[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 in-depth look at the latest episode of Not About Lumberjacks and likely contains spoilers of the most recent story. You’ve been warned…”

* * *

Before chatting about “In the Margins,” I have a listener question to answer. Curtis Hart asked: “What is your thought process when choosing other narrators?” (Okay, so he specifically asked how I choose between Cynthia narrating a story instead of me, but I’ve used other narrators in the past, so I’d also like to cover that.)

While I’d be comfortable narrating every story I write for Not About Lumberjacks, when a story is from the point of view of a woman, I prefer having women narrate those stories. In my mind, I associate my deeper voice being a strange thing to carry a story featuring a female protagonist. So that’s why women narrate the stories I write featuring women.

When it comes to the other narrators I’ve chosen over the years, there are just people I love working with. I adore hearing their take on something I’ve written. Perhaps the best example is Michael Howie’s reading of “The Hidebehind.” It takes place in a lumber camp in Ontario, Canada, and Michael has the perfect tone and authentic accent for that story. That’s really it: I like working with friends…most of whom, I know through podcasting.

So…why don’t I do it more often?

When working with others, you have to arrange things around two schedules: the narrator’s schedule…and mine. Also, I believe in paying narrators, so there’s cost involved. (Because I work with friends who refuse to take money from me, I offer to pay them or donate to a charity of their choice…and they always choose charities!)

Not About Lumberjacks is a thing I do on my own time, and I sometimes find myself with a break in my schedule sooner than planned. If I keep production in house, I can adapt to those moments and sometimes get episodes out sooner. But if I tell someone they have three weeks to narrate a story and I find myself with unexpected time a week in, I can’t tell them to adapt to my schedule if they planned to narrate things a week later.

I’ve not used a remote narrator since Jesse Harley narrated “Geocached” almost two years ago. I’d love to work with others more, but it’s just easier to do it all right here.

That’s why Cynthia narrates even more than she has in the past: we live beneath the same roof! The logistics of creating a new episode is just easier when everything is recorded on the same gear and in the same manner. (Well, that and—just like how people love hearing my voice—many listeners love hearing Cynthia’s voice on the occasional story.)

So, a quick recap: I feel like a story with a female protagonist is best served by a woman’s voice and…it’s just easier to do everything under one roof.

Thanks for the question, Curtis!

And now…a bit more about the latest Not About Lumberjacks story, “In the Margins…”

* * *

In 1979, a good friend introduced me to a strange, new-to-me game called Dungeons and Dragons.

Figuring out a tabletop role-playing game as fifth graders wasn’t easy, but when we settled on our version of the rules, we had a blast. In time, we were regulars at Viking Hobby Shop (now Ron’s Mundelein Hobbies) in my hometown, spending our allowances on new adventure modules.

I loved everything about Dungeons and Dragons, with one big exception: the puzzles.

It’s not that I don’t appreciate puzzles; it’s not that I necessarily hate puzzles, but I can’t claim to be a fan of them. With Dungeons and Dragons puzzles, the biggest issue I had is I couldn’t see what my character was trying to solve. (And in the 70s, the men writing D&D adventure modules seemed to really get off on creating complex puzzles—many that made sense only to them.)

* * *

A year or two before discovering Dungeons and Dragons, The Hobbit became a favorite book. The famous chapter, Riddles in the Dark—in which Bilbo is challenged by Gollum to a series of riddles—captivated me. As a fourth grader, I couldn’t figure out the riddles, but…once they were revealed, I understood them.

That seemed fair to me: a challenge to readers who might be so inclined to ponder the questions Bilbo and Gollum posed to each other, but not leaving people hanging if they didn’t figure things out. (Or, ya know, resulting in a favorite D&D character dying because they crawled into the mouth of the friggin’ great green devil, rather than trying to figure out the portal of mists puzzle in Tomb of Horrors.)

* * *

With my disdain for puzzles, and vague tolerance of riddles, it might seem strange that the latest Not About Lumberjacks story is based on them. But I set out to do what Gary Gygax’s puzzles did not: give listeners and readers a chance to figure things out if that’s their thing…but also provide answers like Tolkien did for me in The Hobbit.

* * *

I’m a technical writer by day, and I’ve also assisted with usability studies. Sometimes I treat the fiction I write like the software I document and test: my goal is not to show off how complex things are behind the scenes, but instead—to present something that makes sense to users. (In this case, listeners and readers.)

I could have tried writing the literary version of the computer game, Myst—where Kenna had to run to this side of campus to the other—flipping switches and turning levers to unlock the hidden library. But that would be miserable to write, and even more miserable to listen to.

So, the riddles are solvable…at least if you’ve read plenty of children’s literature. (And if you haven’t, you still didn’t have to wait long for answers. Hell, the clue to one of the novels was the first line from The Hobbit, which mentions the book’s title. And most of the other books can be found with a little digging on Google…I know, because I put myself in Kenna’s shoes to see what popped up in basic searches!)

Assuming the role I’ve had in usability labs, I also considered the format. Short riddles and poems, many of which Kenna repeats, is a consideration to people listening. Sure, you could always pause and write things down if you’re really into solving things, but ultimately, it doesn’t matter if you figure out any of the clues because Kenna solves them for you.

* * *

I’ve chatted with people who assume I put great effort into planning the stories I write, but I’m not one to plan. I find that wading into a story and doing the work reveals what’s there. I did think about making Kenna’s challenges more complex, but that would have resulted in a slog of a tale. Even dedicating as much time to the first couple riddles with all the others would have likely worn thin. (Which is why there’s almost a montage as she rushes about, solving things quickly.) What mattered wasn’t so much the gauntlet Kenna was running, but where it took her. More important than the riddles was her relationship with her parents and school…her losing her job along the way. And then: not having to figure out what she’d do with the rest of her life because the efforts in her studies resulted in a job coming to her.

* * *

“In the Margins” is a story of appreciation to many of the books I loved as a kid. It’s also an acknowledgement that most written stories never see publication or find an audience. It’s never lost on me how fortunate I am to have a small audience listening to the stories I tell. There are regular Not About Lumberjacks listeners around the world I don’t know—and that blows my mind!

* * *

I started out this behind-the-scenes essay talking about how much I’m not fond of puzzles, but that’s not entirely true. Every story I write is a puzzle in which I figure out how characters and places and words and ideas and scenes all fit together. It’s far more complex than a puzzle to be solved in Dungeons and Dragons—and by the end, I want everything to make sense for listeners and readers—even when I’m writing stories with ambiguous endings.

To that point, if you didn’t figure it out: the answer to Kenna’s book riddle— A patchwork quilt Is the best defense against a frenzied storm On a dark and stormy night…—was A Wrinkle in Time.

Maybe I am a bit like those crusty old Dungeon Masters after all…

* * *

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.

Also, for as little as a dollar a month, you can have access to a bigger behind-the-scenes look at Not About Lumberjacks on Patreon. Check out patreon.com/cgronlund if that sounds like you’re kinda thing.

In November, it’s the annual REALLY Not Not About Lumberjacks episode. Find out what happens to Big Nick Champeau when a wicked river carries more than just logs downstream…

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 strange book found in a college library that changes someone’s life forever…

But first, the usual content advisory…

“In the Margins” is a light-hearted story about books that almost doesn’t merit an advisory. But I suppose if I had to dig, I’d say there are a couple moments of light suspense and passing talk about college debt. There’s no swearing, although I guess in a roundabout way, there’s an unspoken moment alluding to a word some find offensive. But really: this is just a charming little tale…

One quick thing before we get going…

Some people assume another fiction podcast influenced Not About Lumberjacks, but it was actually an educational show called Evolution Talk, by a guy named Rick Coste.

If that name sounds familiar, it’s because Rick narrated the role of Pepper in the Not About Lumberjacks story of the same title. He’s also popped up, here and there, on other episodes.

The effort Rick put into Evolution Talk impressed me so much that I wanted to do a show of my own where I aspired to that level of quality. How good is Rick’s podcast? Good enough that a book deal came to him!

On October 15, Evolution Talk will be released as a book and audiobook. You can visit evolutiontalk.com to follow links where you can preorder both. I may have been the book’s first preorder, and I plan to get the audiobook as well. Rick is its narrator, and it’s always nice hearing him read.

I’ll be sure to include links to Rick’s sites in the show notes, ‘cause he also has a bunch of audiodramas and other things out there. He’s a mighty snazzy person…

All right, let’s get to work!

In the Margins

Upon a shelf in the rare books collection of the University of North Tingale library was a massive tome seeming to have survived centuries in a forest without total decay; or perhaps pulled from an ancient, wrecked ship at the bottom of the ocean. Its pages looked like undulating layers of clouds on a stormy day pressed between stained brown binding board. Upon its massive spine, a worn archival plate reading: THE EVD COLLECTION. FOLIO 1031. Lifting the volume was like pulling a stone from a garden, but its true weight was in its pages, smooth vellum sheets covered in handwritten text in a language Kenna Baynes had never seen.

She spent the morning guessing common words: “and,” “the,” “to,” and “I.” From there, she back-formed the script to construct longer words, until creating a loose key of letters. In time, she discerned the book was a handwritten catalog of others—a folio of titles from an old collection. When Kenna got up to stretch her legs, she thought, “How have I never noticed this thing before? An old, one-foot thick, half-decayed-on-the-outside, but well-preserved-on-the-inside book doesn’t just appear.” Was it so new to the collection that someone set it down while entering it into the library’s catalog and databases?

After a short stroll around the four tables in the rare books room, she returned to the massive tome. Exhaustion overcame the urge to continue deciphering text, so Kenna carefully flipped through its pages. About half an inch in, she saw it, two lines written in the margin:

The modesty and merit

Of the little gray bird

She noted the lines in her journal and closed the EVD FOLIO. When she returned it to the shelf, she noticed a woman on the far side of the room watching her.

By the time Kenna grabbed her journal and approached, she was gone.

* * *

On the main floor of the library, Kenna pulled her phone from her backpack. She opened Google and typed: The modesty and merit of the little gray bird. The search returned a book title: Modesty and Merit; Or, The Gray-bird’s Story of Little May-Rose and John by Ferdinand Schmidt. A search of the library’s catalog revealed the book was part of The Delaney Juvenile Collection in Hawthorn Library.

On the way across campus to Hawthorn Hall, Kenna kept an eye out for the woman she saw in the rare books collection of the main library. There was something unsettling about the way she peered at Kenna through the shelves, even though she figured it was likely the woman was watching her struggle with such a massive book. She paused at the entrance of Hawthorn Library and pulled out her phone, pretending to look at it while surveying the area one last time before going in.

Kenna found the book on a shelf near the back of the collection. It had a brilliant blue cover with ALL THE CHILDREN’S LIBRARY embossed on the front. The spine depicted a young girl reading a book above the same words on the cover, with MODESTY AND MERIT beneath another image of the same girl walking along a path. Kenna took the book to the tables in the learning commons and sat down.

She paid close attention to the book’s front matter, preface, introduction, and initial chapter, but couldn’t determine what any of it had to do with the marginalia found in the folio. Before deciding if it was worth borrowing the book and reading at home, she flipped through its pages. On the first page of the fourth chapter, written in the margin, were the words:

Can be found

Beneath the eagle’s wings.

She removed her journal from her backpack and jotted down the margin note beneath the other. She whispered as she read.

The modesty and merit

Of the little gray bird

Can be found

Beneath the eagle’s wings.

On her phone, she searched for beneath the eagle’s wings, resulting in several similar book titles: a Ken Follett novel, a story set during the Vietnam War, and an older novel set during the Spanish-American War. If a clue was hidden in any of those books, it would have to wait for another day—Kenna was almost running late for work. She flipped through the rest of Modesty and Merit, finding no other marginalia, and placed the book on the reshelving cart on her way out.

* * *

On a good day, Kenna had a difficult time focusing at work, but after the day’s discoveries, she had a harder time than usual. Her job in food services at Medical City Tingale was not without its challenges—loading tall carts with meals and delivering to patient rooms—but once load-in from the kitchen was complete, the rest was mostly routine. On this particular day, the cooks berated her for moving slowly; her thoughts were devoted to books instead of matching meals to rooms.

