (Then again, maybe that’s my fault for expecting certain things from mysteries.)

In “Under the Big Top,” if I had a passing character, say a ticket-taker at the circus, take Crawford’s and Dessner’s tickets and not really give them much more time in the story than that, but later have them confess to crimes…it would seem almost unfair to the reader. It would be like a shoddy magician pointing to the wings on stage, saying, “Oh my God—what’s that?!” and throwing something in his hand to the other side while the audience’s attention is elsewhere.

It seems like a reader should at least get a chance to guess whodunit with enough information to piece things together—not just, “Ha! It was that person you barely saw and learned nothing about!”

In fairness to Mystic River, when I gave it more thought, the mystery wasn’t so much the point. It was more about how a choice made in childhood by several friends came back in adulthood and affected almost every aspect of those characters’ lives. The tragedy of what one old friend does to another hinges on that passing scene where we’re briefly introduced to who killed one of the main characters’ daughter.

* * *

While I don’t like the almost inherent things one must do when writing a mystery (the red herrings and other efforts to avoid revealing whodunit until much later), I understand why mysteries are so loved. I liked the Hillerman books I read because I loved the protagonists. And I even loved many of the characters the reader must consider if they’re trying to figure out who committed an act worthy of writing a mystery…and why they did it.

Again, I cannot profess to be a deep reader of mysteries. I’ve read more than those I’ve mentioned, but not enough that I’d consider myself any kind of expert. But I’ve watched enough cozy mysteries with my wife and my mom to know how important characters are to the genre.

In the end, as much as many like the challenge of figuring it all out and seeing if they’re right, just as many people simply love getting to meet interesting characters.

And there’s no mystery to that.

* * *

I appreciate that people seem to love “Under the Big Top.” In fact, it’s done better than most episodes of Not About Lumberjacks in its initial weeks than most stories, here.

In the world of podcasting, many would say that I should now change my focus and turn the show into a vehicle for mysteries in order to get more listeners. But I will continue telling whatever story bubbles up enough in my head that it gets finished, recorded, and released.

Still…if you hope for more mysteries from me, while it might be some time before I release another, you’re in luck. I have a Halloween-themed mystery in the works tentatively titled “Stopping Monsters,” and another that begins with this line: “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 knows…maybe I can warm to mysteries after all…

* * *

[Theme music fades in]

Christopher Gronlund:

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, episodes, and voice talent.

In a few weeks—FINALLY—it’s the strange father and son tale I’ve been talking about for…well, way too long. But it’s in production as I speak, features several cool people lending their voices (most notably, Rick Coste), and I’m told it’s a bit of a tear-jerker by those who’ve read the story.

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

[Listen]

[Intro music plays]

Woman’s Voice:

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

[Music fades out]

Christopher Gronlund:

My good friend, Curtis Hart, requested this episode of Behind the Cut. He noticed there are times I tease an episode and then…well…I release it much later than planned.

Perhaps the best example of this is “Alone in HQ,” a post-apocalyptic office story I mentioned at the end of episodes for well over a year.

Curtis wanted to know what’s behind those lags in planning to release a story…to actually sharing the story with you all.

The simple version is I do this for free, in addition to working a full-time job. On top of that, while I’m not the most social person, I do spend time with friends and family—most notably, trying to visit my mom every week and then spending every other Saturday playing Dungeons and Dragons, which, right now during the current pandemic, I’m seeing everybody online. But when we when I get together with friends in person, that’s an evening dedicated to hanging out. And when it comes to Dungeons and Dragons weekends, it’s safe to say two Saturdays a month are consumed by that…and I can get a lot of writing, recording, and editing done on a Saturday.

I also produce another podcast called Men in Gorilla Suits. It’s a thing I do with a friend—and while its production is very streamlined and nowhere near as involved as Not About Lumberjacks, every other week, it still requires hours I could dedicate to this show.

And, of course, I do write other things.

* * *

To that point, let’s talk about novels. I’m currently shopping a novel around to agents and writing another. Because it’s a story requiring great amounts of research, time is also spent reading books pertaining to the story—and finding videos, photographs, and other material. And it’s a literary story, which requires more focus from me than putting a short story together in chunks.

I’m also a technical writer by trade, and that means I often focus on work a bit more around the software releases I support. Technical writing pays the bills, so it takes priority. And when my day job is more demanding, I’m not as able to focus on short stories AND novels.

Sometimes I spend more time on Not About Lumberjacks; other times, I dedicate all my fiction-writing time to novels. Especially during those times—with novels—it means I’m less likely to put out a new episode of Not About Lumberjacks.

* * *

Granted, there have been times I’ve put in overtime at work, time toward a novel, and still released episodes of Not About Lumberjacks. Here’s my not-so-secret: I started the show with a backlog of stories mostly (or completely) ready to record.

“Pepper” is the 31^st story I’ve released for the show. If you factor in the Christmas episodes, with their multiple shorter works, 41 original stories exist on the site.

Of those, roughly half were already written. Meaning, if I needed to get an episode out during a busy point in my life, I could grab an old story and be well ahead in the most-lengthy part of most productions: the writing!

I’m now at a point that I have no old stories to record. Everything is new, so…I no longer have the luxury of planning an episode, realizing life is getting in the way, and falling back on an existing tale.

With very few exceptions, writing is the longest part of the process, and sometimes I’m not able to focus on new Not About Lumberjacks stories because I’m busy with work or other writing at the time.

* * *

When I factor in the time writing new stories, figuring out the production, recording, editing, creating and finding sounds and music, and then putting it all together, some episodes of the show have likely taken 40-60 hours to produce from that initial idea to something you can listen to for free. On average, I’d guess most take 20-30 hours.

I don’t view the creative things I do like a corporate return on investment. I have fun creating episodes, so…I make them. But when you factor in 40-60 hours spent on a thing that usually gets 40 listens in its initial weeks of release and then creeps up to maybe 75-100 listens—with rare stories listened to by 200 people—it’s not like there are throngs of people banging on my door, demanding episodes.

And while I care about every listener, Not About Lumberjacks comes with a certain reality for me: as much as I’d love it to be my day job (in addition to writing novels), it’s unlikely to ever happen. And that’s not me being gloomy—it’s just a fact: most people who set out to write fiction full time never will. You can wish to be a bestselling novelist all you want—even doing all you can to make it happen—but it’s like being a professional athlete: even some of the best in their fields never realize that dream.

And so…some days when I’ve been working long hours on a release at work, the last thing I want to do is eat dinner with my wife and then sit down to write stories and work on recording them until it’s time to go to bed…only to get up early and write at my day job the following morning.

More times than not, I just want to hang out with my wife. Sometimes I want to meet up with friends on a Wednesday or Thursday night. And other times, I just want to do nothing at all.

Sometimes, you want to have a little break.

* * *

All this is a way of saying that sometimes, stories just require more time.

I try keeping episodes of Not About Lumberjacks around thirty minutes or less. With the story “Alone in HQ,” there was so much more I wanted to do. Because it was framed as both an homage and a parody of Ayn Rand’s ANTHEM, I originally brought in a female character to match the protagonist of that story meeting a woman. But once I did that…I needed to build the relationship up more to pull off the planned ending.

And that added too much to the story, and took away much of what seemed to make the story charming.

In the end, I removed that story line entirely. But I struggled with the decision because there did seem to be something more with bringing in another character. I loved some of the scenes I wrote with the two characters, and what more I was able to say about corporate life with her presence.

But it would have meant the story bloating into novella range, much like the story it was framed around.

* * *

Sometimes it’s the writing that takes a long time. But other times, like “The Other Side,” it’s coordinating with other people and creating more involved effects that adds to how long it takes to create an episode. Mostly, though, it’s just a matter of wrapping up more pressing projects that get in the way of scheduling and releasing episodes.

I’d love Not About Lumberjacks to come out at least every other month. I’d love for the show to be my full-time job.

But that’s not my reality…

Effort doesn’t equal success. If it did, Not About Lumberjacks and everything else I do would be paying the bills.

Right now, the best I can hope for—and you as well—is that stories will come out when I’m able to make something new and set it loose upon the small following the show has.

And if that’s as good as it ever gets, that’s plenty-enough for me. I hope its good enough for you, too…or that at least you understand why it sometimes takes a while to get an episode out.

* * *

[Theme music fades in]

Christopher Gronlund:

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, episodes, and voice talent.

I’m not sure what story’s coming up next, but it’s likely going to be about a virus and dreams…Unless, of course, as I’ve discussed here, that story takes more time than expected and I work on something else in the meantime…

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