When she took the job, her parents said she was retreating from the challenges of better work. Kenna was the first in her family to attend college, and her mother and father did not approve of her choice to pursue a career in library science; nor were they keen on her doing menial labor or working in a service industry like them.

“If you’re going to go into debt, study something that will pay off,” her father once told her.

Her reply of, “If you’re going to demand your child go to college, then make sure that child can pay for college,” was a point of contention between the three.

Her parents meant well—she knew that—but she felt like anything shy of becoming a doctor or lawyer would never be enough. After completing her undergraduate studies, Kenna entered the master’s program. Her father told her to get a job and not take on more loans, and her mom said, “You can only hide behind the safety of school so long before you have to step out into the real world.”

Her mother was right to an extent: Kenna’s plan was to get a PhD and teach. But a career in academia was as much a part of the “real world” as anything, where one was compensated with real money to pay real bills and have real concerns about the future.

She wished her parents acknowledged that.

* * *

There was a slight chill in the air as Kenna cut across campus on her way home from work. Soon, crisp breezes would send a blaze of leaves skittering about sidewalks and covering manicured grass beneath autumn’s quilt. There were days the arguments made by Kenna’s parents to leave college for a job weighed on her, but when fall arrived, there was no better place to be than school.

She stopped abruptly in the middle of the quad. Before her, illuminated atop a concrete block was a bronze statue of the university’s mascot: an eagle. During her shift at work, she’d rolled the four lines around in her head like a mantra:

The modesty and merit

Of the little gray bird

Can be found

Beneath the eagle’s wings.

Kenna glanced around at the mostly empty square and approached the sculpture. She looked at the massive bird tilted in flight with its wings spread wide; unfortunately, she saw nothing beneath them. She’d never been so close to the eagle. Even though others climbed onto its base and took photos, she was one to stay off the grass and keep to designated walkways. But she was there, so why not?

She reached up and grabbed the edge of the concrete pedestal, scaling the side with her feet. Standing at her full height, the eagle towered over her. She examined the statue and where it was mounted to its foundation, but nothing stood out. Working her way around to its back revealed the same. She jumped down behind the sculpture and looked around. In a small pile of stones at the base, one caught Kenna’s attention. Tucked away among the darker, weathered stones was a lighter chunk of granite. She grabbed it and pulled, expecting a weight that wasn’t there. She rolled it around in her hands, realizing it was a fake rock usually used to hide house keys. She struggled with the sliding panel at its bottom, eventually opening the stone.

Out fell a small metal cylinder with a screw-top lid. Inside was a piece of rolled-up paper. She unfurled it like a tiny scroll and struggled to make out what was written on it.

Moving around to the front of the eagle sculpture, in the floodlight illuminating the massive bird, she realized she was holding the full key to the text in the EVD COLLECTION FOLIO.

On the back appeared to be a short message in the strange script. She found a bench beneath a light and sat down. In her journal, she worked out what it said:

In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit…

* * *

The following morning, Kenna was at the main library when it opened. She took the collection’s copies of The Hobbit to a table and flipped through the pages, looking for another clue.

Nothing.

She’d noted there was also a single copy in the Delaney Juvenile Collection in Hawthorn Library, but she had something else to attend to first.

Kenna kept an eye out for the woman who seemed to be watching her the previous day as she made her way to the rare books collection. After checking in, she immediately went to the shelf where she found the massive folio.

Nothing.

It was not shaping up to be the morning she hoped for…

* * *

Kenna practically jogged across campus to Hawthorn Library. She took its copy of The Hobbit to a table and slowly turned its pages. There in the margin, beside Gollum’s second riddle to Bilbo Baggins, was another written in pencil:

Where does the wind come from

In its ever-turning gyre?

And can it be harnessed

From the top of a spire?

The only spire on campus was the clock tower at the top of the administration building. It never dawned on Kenna to see if it was accessible to students, but it was only a couple buildings away—and she still had time before her morning of classes started. She placed The Hobbit on the reshelving cart and made her way to the administration building.

Kenna’s only trips into the building were to the bursar’s office on the first floor. She wasn’t sure if she’d be allowed access beyond that, but she found an elevator that took her to the top floor. After wandering the hallways, she found a door leading to a stairwell. The stairs leading down were open, but a locked, retractable cage blocked access above. She knew she couldn’t pick the lock, and she doubted they’d let her up—even if she asked nicely. Kenna looked out the window, pondering her next move—and then she saw it…

* * *

The University of North Tingale was known for looking ahead—all while preserving its better traditions. Part of this future view was acknowledging the situation its students would face long after its Chancellor and older professors were gone. The university’s standing as an academic force was rivaled only by its focus on environmental sustainability—a campus powered completely by renewable energy.

Kenna stood before the three wind turbines powering the athletic complex. She quietly muttered the latest clue to herself:

Where does the wind come from

In its ever-turning gyre?

And can it be harnessed

From the top of a spire?

The only thing she could see on the tops of the turbines were warning lights for medevac helicopters on the way to the hospital where she worked. Even if Kenna could reach them, the area around the turbines was fenced and off limits. She walked along the fence line thinking about other places the riddle might refer to. Did she give up too easily in the administration building? Was there another spire on campus or in town—like a church—she was missing? But it seemed obvious the riddle alluded to the wind turbines. Kenna was so deep in thought that she almost tripped over the small pile of stones at the base of one of the fence posts.

Like the evening before, one of the stones was not as it seemed. Nestled in the hollow space inside the fake rock was another piece of paper with a message. She sat down and decoded it.

A book can be as strong

As the Tree of Heaven

Growing beside an apartment

in old Williamsburg

* * *

Kenna was never one to skip classes, but if there was ever the day to do so, it had arrived. She raced back to Hawthorn library and searched the catalog for A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. Thumbing through the book, she saw it in the margins:

Many things go unnoticed

As we race through our bustling days

But when viewed through the Enduring Arch

The seventh hour points the way.

There were several fountains on the campus grounds, but only one Enduring Arch, a memorial erected in honor of students and alumni no longer alive. Kenna made her way to the mall stretching out before the administration building and looked around the arch. It was tucked away on a shaded pathway beneath a canopy of trees, a bronze work not too much taller than a large doorway. She saw nothing at either base, or near the dedication carved into a stone on the walkway beneath it.

“The seventh hour points the way,” she whispered. Was the clue meant to be solved earlier that morning, or did she need to come back in the evening? She looked around for other clues, but nothing stood out. Kenna was about to give up when the clock tower chimed.

“When viewed through the Enduring Arch…”

Kenna stepped back along the path and lined the tower clock up with the top of the arch. While it was ten in the morning—time for the second class she’d miss that day—she traced a line with her eyes from the center of the clock face to the seventh hour. Following it further led to a cluster of bushes along the side of the administration building.

The campus was alive with motion, students and faculty rushing about their mornings. Kenna felt strange crossing the grass and approaching—and then looking behind—the bushes, but no one seemed to notice as they trotted along, lost in the business of their days.

In the bushes, Kenna found another fake stone. After deciphering the message inside, she read:

There is no lake in the green camp

Where we toil beneath a blazing sun

All under the watchful eye

Of the one who owns the shade.

This riddle wasn’t as obvious as A Tree Grows in Brooklyn to Kenna, but she figured the answer was somewhere back in the Delaney Juvenile Collection…

* * *

On her way to Hawthorn Library, Kenna searched green camp book on her phone. The first result was for a book called Stanley Yelnat’s Survival Guide to Camp Green Lake. Clicking the link brought her to an image of its cover. Written at the top: “Louis Sachar, author of the bestselling Holes.”

She’d heard of the book—even meant to read it when she was younger. Thumbing through it in the Delaney Collection led her to another clue.

* * *

The rest of Kenna’s day was a blur. The hint in the margin of Holes—The next clue you seek, May make us seem haughty; It can be found in the spot, That a C makes quite naughty—led her to three large letters spelling U N T. It was meant as a photo op in an age of social media, where students could pose beside free-standing letters as tall as them and let the world know they attended the University of North Tingale. Instead, students often posed to the left of the letters while holding signs with a large C written on them, while others bent to their sides, forming Cs with their arms. In the grass behind the U, Kenna found a stone. Its deciphered message read:

The heart of two dogs

Can be measured

By a boy’s love and

Something only an angel can plant.

In the margins of Where the Red Fern Grows, the next clue—It seems you’re getting closer, ever growing in your powers; the next stone that you seek, lies in a bed of flowers—led Kenna to the main university entrance. There on a hill, surrounded by a bed of flowers about to give in to cooler weather, was the university crest. She wandered up, not caring if she was stepping someplace she was not supposed to be at this point, and found a fake stone.

It was not lost on Kenna how direct the last clue was—seemingly written for her, letting her know she was getting close. It was a bit unsettling. But as she sat at the bottom of the hill with the stone’s note and the script key, her concerns disappeared. The next deciphered message read:

When your memories are not your own

And a nurturing father is not enough

You can escape Elsewhere on a sled

And be delivered to sweet music.

Kenna read Lois Lowry’s The Giver in junior high school. She found it to be a rather bleak read, but was moved when its main character hears music for the first time as he rides a sled down a big hill to a house full of lights. In the margins next to that scene, she read:

Just in case you’re wondering

Our intentions are rather legal

The final clue can be found behind

The university’s luckiest eagle

Kenna’s stomach rumbled as she crossed campus to a bronze bust of an eagle near the Student Union. She’d stopped by the water fountain at Hawthorn Library with each pass, but hadn’t eaten since breakfast. On a pedestal in the grass outside the union building was Baldy, a statue students rubbed on the head for luck at the beginning of each semester. Behind his base, hidden in bushes, was a stone. She opened it and took the final message into the union with her, where Kenna finally got a bite to eat.

* * *

She was exhausted after losing herself in a day unlike any other, and the first bite of a chicken wrap hit the spot. After another bite, Kenna reached in her backpack for her journal to decode the message. That’s when she saw her phone and realized she had several missed calls.

Work!

Not only had she skipped classes for the first time, she’d never missed a shift at work, either. The messages from her boss went from sounding concerned to angry. Kenna called back.

“Sarah, it’s Kenna—I’m so sorry I didn’t call. I’m not feeling well. I closed my eyes before getting ready for work and dozed off. I think I’m sick.”

She’d never lied, either.

“I’m sorry…I said I’m sorry. What?! Are you serious? This is the first time anything like this has happened—I never miss work…What do you mean? Well, if you want to be like that, you never give anyone a reason to feel motivated. You treat everyone like they’re beneath you—especially students…No, I don’t think I’m better than you. No, I don’t. Look, do I still have a job or not? Fine. If you’re going to be like this the first time I’ve ever called in sick, you’re probably doing me a favor. Take care!”

Kenna was glad she’d had a couple bites of her chicken wrap—she couldn’t imagine being upset on an empty stomach. After calming herself with a series of deep breaths, she finished eating and decoded the message.

When we were young

Toys seemed real.

Left on their own

Toys become real.

Kenna cleared her tray and rushed back to Hawthorn Library to find its copy of The Velveteen Rabbit.

* * *

As Kenna approached Hawthorn Hall, she noticed the woman from the rare books collection leaving the building. She chased after her, calling, “Hey! Hey!”

The woman walked faster, and Kenna broke into a full run. She cut the woman off.

“Can I help you?” the woman said.

It dawned on Kenna that she may have just chased down an innocent person. The woman appeared to be in her mid 60s and harmless.

“I’m sorry,” Kenna said. “It’s just…it’s been a strange couple of days. I swear I saw you watching me yesterday in the rare books collection at the main library.

The woman smiled and said, “You best hurry. The Eliza Vivian Delaney collection is about to close for the weekend…” Then, she turned and walked away…

* * *

While searching the collection’s catalog for their copy of The Velveteen Rabbit, Kenna realized she’d spent the last twelve hours racing about campus on a chase she hoped was about to end. Throughout the day, she’d vacillated between intrigued and terrified, wondering if she was being set up for a dreadful end. But the look on the woman’s face seemed to assure her she was safe. She went to the shelf to pull The Velveteen Rabbit, but was greeted by THE EVD COLLECTION FOLIO instead.

“Eliza Vivian Delaney,” Kenna said while shaking her head.

She picked up the massive tome and sat at a table. A piece of paper stuck out from its pages. Kenna removed it—happy to see she didn’t need to decipher yet another clue.

Kenna,

You have likely deduced these pages contain a listing of books from a collection. Some of those books are housed on the shelves around you. The others are here as well—just out of view.

Beneath the short note was a hand-drawn map of the library where she sat. A dashed line pointed back beyond the restrooms.

Kenna picked up Eliza Vivian Delaney’s big book and followed the path to a door reading NO ADMITTANCE.

She shifted the folio to her off arm and checked the door.

It was unlocked.

* * *

Kenna opened the door and saw a stairway leading down, the only light illuminating the way from the dim bulb in the stairwell. She cautiously descended, until reaching the bottom. A hallway lit by distant red EXIT signs spread out to her right and left. Kenna closed her eyes for a moment, hoping to adjust to the darkness. It worked. Before her, taped to the wall, was an arrow pointing to her left drawn on a piece of poster board.

Before the events of her last two days, Kenna would have turned back once she opened the door and looked down the dark staircase—if she even made it that far. She always played it safe, even though her parents believed her choice of study was reckless. Now, she found herself at a crossroads—without a job, support, or even much more than a vague idea what she’d do after graduation. Her mom was right: it was easy to hide behind the safety of school. But as Kenna looked down the old steam tunnel, she didn’t feel safe. If nothing else, she had a massive book in her hands that could serve as a weapon or shield. She slowly made her way down the hallway.

As she neared the end of the corridor, in the red glow of the EXIT sign, a figure seemed to rise up from the floor. Kenna froze. She turned her head back the way she came. If she dropped the book and ran, she could probably make it back to the light of the staircase—but she couldn’t do that to the old tome. She turned back to face the figure before her.

“What do you want?” she said.

“Don’t worry, Kenna.”

The voice was familiar.

“Who are you?”

“You’re safe.”

Kenna stepped closer and recognized her Special Collections and Archives professor.

“Dr. Sheng? What’s going on?”

“I’m about to show you.”

She turned and descended the staircase behind her.

* * *

Kenna followed her professor. As she passed through the door at the bottom of the stairs, she saw an old bomb shelter sign on the wall. On the other side of the door was a small library.

About a dozen people, ranging in age from someone who could be Kenna’s big brother to a woman who could be her great grandmother, sat at tables in front of rows of shelves. Dr. Sheng took the folio from Kenna and sat with the others. She gestured for Kenna to sit in a chair facing the group.

“We’re sorry if we startled you,” Dr. Sheng said. “Consider it a bit of clever hazing.”

“Hazing…for what?” Kenna said.

“We’d like to offer you a job in the better part of the Eliza Vivian Delaney Collection. Well, not better—there are so many wonderful books upstairs. Perhaps ‘the more interesting’ part.”

“What’s going on?”

The woman Kenna spotted in the main library’s rare books collection spoke.

“Every six to eight years, we notice the right person to help carry on this collection. We’ve all been that quiet soul content to be alone in their studies and the books they love.”

Kenna looked around the room, noticing two other professors she’d had during her undergraduate studies. The younger man tended to the service desk upstairs.

“Our offer is simple: as secure a job as any you will find—one that offers opportunities to teach and travel if you desire?”

“Doing what?” Kenna said.

“Teaching here at the university if you wish? But mostly, helping us find and catalog books that never existed.”

“That makes no sense. How could you catalog books that don’t exist?”

“Well, books that were never published. That’s what’s down here: manuscripts found in piles at estate sales. Novels stored on old hard drives. Stories deserving a wider audience than a handful of friends and family, but never seeing publication. Some of the greatest books ever written spent their lives hidden away in drawers or boxes, never seen by the public—but still, every bit as deserving to be read as many classics.”

Dr. Sheng patted the EVD Folio and said, “That’s what’s cataloged in this book.”

“But why the strange code?” Kenna said.

“Miss Delaney was a very playful woman. One of the university’s first librarians, she fell in love with books—particularly children’s books—and never outgrew them. She developed the code as a child to communicate with a friend. Don’t worry, the folio’s contents are now deciphered and in a database.

“Eliza had an uncle who wanted to become an author, but never saw publication. He helped build the steam tunnels beneath the university, back when one needed academic or social standing to see publication. His books are the first entries in the folio—an accounting of their titles, a biography, and a description of the books he wrote. Some of his manuscripts are on the shelves behind us. Miss Delaney believed it was a shame how many great writers are never read. She made it part of her life’s work to find and catalog other lost manuscripts. We carry on her tradition, and we’d love for you to help.”

Kenna dreamed of one day working in an ornate library, a palace to literature made of cut stone, rich woods, and gleaming brass. The heart of the Delaney Collection could have been the library at any old elementary school built in the 60s: a concrete space full of metal shelves, lit by fluorescent lights. But it seemed fitting that such a collection was housed in an old bomb shelter. It was a comforting thought that if the world became fire, ‘books that never existed’ would be the books to survive.

Kenna smiled and said, “So, when do I start?”

* * *

Epilogue

SIX YEARS LATER

Kenna and Dr. Sheng spied on the potential new recruit, a quiet bookworm named Roger.

“Roger? Who names their kid Roger these days?” Dr. Sheng said as they watched him tinker with a fake stone behind the massive eagle statue. He opened it and looked around when he found the rolled-up paper within. Kenna and Dr. Sheng averted their gaze and returned to acting like two colleagues who bumped into each other on the way to teach their next classes.

Roger went to the same bench Kenna sat on when she was given the code’s key and directed to the first book in her playful hazing. This time, though, Kenna got to write the clue:

A patchwork quilt

Is the best defense

against a frenzied storm

On a dark and stormy night…

* * *

[Quirky music fades in…]

Christopher Gronlund:

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks.

Theme music, as always, is by Ergo Phizmiz. Story music this time was by Adriel Fair, Trevor Kowalski, and Many Moons Ago–all licensed through Epidemic Sound.

Sound effects are made in-house or from Epidemic Sound and freesound.org. Visit nolumberjacks.com for information about the show, the voice talent, and the music. And, for as little as a dollar a month, you can support the show at patreon.com/cgronlund.

November’s anniversary episode is on its way, and I can assure you, there will be no mention of lumberjacks. Especially not a rough-and-tumble lumberjack with a heart of…tin?

It’ll all make sense in November…

[Quirky music fades out…]

[The sound of a chopping ax.]

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 in-depth look at the latest episode of Not About Lumberjacks and likely contains spoilers of the most recent story. You’ve been warned…”

* * *

There’s an accepted literary rule called Chekov’s gun. The rule is simple: if you include a detail in a story, it must serve the story.

If you have a pistol on a desk or a rifle hanging on the wall, that gun must play an important part in the story…otherwise, it should never be mentioned.

Rules in literature serve a purpose, but…many are arbitrary. Three-act structures and driving plot are not as common in some cultures as they are in Western literature. Ending a sentence with a preposition or beginning a sentence with a conjunction is not the end of the world. The introduction to one of the most famous television shows of all time splits an infinitive with, “Where no one has gone before…” (and also ends the famous line with a preposition). And even the staunchest supporter of “Show, don’t tell,” usually has sections of their stories where we’re told what happened, rather than being shown.

* * *

I mention rules because there are some things in “Godspeed, Crazy Mike,” people enjoy…that don’t serve the story. Detective Vandiver’s quirky love for sweepstakes is just that: a quirk. Nothing in the story hinges on it. And Detective Mule having Tourette syndrome doesn’t lead to unfolding clues in their case.

I am not one prone to gambling and other games of chance—I just thought it would be funny if many of the things Vandiver uses in his everyday life were won in contests.

Mule’s Tourette syndrome, however, is a bit more personal.

* * *

Somewhere around third grade, teachers told me to sit still. Like Detective Mule, by fifth grade, I had developed a series of physical and audible tics.

I hid it pretty well, and when I couldn’t, I hung out with a friend who struggled with Tourette syndrome more than I did. I likely blinked as much as him, but he carried the “Blinky” nickname while I was mostly ignored. He was called a “spaz” for his physical tics, while mine weren’t as apparent when standing beside him.

By junior high, we were two of the more picked-on kids in Carl Sandburg Junior High School.

* * *

I still deal with Tourette syndrome—just nothing like when I was younger. I’m lucky that it’s never negatively affected my life, unlike others who genuinely struggle through their days.

I’ve had people ask if something was wrong when I’ve had a hard to not giving into tics, but others are shunned and struggle to find work.

While there’s no literary reason for Detective Mule to have Tourette syndrome, I wanted to portray a character with the disorder…because some people have brown hair, and others have Tourette’s.

* * *

Last year, I released a story titled, “Calling Out of Time.” The story’s protagonist, Amir Nazari, walks with a cane. It could be presumed he was injured as a child in the housefire mentioned in the story, but it’s never explained. He’s just a guy who needs a cane to get around.

Disabled people are underrepresented in fiction. If they are present, many times, their disability is part of the story. Sometimes that’s great—a friend recently wrote a novel called Breathe and Count Back from Ten, about a girl with hip dysplasia who wants to become a mermaid. But other times, a disability is seen like Chekov’s Gun: if the story isn’t about the disability, why mention it?

The answer, for me, is because disabled people exist.

* * *

I’m sure there are some readers who scrutinize every little thing, but I’ve never heard people ask, “Does that character’s haircut serve the story? Why do they prefer clothing from that designer…is that part of the plot? What clues or symbolism are hidden in their favorite meal?”

But…if that same character is a wheelchair user, some question why the choice is made. “If it isn’t part of the story, why not just get rid of the wheelchair?”

For me—again—it’s because people who use wheelchairs exist. I’m not going to try telling the story of what it’s like to be a wheelchair user, because that’s a story better left in the hands of someone who knows, but all people deserve to be seen as more than a plot point.

* * *

I’m fortunate: Tourette syndrome never limited me much. Sure, it used to contribute to my existing shyness, but it was never a disorder I had to fight to overcome.

My old friend (whom I’m still in touch with today), struggled more than I did, but he’s received help—and now even educates people about the condition. And still, for others, it’s a disabling syndrome that leaves them isolated from much of society.

There’s no reason for Detective Beatrice Mule to have Tourette syndrome—it doesn’t reveal anything about the story. But people with Tourette syndrome exist; in fact, they’re often played off as a joke.

So why not portray Detective Mule as a cool person doing her job…who just happens to have a disorder many people don’t understand?

* * *

I think writers sometimes become so fixated on literary rules serving the story that they forget stories ultimately serve people.

And some people have only seen themselves reflected in stories as villains, oddities, or not represented at all. Those tropes and views are best left in the past.

Others have seen their disabilities played for sympathy, or portrayed as only being worthy of inclusion in stories if they somehow “overcome” their struggle and make others feel better about themselves.

But a person with a disorder or disability is so much more than just a literary device.

So…that’s why Detective Mule has Tourette syndrome, even though it’s not essential to the story; why Amir Nazari uses a cane; why Akara Mok walks with a limp; and why I’ll continue writing about people like them as I would any other person.

* * *

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.

Also, for as little as a dollar a month, you can have access to a bigger behind-the-scenes look at Not About Lumberjacks on Patreon. Check out patreon.com/cgronlund if that sounds like your kinda thing.

In September, when Kenna Baynes happens upon a rare book in her university’s library, she finds marginalia on a page that leads her to…well, you’ll have to listen and find out.

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 mystery set in a bog in northern Illinois…

But first, the usual content advisory…

“Godspeed, Crazy Mike” deals with murder, speculation of suicide, divorce (including a custody battle), fraud, theft, tobacco and alcohol use, and Tourette syndrome (I only mention this because, if you’re like me and have Tourette syndrome, one of the character’s tics might set off some of your tics; in fact, I’m having a hard time sitting still as I type this). Oh, and there is—of course—swearing. (But really: not that much this time around.)

Two things before we get going:

Thing One: I want to thank everyone who’s supporting the show through Patreon. If you want a full-access peek behind the scenes for as little as a dollar a month, go to Patreon.com/cgronlund. That’s Patreon.com/c g-r-o-n-l-u-n-d.

Thing Two: I want to mention a couple great artists you should check out…

Julia Lundman is a snazzy person and one of my favorite artists. She’s been a visual development artist and art director working in animation and video games, but has turned much of her artistic attention to personal illustration and painting. You can check out her art at julialundman.com and julialundmancommercial.com.

James S. Baker is also very snazzy—and a wonderful storyteller. He’s worked in animation since 1982; in fact, he’s likely done storyboards or been a story artist on some of your favorite Pixar features. If you go to james-baker.com and click the writing link, you’ll be treated to some great stories and art.

When I heard Julia and James were listening to Not About Lumberjacks stories while working together, I was floored. Having creative people I respect see something in the stories I tell—people who have helped bring some incredible stories to life, themselves—well…it was the little nudge I needed to see if there’s more potential in what I’m doing…

So, thank you, Julia and James! I’ll be sure to link their websites in the show notes for anyone who wants to see what they’re up to.

All right—let’s get to work…

Godspeed, Crazy Mike

Crazy Mike was found dead behind the maintenance barn, covered in rose pogonia and grass pink blossoms. His pale body lay in stark contrast to the bright flowers and lush grass serving as his final resting place. Were two horseflies not crawling across his face, one might think Crazy Mike decided to relax where prairie gave way to tamarack trees and buckbean; to leatherleaf, sphagnum moss, and cattails rocked by red-winged blackbirds and gentle summer breezes.

Mike’s eyes were open, looking skyward with a seeming purpose when his body was discovered by Sawyer Bog’s other grounds keeper, Wesley Moore. Wesley turned and looked up, trying to spot what Mike’s dead eyes were fixed upon. But the only things above were thick, puffy clouds that could turn into a June thunderstorm by late afternoon, or just knock the humidity up enough to make the day miserable.

“Ah, geez. Mike…”

Wesley reached into his pocket, grabbed his phone, and dialed 9-1-1.

* * *

Detective Gary Vandiver was eating a bowl of Cap’n Crunch when his phone rang.

“Vandiver—hello.” He leaned forward and grabbed a notebook and pen from his coffee table; opened it, and began writing. “Uh huh. Covered in flowers? All right. Yeah, got that. We’ll be there soon. Yeah…bye.”

He hung up and made a call.

“Good morning, Beatrice—looks like our day is starting earlier than planned. Got a body—male—out at Sawyer Bog. Nah, not in it…behind a barn, I guess. Sounds like a suicide, but he’s covered in flowers. Well, petals, I guess. Sounds like it, yeah. I’ll be by in a few. Yeah, the Miata. They need us up there, now. Station’s down and back and out of the way. Come on, it’s a great car. What do you mean, I’m a good driver…”

* * *

Gary Vandiver looked more like an eighth-grade science teacher than a homicide detective. His glasses were long out of style, if they were ever in style at all—even in the 70s when large frames were all the rage. The lines on his face were reserved for someone in their sixties, or for someone who chain-smoked unfiltered Lucky Strikes, but Gary had never even tried a cigarette, and he was only forty-nine. Ever the consummate bachelor, a home-cooked dinner consisted of a leftover slice of pizza warmed in the microwave, or his favorite: Chef Boyardee Ravioli straight out of the can. Cereal was deemed a fit meal any time of the day. The one place where he broke away from the stereotyped detective seemingly reserved for television and cheap paperbacks was a love for sweepstakes.

He bought magazines he never read, believing their purchase bettered his odds at winning the Publisher’s Clearinghouse Sweepstakes. He sat through the spiels of vacuum salesmen to see what guaranteed free prize he might win: a large screen TV, a free cruise to an exotic location, or a cheap ratchet set. Vandiver never won the TV—he still watched everything on a 19” color set he won as a teenager in a church raffle. He’d never set foot on a boat—the most exotic place he’d visited was a camp in Minnesota as a kid. But if you needed a bolt tightened or an ever-elusive 10mm socket, he was your man. People at the station teased him about his love for contests, but he had a 2004 Mazdaspeed MX-5 Miata to prove their worth.

Vandiver won the car at a movie theater when he went to see Mystic River after the crowds died down. The Miata was in the theater lobby…all he had to do was fill out a card with his contact information, drop it in the car’s barely-open window, and he was entered in the drawing. While he was rail thin, Vandiver couldn’t imagine his six-foot-eight height finding any harmony with such a small vehicle. His plan, if he won, was to sell the tiny car and pocket the cash—maybe put a little into his beloved 1989 Buick Regal, which he won fifteen years prior in a drawing at an all-you-can-eat steakhouse in Chicago. But the Buick died the day after he received notice he’d won a new car, and the Miata became his daily driver.

* * *

“It’s not that you’re a bad driver,” Vandiver’s partner, Beatrice Mule said on their way to the bog. “It’s just…this car is way too small for you. Every time you turn, you bump your knees on the steering wheel. It’s like a Shriner car—you can barely work the pedals. And these damn cup holders always open at the slightest touch, and I bang my elbows on them. I don’t see how you can be comfortable in this thing, even with the top down so you have head room.”

“This car is now a classic, Bea,” Vandiver said at a stop sign. When he turned left, his leg bumped the steering wheel, almost sending them off the road. “There are people who say this is the Miata of Miatas.”

 “I’m not saying it’s a bad car, Gare. I’m just saying it’s a bad car for you.”

From the moment of her conception, the world was placed before Beatrice Mule. Born into improbable affluence, anything she wanted growing up was hers. To her parents’ chagrin, she spent much of her time holed up in her bedroom watching cop shows on TV instead of establishing and expanding her social circles. Her father was ecstatic when she informed him she planned to attend The Law School at The University of Chicago, but disappointed to discover her intent to study criminal law and procedure—not something he deemed more prestigious and lucrative. Brilliant and beautiful, most people who met Beatrice were astonished to discover she was a homicide detective and not a model or actress. New officers and detectives at the Lake County Sheriff’s Office assumed she was paired with Vandiver because no one could imagine him making an advance on anyone, but she required protection from no one. She was paired with Vandiver because he was the only one in the office not intimidated by her presence.

As they neared the bog, Mule cleared her throat. Vandiver glanced over in time to see her crinkle her forehead enough to touch her brow to the top of her sunglasses.

“Something bothering you, Bea?”

She pursed her lips and said, “Just…you know.”

“New case?”

“New case.”

Somewhere around third grade, Beatrice Mule couldn’t fight the urge to move. Teachers telling her to remain still in her desk only made it worse, and by fifth grade, a series of physical tics developed. Losing herself in things she loved helped hold it back, but some days she couldn’t defeat the urge to jerk her head or left shoulder until getting the perfect feeling that satisfied her enough to stop for a bit. She annoyed people in the office with a soft whistle as she sucked air in between her lips, and sometimes she could only stop the tendencies by vibrating her tongue against the back of her upper teeth. Every action had to be just right to complete the cycle, but the throat clearing was almost constant. Vandiver learned early on in their partnership that Tourette syndrome was not the explosions of “fucks” and “shits” portrayed in movies and jokes when he was battling a lingering cold. His throat clearing set off Beatrice, who explained to him there’d be times he’d just have to deal with her movements and sounds.

If nothing else, Vandiver and Mule understood personal habits and conditions—whether strange proclivities or physical tics—did not necessitate speculation in those they questioned. To succumb to rigid beliefs was not their style. In the end, only facts mattered.

* * *

It still amazed Detective Vandiver how quickly houses and shops gave way to old farms and orchards standing in defiance of northern Illinois’ development. One moment you could find yourself trapped in rampant construction designed to look like it was always there, which had the opposite effect of making it feel even more fabricated, and then reach a bend in the road where fields and trees stretched to the horizon. This was the Illinois he loved—remnants of Bradbury’s Green Town dotted across the land. Vandiver turned off the highway and enjoyed the slow ride along the winding road leading to Sawyer Bog. Detective Mule closed her eyes and savored the breeze blowing against her face.

“You know, something, Gare? This really is a good little car…”

Around another curve, the tranquil morning was interrupted by activity: cop cars filled the staff parking lot; a man in coveralls Vandiver assumed was the person who discovered the body chatted with members of the patrol division. It was hard to know if the cops were struck by Detective Mule’s beauty, or Vandiver struggling to unfold himself from the car like a wooden ruler. By the time Vandiver stretched to his full height and the blood returned to his legs, a cop walked up to him and said, “Ned Littleton.”

Vandiver shook his hand. “Detective Gary Vandiver and Detective Beatrice Mule.” The cop nodded at Mule. When he stopped looking at her, she ticced her head and shuffled her left shoulder up and down—back and forth.

“What do we have?” Vandiver said.

“Deceased male,” Officer Littleton said. “Approximately thirty-five. Found by his co-worker this morning.”

“Cause of death?” Mule said.

“Not sure. There was a note in his car. To his kids, it looks like. But he was behind the maintenance barn and garage.”

“They said there were flowers?” Vandiver said.

“Yeah. I’ll show you.”

* * *

Crazy Mike was flat on his back with his fingers intertwined, hands resting on his chest. The growing breeze had blown some of the flower blossoms into the grass beside him, but the body was covered in flowers.

“Somebody put in a bit of effort,” Mule said.

“Looks that way,” Vandiver said. He turned to Officer Littleton. “And the witness says he found him like this?’

“Uh-huh.”

“Let’s go look at that note.”

* * *

Crazy Mike’s 2009 Hyundai Accent was parked in the garage next to the maintenance barn.

“Anybody look inside the car before we arrived?” Vandiver said.

“No. You can see the note on the dashboard through the windshield.”

The piece of paper seemed torn from a notebook. Vandiver craned his body forward and read to Mule.

“Everything’s all fucked up. I’m failing Jenny and Michael as a father. I’m tired of fighting for everything. Audrey won’t cut me a break. Every week, she’s pushing me more, and now she doesn’t want me seeing the kids. I can’t afford this fight, dammit. I’m so sick of this shit.”

He looked at Mule and said, “I’ll call to get Terrance out here to run surveys of the sites. Then we’ll talk with the guy who found the body.”

* * *

The man in the coveralls snubbed his cigarette out on the heel of his boot when he saw Vandiver and Mule walking his way. He put the butt in his pocket.

“Good morning,” Vandiver said.

“Morning.”

“I’m Detective Gary Vandiver. This is Detective Mule.”

“Wesley Moore.”

“Did Officer Littleton check your ID?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. I understand you discovered the body and alerted us?”

“Yes.”

“Can you give us a rundown of your morning from the time you got here until the patrol division arrived?”

“Sure. I came in at my normal time—”

“What time was that?” Detective Mule readied her pen and notebook.

“I usually come in between six and seven. I guess today was right around six. I drove up and saw the garage was open and Crazy Mike’s car was inside.”

“Crazy Mike?” Mule said.

“That’s his nickname. Real name was Mike Konarski. K-O-N-A-R-S-K-I.”

“Why’d you call him Crazy Mike,” Vandiver said.

“He was always pulling pranks and bouncing around. Hyper. And always coming up with wild stories…just kinda like a big kid that never grew up. He introduced himself that way, so that’s what everyone called him.”

“Sorry to interrupt,” Mule said. “Just needed to get that down.”

Wesley looked at her after she reverse-whistled.

“Go on,” Vandiver said.

“I usually get here before Mike, so that was kinda weird. And his car was pulled in. We all usually park in the lot unless the weather’s bad. He always backed in, so I thought that was kinda weird, too.

“I parked right there,” Wesley said while pointing to an old pickup truck. “Got out and called his name, but nothing. Looked around the garage and barn, but didn’t see him. That’s when I went out behind the barn for a smoke and found him. Like I said, he was always pulling stuff, so I thought he came in early to mess with me. Just covering himself in flowers and acting dead. I was gonna kick him to get him up, but saw a couple flies on his face. Looked at him for a moment, and then called you. That’s it.”

“Did you see anyone else around?” Mule said.

“Nope.”

“Didn’t hear anyone?”

“No.”

“Do you know of anyone who might want to hurt Mr…” Vandiver looked at Mule’s notes. “Konarski?”

“Nah, no one.”

“The last time you saw him, did he act any differently or say anything out of the ordinary?”

“Not really. He wasn’t quite his usual self in the last week or so. He’s going through a custody thing with his kids and was really down about that. He was a good guy. Could be annoying as hell at times, but I felt for him.”

“When was the last time you saw Mr. Konarski?” Mule said.

“Friday. We’re the main maintenance crew. Monday through Friday.”

“Did you two talk about anything out of the ordinary on Friday?” Vandiver said.

“Nah, just the usual. I asked how things were going with his kids, and he seemed a bit happier about it. Said he hoped to have some good news soon. And then the usual, ‘Seeya on Monday…’”

“Well, thank you, Mr. Moore. We’re going to get an officer to take a statement and we’ll be in touch if we need anything else.”

* * *

Vandiver and Mule were reviewing notes when two people—a man in his 40s and a woman with bright yellow hair who appeared roughly half his age—rushed down from the museum. The woman carried a notebook. As they approached Wesley Moore, she said, “Crazy Mike’s dead!” The man said, “And Morey’s gone.”

“I know about Mike. I found him and called the cops.” Wesley looked at the man. “What do you mean, Morey’s gone?”

“He’s not in his case. He’s missing.”

“Well, it’s not like he can just get up and walk off.”

Detectives Vandiver and Mule approached them and introduced themselves.

The man said, “I’m Graham Maddox. This is Melanie Stevens.”

“And who’s Morey?” Vandiver said.

Graham answered. “Our Quaking Bog Man.” Vandiver and Mule looked at each other and then back at Graham. “This bog was formed by glaciers roughly twelve-thousand years ago. A little over two-thousand years ago, Morey fell in. He was discovered in the mid-70s, when they were constructing the boardwalk trails over the water. The bog preserved him, and he was on display in the interpretive center.”

“Why Morey?” Mule said.

“This land was shaped by moraines…glaciers. Seemed as good a name as any.”

Vandiver turned to Melanie and said, “You just told Mr. Moore that Mike Konarski is deceased. How do you know that?”

“I found him this morning.”

Vandiver called Officer Littleton over to assist with isolating Graham and Wesley.

“We’ll speak with you more in a moment, Mr. Maddox. Officer Littleton will need to see your ID.”

* * *

When Graham and Wesley were moved away, Vandiver said, “Melanie Stevens, spelled like this?”

He tilted the new page in his notebook her way and she nodded. “Thank you, Ms. Stevens. We also need to see your ID.”

She retrieved her driver’s license from her purse and handed it to Vandiver. He scrutinized the photo, holding up beside her.

“Is there a problem?” she said.

“No, just looking at your face. Your hair is very blue in the photo, but it’s yellow today.”

She laughed and said, “I dye it. It was green a few weeks ago.”

Vandiver handed Melanie’s license back to her and said, “Gotcha. So, what do you do, here, at the bog, Ms. Stevens?”

“I give tours. Well, most of them—Graham works with college programs. I give field trips for schools and groups.”

“And you discovered Mr. Konarski this morning?”

Melanie nodded.

“I was under the impression Mr. Moore discovered Mr. Konarski’s body. Did you just arrive?”

“No. I came in early today. To celebrate Solstice.”

“What time did you arrive?”

“A little before sunrise.”

“And Mr. Konarski was deceased at that time?”

Melanie choked back tears and said, “Yes.”

Mule cleared her throat. “If you need a moment, we have time.”

“I’ll be okay. He was always so nice to me.”

“Where did you find him?” Mule said.

“In the garage. When I got here, the garage was closed and I heard a car running. I unlocked the big door and started lifting it, but it stunk. I stepped back to let it air out. I opened the door and saw Crazy Mike’s car. I saw someone inside, and it was him.”

She took a couple deep breaths and continued. “I reached in through the window and cut the engine. That’s when I realized he was dead. There was a note on the dashboard about his kids. It looked like he’d torn it from his notebook.” She raised it in her hand.

“That’s his notebook?” Vandiver said.

“Yes.”

“Why do you have it?”

“He wrote poetry. I wanted to read some after I found him. See if there was something fitting for Solstice.”

Detective Mule pulled a packet of gloves from her pocket, opened the seal, and put them on. “May I have that, please?”

Melanie handed over the notebook and Vandiver said, “Do you know how his body ended up behind the maintenance barn?”

“He looked so sad in the car, so I dragged him back there. He loved the view.”

“Did you place the flowers on him?”

“Yes.”

“Why?

“I wanted to help with his transition. He loved flowers and everything about this place. So I opened his eyes, put his hands on his heart, and covered him with blossoms.”

“Why did you open his eyes, Ms. Stevens?” Mule said.

“So he could see everything one last time.”

“Why didn’t you call the police right away?” Vandiver said.

“I was going to, but I wanted to give him time. And I wanted to see the sunrise. I read some poems he never shared with me. I was going to call when I got back. That’s why I went to the gift shop. I bumped into Graham—he’d just arrived and was putting his backpack down. I told him I was going to call the cops, and he said he was about to head down because he saw you all. That’s when he noticed Morey was gone, and he freaked out.”

Vandiver said, “Where is your car, Ms. Stevens?”

“I ride a bike when it’s nice out. Graham does, too. There’s a bike rack up by the interpretive center.”

“You said you were going to there to use the phone. Do you not carry a cell phone?”

“I don’t like them. They’re too distracting.”

“That’s fair. And when did you last see Mr. Konarski?”

“Friday afternoon. He always said bye to everyone when his day was done.”

“How would you describe his mood?”

“Good. He wished me a happy weekend.”

“Thank you, Ms. Stevens. We’ll get an officer to take your statement and Mr. Konarski’s notebook.”

* * *

Vandiver and Mule approached Graham Maddox and said, “I’m sorry I cut our discussion short. We had some questions for Ms. Stevens.”

“Is she okay?”

“She’ll be okay in time. How are you?”

“Good. Or do you mean about Mike?”

Vandiver nodded.

“I just found out from Melanie. If I’m being honest, it’s not really settled in. I don’t really know what’s going on.”

Mule said, “Could you tell us about your morning, Mr. Maddox?”

“Sure. Anything specific?”

“No, just how your day’s been since waking up.”

“Well, I woke up at the usual 5:45. I showered and ate and got my wife up before leaving at 6:30. It takes about 20 minutes or so to get here. I ride my bike in the summer. I got here and unlocked the museum. The alarm was deactivated—I thought that was weird, but then I saw Melanie’s bike. And then I noticed all the cop cars through the window. I was putting things down and about to see what was up when Melanie came in. She told me she had to call the cops because she found Mike dead. I told her the cops were already here and that I was going to come down and see what was happening. That’s when I noticed Morey was gone and we came down to talk with Wes.”

“You don’t call Mr. Konarski by his nickname?” Vandiver said.

“No. I find it insulting. He’s not…well, he wasn’t crazy. Was annoying sometimes, but still—a good-hearted guy.”

Mule said, “What is it you do here, Mr. Maddox?”

“I run the interpretive center. I curate displays and preserve specimens. I’m also the liaison for programs we run with several colleges, allowing students pursuing degrees in biology and conservation access to the bog. And I guide field trips when Melanie’s off work.”

“That sounds like an interesting job,” Vandiver said.

“It is.”

Vandiver paused when the crime scene unit van arrived in the parking lot. He nodded to Mule. “There’s Terrance and Emily.” Then he returned to Graham.

 “When was the last time you saw Mr. Konarski?”

“Thursday.”

“Not Friday?”

“No. I work Sunday through Thursday. My wife works at a church, and that’s her schedule. I work the same days so we get our weekend together. A few kids came in at the end of the day when I was closing up. I asked them to come by today, but one of them said he needed a science book for a summer reading program he put off.”

“How old were these kids.”

“Teenagers. Fifteen…sixteen. Something like that.”

“How many?”

“Three. Two boys and a girl.”

“How’d the one pay for the book?”

“He didn’t. I’d already shut down the register, so I asked him to come back this week and pay for it. Figured if he didn’t, I’d cover it.”

Mule said, “Do you think they could have done that as a distraction. And taken Morey?”

“Morey was there when I left yesterday. But I was going to mention the three to the cops, because it seems likely it was them.”

“Do you have security cameras monitoring the building?”

“Yes. Inside, and at the door.”

“Any other cameras on the grounds? Webcams, for example?”

“No. Just here in the interpretive center.”

“If you could pull the footage for us, we’d appreciate it.”

“Sure. Of course.”

After Vandiver and Mule got descriptions of the three teenagers, Mule asked if there was anyone else Graham Maddox thought they should speak to.

“Carrie’s the only one you’ve not talked to.”

“Who’s that?”

“Carrie Anderson. She’s the administrator. She usually comes in at nine, but I can give her a call to come in early.”

“Thank you for the offer, Mr. Maddox. But if you can give us her number, that would be helpful.”

* * *

After writing down Carrie’s number, Vandiver signaled for Officer Littleton.

“We have one more witness to speak to. She’ll be here in a bit. Until then, we need the witnesses we’ve spoken to isolated from each other and off their phones. But let us know if it looks like any of them get any calls.”

“Sure thing.”

“Thank you.”

When Officer Littleton wandered off, Vandiver called Carrie Anderson’s number.

“May I speak with Carrie Anderson, please? Good morning, Ms. Anderson. I’m Detective Gary Vandiver with the Lake County Sheriff’s office. I understand you normally come into work at nine-o’-clock, but is there any possibility you can come in sooner? Possibly nothing. We just need you here as soon as possible. I understand and appreciate it. Thank you.”

Vandiver turned to Mule and said, “She’s getting ready and said she’ll be here as soon as she can. Let’s go see how Terrence and Emily are doing.”

Terrence Powell slung his camera around his neck while Emily pulled her evidence collection kit from his van. Vandiver and Mule approached.

“Morning, Terrence. Emily.”

“Hey, Gary,” Terrance said. “Morning, Bea. How’s it been going?” From the back of the van, Emily waved.

“Good. You?”

“Staying busy, but relaxing when I can.”

“That’s the best any of us can do.”

“Yep! They said the body’s out back?”

“It is. Found in the garage, but was moved back there. We’ll need a survey of both scenes, and then when you’re done with that, a look around the interpretive center. It appears their bog man has gone missing.”

“Their what?”

“Bog man. Guy who fell into the bog thousands of years ago. I guess they had him on display up in the museum. Sounds like a few teenagers may have taken him last night.”

Terrence smiled and said, “This job never gets old…”

* * *

Terrence was surveying the garage when the medical examiner, Chara Mundi, arrived. Detectives Vandiver and Mule led her and her assistant to Crazy Mike’s body.

“Terrence is done back here, so he’s all yours.”

“What’s with all the flowers?”

“Summer Solstice. The person who found him did it. Doesn’t seem to be anything more than a harmless send-off. Terrance has samples if you need anything.”

“Thank you, Gary,” Chara said. “We’ll let you know when we have a report.”

“Thanks.”

* * *

While waiting for Carrie to arrive, and Terrence, Emily, and Chara to finish their duties, Vandiver and Mule flipped through the notebook.

Crazy Mike’s daily thoughts were peppered among poetry. Moving through to more recent dates, random musings about his days turned to the divorce and custody battle. There, the journal entries alternated between grief, anger—and more poetry. One moment, it was, “I miss Jenny and Michael so much. I need to be a better father and keep my shit together,” to, “Talked to Audrey today. I wouldn’t do it, but right now I really want to kill that bitch!” And then:

“There are few things more perfect than a stone

Skipping over the surface of a glass-smooth pond.

Veins pumped with time; eons living inside it

Driven by a heartbeat remembering the days

before we were here.”

By the time Carrie Anderson arrived, it seemed Crazy Mike was a nice-enough guy who felt like he was about to lose his kids. Vandiver and Mule turned the notebook over to Terrence and greeted Carrie.

“Carrie Anderson?”

A woman roughly Vandiver’s age in slacks and a blouse said, “Yes.”

“Good morning, Ms. Anderson. I’m Detective Gary Vandiver—I’m the person who called you this morning. This is Detective Beatrice Mule.”

Bea nodded and Carrie said, “Hi,” before turning back to Vandiver and saying, “What’s going on?”

“We got a call this morning that one of your employees, Michael Konarski, was found dead.”

“What?! What happened?”

“That’s why we’re here.”

“Mike’s dead?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“We don’t know, yet. He was found by one of your employees in the garage. And she dragged him out behind the barn.”

“Who? Why…? What?”

“Melanie Stevens,” Mule said as she cocked her head side to side and raised and lowered her left shoulder.

“If you’d be more comfortable talking in your office,” Vandiver said, “we can go there.”

“Yes, please.”

* * *

After disarming the office alarm, Carrie invited Vandiver and Mule into the administration building, a tiny one-bedroom house converted to office space. As she set her travel mug on her desk, Vandiver said, “We need to see your ID.”

“Sure.” She fished it out of her purse. Vandiver looked at it before handing it back.

“Can I get you two anything to drink?” Carrie said. “I don’t think I’m quite ready to finish this coffee.”

“No. Thank you,” Vandiver said. Mule shook her head. When Carrie stepped to the kitchen serving as a break room, she ticced her head three times in rapid succession and reverse-whistled.

Carrie returned with a bottle of water. She opened it on the way to her chair and took a sip. Once she was settled, she said, “Melanie found Mike dead?”

“Yes,” Vandiver said.

“That’s strange. She usually comes in later.”

“She said she arrived early for Summer Solstice.”

Carrie seemed to consider Vandiver’s answer before nodding and saying, “That sounds like Melanie.” She stared into the distance, eyes glossy with tears.

Mule gave her a moment and said, “When was the last time you saw Mr. Konarski?”

“Friday. At the end of his shift. He always stopped by before leaving to see if he was needed for anything else.”

“What time did his shift end?”

“Four-o’-clock. He worked seven to four.”

“Do you know why he’d come in so early today?” Vandiver said.

“No. Unless he planned to meet up with Melanie. They’re both really into being outside. If she was celebrating, I could see Mike coming in early for that. Normally, Wes is the first one here.”

“He was the one who made the call.”

Carrie took a gulp of water and exhaled. “You’ll have to excuse me, Detective…”

“Vandiver.”

“Vandiver. You said Melanie got here early and found Mike. Then you tell me Wes made the call? I’m a bit lost.”

“It’s a strange situation. We’re still making sense of it ourselves. How would you describe Mr. Konarski’s relationship to Ms. Stevens.”

“Harmless. He was like a big brother to her.”

“How about with Mr. Moore and Mr. Maddox?”

“They’re all co-workers. Graham could tire of Mike’s pranks, but they got along. Wes and Mike sometimes went out for a beer after work.”

“How did you feel about Mr. Konarski, Ms. Anderson?”

“I understand why Graham found him trying, but he and Melanie always brightened the mood around here. He had a way about him that made you want to throttle him at times, but he was so kind and charming in his own way. I like everyone, here, but I have a bit of a soft spot for Melanie and Mike.”

“Would you describe Mr. Konarski and Ms. Stevens as happy people?”

“Most of the time, yes. Mike was more reflective, so sometimes he’d seem a bit down. But it never lasted long.”

“How would you describe his mood recently?”

“Sad. His ex-wife is trying to get custody of their children.”

“Had he said anything about that?”

“Not really. I heard through Wes and asked about it. Mike said he wished he could make everything go away. I assumed he meant the custody case…not his life.”

“Do you think he took his life, Ms. Anderson?” Mule said.

“I don’t know. It just hit me when I remembered him saying that. Normally when he seemed down, he just got quiet.”

“Well, we thank you for your time,” Vandiver said, “and we’re sorry about Mr. Konarski. We’ll have an officer come in and take an official report. I have one more question. Would Mr. Konarski’s ex-wife happen to be an emergency contact?”

“Probably. Let me check.”

Carrie opened her laptop, waited a moment, and began typing when it woke up. A couple mouse-clicks later she said, “Yes, she is. Audrey Konarski.”

“Can we get her contact information, please?”

* * *

Crazy Mike’s ex-wife was waiting in a conference room at Tech City Industries when Vandiver and Mule arrived. When her manager knocked and showed the detectives in, a look of concern spread across her face.

“Ms. Konarski?” Vandiver said.

“Mitchell. Audrey Mitchell.”

“Thank you. Ms. Mitchell—”

“This is bad news, isn’t it?” she said.

“I’m sorry to say it is,” Vandiver said. “This morning, your ex-husband was discovered dead in his car.”

“What?!”

Audrey looked at the tabletop and then back at Vandiver and Mule. Her eyes filled with tears.

Mule said, “We’re very sorry. If you need a moment to yourself, we can come back. Or if there’s someone, here, you’d like to speak with, that can be arranged.”

“No,” Audrey said. “Just give me a moment.”

When Vandiver and Mule turned toward the door, Audrey said, “No, you can stay. Please.”

If you asked Detective Gary Vandiver what the hardest part of his job was, he’d tell you there is nothing worse than sitting across from somebody processing the loss of a loved one. Sometimes they got it out quickly, the gravity of the moment not fully registering until later. Other times it meant sitting still while someone wailed in grief for uneasy minutes. Audrey Mitchell got it out, took a drink of water, and finally said, “In his car?”

“Yes,” Mule said.

“He killed himself?”

“We’re looking into that,” Vandiver said. “It seems like it, but his body was moved by a coworker. We’ll have to wait to be certain.”

“Shit! Mike…”

More tears…

When she stopped, Vandiver said, “Did you have any recent contact with your ex-husband, Ms. Mitchell.”

“No. He started getting angry with me. He never hurt me, but he showed up drunk a few weeks ago. I was terrified because I know he had a gun.”

“What kind of gun?”

“A pistol. And he said if I went through with the divorce that I’d regret it.”

“Did he say what he meant?”

“No. I told him to leave. I thought he was going to hurt me. Or worse. He just had a look. I noticed him driving by the house a lot after that…watching the kids play when school let out. I was worried he was going to take them and run. That’s when I decided I wanted full custody…at least until he settled down.

“He…was a good guy in so many ways, but he grew to resent things.”

“What kinds of things?” Mule said.

“Life. Everything. He said he wanted more than just a job and a house in the suburbs. He was good with the kids, but I could tell he felt locked into fatherhood and a life he never imagined when they came along. But that’s not their fault or mine…that was on him. He always said he wanted kids, and I think he did. But he also talked about wanting more. His problem was he talked about wanting more, but he never did anything to make those dreams happen.”

“What dreams?”

“He wanted to write and travel. He’d talk about getting an RV and raising the kids on the road. Or travel to other countries. But all he did was blame work and society for getting in his way. It made him cynical as hell, and that got old. One day it was too much, and I had enough.”

Vandiver said, “Can you give us an account of your last twenty-four hours, Ms. Mitchell?”

“What? Sure. I woke up and hung out with Jenny and Michael. We went to Lakewood Forest Preserve and had a picnic. The rest of the day we stayed around the house, all doing our own things. I helped Michael put together a LEGO thing Mike bought him—a Star Wars ship. I made dinner, made sure the kids were ready for a science camp this week, and I fell asleep watching Beach Front Bargain Hunt. Woke up, made sure the kids had everything they needed for camp so we weren’t running around when my mother came by to get them, and I got ready for work. Now I’m here talking to you.”

“Thank you,” Vandiver said. “Did Mr. Konarski mention anything, recently, that would make you concerned for his safety?”

“No. Nothing. Like what?”

“That he was considering hurting himself. Or that he was concerned he might be harmed.”

“No. Nothing like that. The last time I saw him was the day he told me I’d regret divorcing him. Well, that’s the last day I talked to him. Like I said, I saw him drive by the house.”

Vandiver said, “Thank you, Ms. Mitchell. We’ll stay here as long as you need.”

She looked across the room and said, “Thank you, but…shit, what am I gonna tell the kids…”

* * *

On Tuesday, Vandiver and Mule reviewed Terrance and Emily’s preliminary evidence at the station. Where Mike Konarski was concerned, everything pointed to suicide. Surveys of the garage, grounds, interpretive center, and the administrative office revealed nothing. They reviewed security camera footage showing three teenagers—two males and one female—entering on the museum Sunday before closing. In the first clip, Graham Maddox accompanied one of the young men to the gift shop, while the other took Maddox’s keys beside his backpack and ran to Morey’s case. He tried a couple keys before finding one that worked, leaving the case unlocked. He then ran to the door and jammed something in the latch strike plate. After that, he returned the keys just before his friend returned with a book, and Maddox walked the three to the door.

The second clip was captured later Sunday night. A male in a hoodie uses a screwdriver to release the door latch. He opened the door, stepped inside, and closed the door behind him. After disarming the alarm, he opened the door for his two friends. The three moved to Morey’s case. When the two young men lifted the case, the girl put her hands up and shook her head. The young men placed the case on the ground. One pushed past the girl and spread a blanket on the floor. They placed Morey on it and put the case back on the stand. Then they wrapped Morey in the blanket. One of the young men picked him up, and they all left.

“There are a couple good shots of the three,” Vandiver said to Mule. “We’ll grab those and put them online…hope somebody recognizes them.”

* * *

On Wednesday, Gary Vandiver received a call from the medical examiner, Chara Mundi.

“Mule’s here,” he said. “I’m gonna put you on speaker.”

“Good morning, Beatrice.”

“Hey, Chara.”

“I just emailed you two the Konarski autopsy report. He didn’t die from carbon monoxide poisoning in his car. He had a lethal amount of sodium cyanide in his system.”

“Really? Is there anything that could naturally account for that?” Vandiver said.

“Not in that amount, unless he deliberately ingested it or consumed it without knowing.”

“Anything else?” Mule said.

“Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“All right,” Vandiver said. “Thanks so much, Chara, We’ll read the report and get back to you if we have any questions. Have a good one.”

“You, too.”

Vandiver disconnected the call and said, “Well, Bea, looks like we have a bit of reading to do. After that, it’s back to the bog…”

* * *

Vandiver knocked on the door jamb to Carrie Anderson’s office. Carrie looked up, stretched her arms forward with a satisfied sigh, and turned off the monitor on her desk.

“Good morning, detectives. Can I help you?”

Vandiver started speaking, but Mule cut him off.

“Did you just turn off that monitor?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“It’s county information. I always turn it off when others are in the room. I lock my system when I step away from my desk as well. It’s good practice.”

Mule stepped forward and said, “I’m going to need you to turn that back on.”

“What’s going on?” Carrie said.

“It doesn’t look like Mr. Konarski killed himself,” Vandiver said. “At least not by closing up the garage and turning on his car.”

Carrie turned on the monitor and shifted it so Mule could have a better look. Mule inspected the screen and said, “What am I looking at, here?”

“It’s a billing system. Aside from running payroll, the last week of the month slows down, so I run reports. See if there’s any way we can save more. I’m looking for any outstanding credits we may have missed.”

She looked at Vandiver and said, “Am I being accused of something?”

He shook his head no.

“I’m sorry if I made you feel that way,” Mule said. She shut her eyes tightly and grimaced. When she opened them, Audrey looked confused. Mule smiled and pointed toward Carrie’s chest in an effort to ease the tension. “That’s a lovely necklace.”

“Thank you. My brother made it. This, too.” She held up her hand, showing off a gold bracelet.

Mule tensed her left shoulder and lightly whistled.

“Are you okay?” Carrie said.

Mule nodded. “I have Tourette syndrome. In case you’re wondering. I’m sorry if it’s bothering you.”

“No, no…I’m glad you told me…”

“I assume you approve work orders?” Vandiver said.

“Yes. Why?”

“Do you recall approving any orders for sodium cyanide?”

“No. Why would I do that?”

“Do you know if anyone working on site uses it for any reason?”

“Cyanide?”

“Yes. It’s used in labs…agriculture. Mining.”

“I suppose Wesley or Graham might, then. But I don’t recall seeing it on any orders. I usually trust what they need if it’s not too expensive and sign off on it. I can go through old invoices and purchase orders and see if I find anything. It might take a day or so, though, if it’s old.”

“We’d appreciate that,” Mule said.

“In the meantime,” Vandiver said, “we’re going to speak with your employees again…”

* * *

Graham Maddox was cleaning a wall-mounted case displaying the wildlife inhabitants of the bog when Vandiver and Mule arrived. He put down his rag and glass cleaner when he saw the detectives.

“Hello,” he said. “It was Mr. Vandriver and detective Mule?”

“Vandiver.”

“Sorry. Vandiver. Any word about Morey?”

“No. I’m sorry,” Vandiver said. “But we’ve shared photos of the three teenagers from the security footage you provided. Thank you for getting that to us so quickly.”

“You’re welcome. So, how can I help you, then?”

“Do you have any reason to use sodium cyanide in your job?”

“What do you mean?”

“Sodium cyanide. Do you use it for anything?”

Mule brought her eyebrows together and ticced her head.

“No, I don’t.”

“No lab uses for the substance?”

“I’m sure some labs have uses, but nothing we do here at the interpretive center. No.”

“Can you think of any reason any of your coworkers would use it?”

“No. What’s this about?”

“We’re still looking into that. Can you think of any reason Mr. Konarski would use sodium cyanide?”

“Nothing that I can think of. Maybe as groundskeepers, he and Wesley had some use. But I can’t think of any.”

“All right. Thank you, Mr. Maddox. Would you happen to know where we can find Ms. Stevens or Mr. Moore?”

“Melanie’s giving a day camp tour. Wesley’s probably by the garage or the barn. Or on the immediate grounds.”

“Thank you, Mr. Maddox. We’ll let you know if we hear anything about Morey.”

“I appreciate it.”

* * *

Vandiver and Mule found Wesley Moore smoking a cigarette behind the maintenance barn.

“Hello, Mr. Moore,” Vandiver said.

Wesley exhaled and said, “Detectives. Do you need something?”

“Just a couple more questions. Follow up.”

Wesley pointed at his cigarette. “Would you like me to put this out?”

“No, that’s fine. Do you have any reason to use sodium cyanide in your job?”

Wesley cocked his head and said, “No.”

“Is it something that might be in some product you use? Like traps or anything else?”

“Not that I know of. We don’t use chemical traps. If something’s causing a problem, Mike and Melanie—well, just Melanie, now—catch it in a live trap and relocate it.”

“Did Mr. Konarski ever talk with you about wanting to hurt himself?”

“No. He was mad at his wife about the custody thing, but he never mentioned wanting to hurt her or himself.”

“Can you think of any reason your coworkers might require sodium cyanide in their jobs?”

“Maybe Graham? Some lab thing? But even that’s a stretch. Most stuff he does is with kids or college students.”

“You mentioned Mr.Konarski and Ms. Stevens,” Mule said. “What was their relationship like?”

“They were friends.”

“How would you describe their friendship?”

“Coworkers. I don’t think they were friends outside of work, but I don’t make other people’s business my business. He was almost like a big brother or father with her.”

“Do you ever see coworkers outside of work?”

“Mike and I went out for beers a couple times.”

“When was the last time you two did that.”

“Months ago. Early spring probably. Once things thawed out, we met up after work to talk about all we had to get ready for spring.”

“Thank you,” Mule said.

“You’re welcome. Anything else?”

“What do you do when you’re not working, Mr. Moore?” Vandiver said.

“I paint figurines. For war games. And make models—been doing that since I was a kid. Some of the dioramas in the interpretive center are my work.”

“That sounds like a relaxing hobby,” Vandiver said.

“It is.”

“Well, we’ll let you get back to work. Have a good day, Mr. Moore.”

“You, too…”

* * *

While Vandiver and Mule sat in their unmarked Crown Victoria waiting for Melanie to return, Vandiver’s stomach growled.

“Buona or Fratellos after this?”

Mule reached into her pocket and pulled out a quarter. She flipped it and said, “Fratellos.”

“Good.”

They were comparing notes when Melanie returned with a group of kids and two exhausted looking chaperons. “There she is,” Mule said.

As the group broke up, they approached.

“Ms. Stevens?” Vandiver said. “Do you have a moment?”

She joined them in the employee parking lot.

“What’s up?” Melanie said.

“In your job, do you have any reason to work with sodium cyanide?”

“Like…cyanide?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“How about your coworkers?”

“No. Unless there’s something I don’t know about. I don’t think any of them do.”

“And Mr. Konarski? Did he have any reason you can think of to use sodium cyanide?”

“Are you telling me he was poisoned?” Melanie said.

“We’re looking into that possibility.”

“No. No reason. Mike was poisoned?”

“We’re investigating that.”

“But that’s what you’re really saying. And it makes sense. The more I think about it, I don’t think Mike killed himself.”

“Why do you say that?”

“He loved his kids too much. Even if he lost custody—what I know about his ex-wife…she would have let him see them. At least in time. He was sad—even mad at times—but I just don’t get the feeling he took his own life. I don’t know anyone here who would want him dead, though. Maybe someone none of us even know did it…putting his body here hoping you’d focus on us instead of looking wider.”

Mule rolled her left shoulder and ticced her head. “If we have reason to widen our search we will.”

Vandiver said, “You mentioned you don’t get the feeling Mr. Konarski took his own life. What do you mean by feeling?”

“Just…feelings, you know. A feeling in my gut.”

“Do you get any feelings about any of your coworkers, Ms. Stevens.”

“No. If you mean do I think any of them did something to Mike. I’m not saying we’re like a big happy family, but we all like each other. So, no—I don’t feel like anyone, here, did something to Mike.”

“Thank you, Ms. Stevens,” Mule said. “If we have any other questions, we’ll be in touch.”

* * *

On Thursday, detectives Vandiver and Mule reviewed the Konarski case.

“Where are you on this being a suicide?” Mule said.

“Obviously, we can’t rule it out, but his ex-wife said he had a gun. Seems like if you’re choosing a way out, you’d do that instead of poisoning yourself. I could buy closing himself up in a garage, too, but we know that’s not how he died. Once we get DNA back and Terrence and Emily’s full report we’ll hopefully have more to go by. I’m good stepping back from this one today and reviewing other cases.”

* * *

Things picked up Friday morning when Vandiver received a phone call.

“Hello? Oh, hello, Ms. Anderson. You did? Wonderful. Really? Yes, email is fine. I appreciate that. Yes, goodbye. And thank you.”

Vandiver disconnected the call. “That was Carrie Anderson. She said she dug around and found a purchase order to a supplier Mr. Moore and Mr. Konarski used. She said it was for two and a half gallons of maganese carbonate and 125 grams of sodium cyanide. She’s emailing a copy.”

Vandiver and Mule were researching uses for the two chemicals when the purchase order arrived. Vandiver called the company, O-Chem Industries, and asked for the accounts payable department. After several minutes of discussion, he ended the call.

“I need to fax some documents their way so they can research the order. If they have a record for it, we’ll pay another visit to Mr. Moore.”

Later, while Vandiver and Mule were discussing where to get lunch, another detective knocked on the open door to their office.

”Hey, Gare…Beatrice. We just got a call about your bog man. One of the kids’ moms got a big surprise when she went to pull some steaks out of the deep freezer in their garage.”

He handed Detective Vandiver a piece of paper and said, “Can’t wait to hear more about this one.”

Vandiver looked at the note and said, “Thanks, Pete.” Then he looked at Vandiver and said, “Let’s see if Terrence and Emily are around so we can go meet this Morey fella.”

* * *

Vandiver took a deep breath through his nose. “I expected him to smell more.”

“He’s been preserved for thousands of years,” Terrance said. “And I’m sure more was done so he could be on display.”

“Yeah. Guess so. Still, I’m betting Mr. Maddox will not be too pleased about this. I can’t see being put in a deep freezer being good for ol’ Morey. You and Emily need anything more from us?”

“Nope, we’re good.”

“All right. Thanks.”

Vandiver and Mule turned away from the freezer in the garage and returned to the kitchen. Veronica Thomason and her son, Declan, sat at the table.

Vandiver took a seat across from Declan and said, “Mr. Thomason, can you tell me why there’s a bog man in your family’s deep freeze?”

“Some friends and I took him.”

“Why?”

“We were dared.”

“Do you do everything people dare you to do?”

“No…”

“Who dared you to do such a thing?”

“Some friends. We were camping on Saturday night.”

“Where were you camping?”

“A friend’s backyard. We were playing truth or dare, and I took a dare.”

“To steal Morey?”

“Yeah.”

“And what about the friends who helped you?”

“I knew I couldn’t do it alone. My best friend, Steve, agreed to help. Once he did, Tracy said she’d come with us and keep an eye out.”

“What are Steve’s and Tracy’s last names?” Mule said.

“Steve Peyton and Tracy Sommers.”

“Thank you,” Vandiver said. “Please tell me how Morey came to be in your possession.”

Declan looked at his mother and then back at Vandiver.

“We went to the museum at the bog. I said I needed a book for a reading program. When I went to the gift store with the guy who runs the museum, Steve unlocked the case.”

“Morey’s case, correct?”

“Yeah. He crammed some paper in the door, where the part that latches goes. Enough that it would catch, but be easy to open. Steve said as long as the alarm made the connection, we’d be good.

“The guy in the museum didn’t want to open the register, so he told me to come back later to pay for the book.”

“Did you return to the interpretive center this week to do so?”

Declan looked down at the table. “No.”

“All right. Go on.”

“When we left, we hid where we could see the guy set the alarm. Steve’s house has an alarm, so he knew what to do. Later that night, we went back. Steve jammed a screwdriver into the door and opened the latch. He turned the alarm off, and we took the bog man.”

“What were you going to do with him?” Mule said.

“Show him to my friends and then put him back. But we heard someone died out there and figured we’d get caught.”

“Did you see anything out of the ordinary when you went back to steal Morey?” Vandiver said. “Any lights on or people?”

“Yeah.”

“What did you see?”

“We saw a lady dragging something by the garage.”

“Why didn’t you tell anyone?” Mule said.

“We thought we’d get blamed for the dead guy.”

Mule shook her head and rubbed her temples. Vandiver continued.

“Could you tell what the woman was dragging?”

“I thought it was garbage. Tracy said it looked like a body, and we got out of there.”

“How could you tell it was a woman?” Mule said.

“The lights in that little building by the garage and barn were on. She moved past a window.”

“What color was her hair?”

“I couldn’t tell. It was dark and we were up by the museum.”

“But you saw the woman?”

“Yes.”

“Was her hair yellow?”

“No, that would have stood out. If you’re talking about the lady who does school trips, I can tell you it wasn’t her.”

“How do you know who she is.”

“I’ve seen her there. She’s kinda…”

“Kind of what?”

“Hot.”

“I see…”

“Am I in trouble?”

“Yes,” Declan’s mother said. “Lots of trouble.”

“We really were going to bring the bog man back and leave money for the book.”

“We’ll have to see,” Vandiver said. “Stealing the book is a misdemeanor, but breaking into the interpretive center and stealing Morey is a felony. Given the circumstances, if it’s your first offense, juvenile court will likely be forgiving. It’s not my call. Right now, I’m releasing you to your mother’s custody.

“Thank you for your honesty, Mr. Thomason. We’ll need contact information for your friends. Other than that, we’re done here for now.”

* * *

Detective Vandiver cleared his throat as he and Mule entered Carrie Anderson’s office.

She looked up and said, “Oh, hello. Is this about the purchase order?”

“We’re still looking into that,” Mule said. She met Carrie’s eye. “We have a call into the company’s accounts payable group to see if they have a record of it.”

Carrie nodded and said, “Yes, of course. Then, how can I help you? Do you need to speak with Wesley again?”

“We need to speak with you,” Vandiver said. He stepped to the side of her desk.

“I learned something new today, Ms. Anderson. Some jewelers use sodium cyanide to clean precious metals.” He pointed to her necklace. “You mentioned your brother makes jewelry. Have you visited your brother lately, Ms. Anderson?

“I’m not saying another thing unless I have a lawyer present.”

“We understand. That’s your right. We’ll arrange for legal counsel at the station…”

* * *

Carrie Anderson sat beside her lawyer in the interrogation room of the Lake County Sheriff’s Office. Vandiver and Mule were seated on the other side of the table.

“Ms. Anderson,” Vandiver said. “Did you poison your employee, Michael Konarski, at the Sawyer Bog Interpretive Center?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“He was blackmailing me.”

“Why was he blackmailing you?”

“His ex-wife was planning to argue for full custody of their children. He didn’t have money to fight it. He thought he could get it from me and stop the case…or at least have a chance to fight for shared custody in court.”

“Why did he choose you?”

“He found out…”

“What did he find out, Ms. Anderson?

“He knew I was moving county and state funds to accounts I set up.”

“What kinds of funds?”

“Sometimes vendors are owed small credits…just a few dollars most places never notice, or won’t research or fight. I’d find the credits and send them to accounts I set up. And then I set up a fake company and created invoices to the interpretive center. I paid those to another account.”

“How much do you suppose you’ve made doing such a thing?”

“Maybe an extra twenty-five thousand a year. I don’t make much running the interpretive center.”

“And how long have you been doing this?”

“About five years.”

“And Mr. Konarski found out you were doing this?”

“Yes. He was looking for an order he made, needing to update it before I processed it. He went into my office while I was at lunch. He found one of the invoices I made and kept digging until finding notes I kept about the credits. He kept it to himself, until his ex-wife decided to fight for full custody of their kids.”

“Thank you,” Vandiver said. “I want to be sure I have this right. You’ve been moving county and state funds owed to vendors to accounts you set up. You went as far as creating fake invoices to the Sawyer Bog Interpretive Center that you paid to an account you set up for such a purpose. Mr. Konarski found out. He needed money to contest his ex-wife in court for full custody of his children. He lacked the funds, so he blackmailed you?”

“Yes.”

“How did he do that?”

“He kept quiet about it when he found out what I was doing. But once his wife filed for divorce, he came to my office and told me he knew about the funds. He showed me photos on his phone that he took of the invoice and notes. I was so mad that he’d do such a thing to me.”

“You were stealing,” Mule said.

“That’s different. I never did things directly to people. Agencies waste money all the time…”

“Go on,” Vandiver said.

“He kept pushing me—threatening to report me if I didn’t give him money for a lawyer. So I told him I’d do it. I told him I needed time to transfer the funds. Friday, I told him I’d have the check after closing on Saturday, but he said he was busy. So we met on Sunday night.”

“I still don’t understand why you poisoned him.”

“He said he knew who to come to anytime he needed money. I was mad that he was pressuring me, but in a way, I didn’t mind helping with the custody case. But when I knew he was going to hold things over my head if he ever needed anything, I knew it wasn’t going to ever end.

“He talked about how much life hurt him—how he sometimes wished he’d never been born. I guess between that and knowing he was never going to stop blackmailing me, I did what I did.”

“Why did you choose sodium cyanide?”

“I read that it disappears in someone’s system with time. I figured by the time an autopsy was done, it wouldn’t show up.”

“How did you administer the cyanide, Ms. Anderson?”

“He loved scotch. So, I bought a bottle and toasted our agreement. I don’t like hard alcohol, so I raised a glass of coffee his way.”

“And the scotch you gave Mr. Konarski contained sodium cyanide you stole from your brother?”

“Yes. He slammed the scotch and…”

“And what?” Vandiver said.

Carrie’s eyes filled with tears. “He started convulsing. I ran from the office and waited outside. When I came back, he was dead.”

“What did you do after that, Ms. Anderson.”

“I took his keys from his pocket and pulled his car into the garage. He kept a notebook on his workbench. I thumbed through it and found something he wrote about being a bad father and failing his kids. I tore that out and put it on the dashboard. Then I went back to my office and dragged him to his car. I started it and closed the doors.”

“Did you see or hear anything while you were moving Mr. Konarski’s body, Ms. Anderson?”

She thought about it a moment and said, “This is going to sound ridiculous, but I thought I saw a ghost.”

“A ghost?”

“Yes. I heard something up by the interpretive center. When I looked up that way, I swear I saw the shape of a body floating into the trees. Why?”

“Just wondering. Detective Mule and I are going to step outside for a moment. Please remember, anything you and your counsel say is being recorded.”

As Vandiver and Mule made their way to the door, Carrie Anderson said, “I’m not a bad person.”

Vandiver turned back. “Pardon?”

“I’m not a bad person. Mike said he hated the world…said he wasn’t wired for it.”

“It’s not our place to judge,” Vandiver said. “But don’t kid yourself into thinking you did Mr. Konarski any favors.”

He closed the door behind him as he left the room.

* * *

On Sunday morning, Wesley Moore, Melanie Stevens, and Graham Maddox stood at the end of the boardwalk over the bog with a bottle of Ardbeg 10 scotch.

Wesley was the first to speak.

“Mike, there were days you drove me so mad I wanted to smack you, but you brought a life to this place. You’ll always be here as far as I’m concerned. I’m gonna miss ya.”

Graham said, “I know we didn’t talk as much as you and Wesley and you and Melanie, but I always appreciated how you checked up with all of us to see if there was anything you could do to help out. I’ll always remember the day you came up to the interpretive center and asked for a full tour. That was a great afternoon, just showing you around and walking out here. When we were done, you told me I have the neatest job in the world. I’m glad we had that time together.”

When Graham was done, Melanie said, “Mike, there’s so much I want to say, but I know I won’t be able to get through it without crying. So, I’ll see if I can get through a couple poems…”

She first read Crazy Mike’s favorite poem: “Peonies” by Mary Oliver. When Melanie was done, she read one of Mike’s originals.

Like soft-tipped spears,

Crocuses break through a crust of snow

And herald the coming of spring

When the world becomes mud

The ground oozes, plants grow,

And we welcome the return of the sun

Summer’s arrival is heard in

The buzzing of bees over fields of clover

And the laughter of running children

Lakes teem with life

From their surfaces to deep below

And we return to the waters that gave us life

When October arrives

Leaves glow like bonfires in treetops

And crisp breezes drive us home

As the season decays

We burn its remains, give thanks,

And prepare ourselves for darker days

Beneath a white blanket of silence

The previous seasons are hidden

And we huddle together for warmth

The icy hand of colder nights

Beats upon the front door

And we bow our heads and pray for light.

When my time comes

Lay me down in a field beside a pond

So I can give the earth all my memories

Let the ground devour me

So my body becomes the place

Where the first crocuses rise once again

Wesley and Graham each put a hand on one of Melanie’s shoulders, allowing her time to grieve. When she was done and had wiped the tears from her eyes with her fingers, Wesley opened the bottle of scotch and poured a splash into three paper cups. He held his skyward and said, “Godspeed, Crazy Mike!”

Melanie and Graham joined him. “Godspeed, Crazy Mike!”

They paused a moment after drinking in their friend’s honor—and then turned back, away from the bog.

[Quirky music fades in…]

Christopher Gronlund:

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks.

Theme music, as always, is by Ergo Phizmiz. Story music this time was by Moorland Sounds, Medite, Deskant, Christoffer Moe Ditvelsen, Magnus Ludvigsson, Horna Spelman, and Sandra Marteleur. And…several tunes with no listed artist other than “Traditional.” All licensed through Epidemic Sound.

All story music was licensed through Epidemic Sound.

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

I’m not sure what September’s story will be. November’s anniversary episode is decided, and the Christmas episode is always a bit of this and that and comes together almost on its own. So, we’ll see what happens in September. If you go to patreon.com/cgronlund and pledge as little as a dollar a month, you’ll know as soon as I do.

[Quirky music fades out…]

[The sound of a chopping ax.]

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 in-depth look at the latest episode of Not About Lumberjacks and likely contains spoilers of the most recent story. You’ve been warned…”

* * *

A very good friend of the family, upon listening to the latest Not About Lumberjacks story, “Revisions,” said, “I know that mother!” Meaning: this is based on your mom, right?

I mentioned the mother in “Revisions” is an amalgamation of moms I’ve known…but mostly, a made-up mom.

This friend still insisted the character was wholly based on my mom…

But…nope!

Outside of enjoying some camping trips in Wisconsin and a time she went to the Kerrville Folk Festival with one of her friends, my mom would rather enjoy the creature comforts of home than sleep outside. Even when younger, you’d not find her living in state and national parks, backpacking around the world, or living in communes and squatted buildings.

Even the mom that aspect of the mother in “Revisions” is loosely based on wasn’t that wild and free in her youth…although she was definitely more a hippie than my mom—who was really more a beatnik who sided with hippies in demonstrations and other stands taken in the 60s. 70s, and beyond.

It’s fairly common for people to assume once some tiny bit of influence creeps into a story that it’s truth.

* * *

Here is where my mom is in “Revisions.” She is a ridiculously supportive person who never crushed my sense of wonder—someone who encouraged me to never shy away from the things that interested me. She extended a level of trust to me that few friends had from their parents. She was always there when I needed her, even though there were times—as a single mom of two kids in the 70s—she didn’t want the responsibilities of motherhood.

My mom was encouraged to study programming by the company she worked for just as the computer boom of the late 70s and early 80s was taking off. But…as a single mom who was doing well enough to work, raise kids on her own (when that was still not very common), all she wanted to do after work was enjoy dinner with her kids and then relax. The mom in “Revisions” pursuing the opportunity to become a programmer is based more on female scientists and tech pioneers I look up to—women I’ve never met.

I personally know of no moms who have built their own homes, although maybe my friend’s hippie-ish mom did a lot of construction on her first house on St. John in the Virgin Islands…I don’t know…

So, there are definitely two moms who inspired the mother in “Revisions,” two people very dear to me—but inspiration is where things stop.

Just because a writer might look at people in their lives for an initial spark of a character, it doesn’t mean that character has much more in common with the influences than that starting point. (Of course, some writers do look at real people for more than inspiration—some writers write stories that blur the lines of fiction and autobiography. Hell, one of the books I look forward to reading this year is Brad Listi’s Be Brief and Tell Them Everything. Listi and his publisher don’t hide that it’s autofiction…and perhaps because of that, I expect it will be great!)

Speaking of Bradi Listi, he’s the host of the Otherppl podcast—a show where he has great discussions with [mostly] literary writers. A favorite interview is with a writer named Bud Smith, who grew up, at times during his youth, in KOA campgrounds.

In a weird way, one could argue that one tidbit about Bud Smith inspired “Revisions” as much as anyone’s mom…including mine.

* * *

Another thing people often assume is that when a writer writes about an author…they are actually writing and about concerns and feelings the writer shares with the author in the story. I’m sure many writers have used authors in stories to discuss what they think and feel, but that’s not the case with the protagonist in “Revisions” and me.

The author in Revisions frets and procrastinates. I sit down and I write. I write during lunch whether I’m in the office or working from home. (In fact, I’m roughing out this episode of Behind the Cut on a lunch break.) I don’t distract myself with other things to avoid writing. I write because sure, I have a certain compulsion to do it, but if I didn’t enjoy it, I’d not do it.

Perhaps because I was raised by a mom who encouraged me to pursue the creative endeavors I love, I don’t suffer from the struggles some writers seem to have. I don’t question or doubt my abilities. That’s not to say I never struggle through sections of stories, but that’s part of the process to me. I know with confidence that most things I set out to write will be what I hoped they would be (or more). But I know plenty of writers—some who make a living writing—who are repulsed by what they write. (Or at least have doubts about their abilities, despite their repeated successes.)

I might be shy and awkward and clumsy, but when it comes to certain things, I’m very confident. I’m not that asshole who believes just because I can do it, others should shut up and do it, too…but for myself and writing, self-doubt is not a thing I struggle with.

One could not say the same for the protagonist of “Revisions.”

* * *

I wrote “Revisions” for people who struggle.

Just because I’m confident as a writer doesn’t mean I can’t fathom not being confident. (Again, I have friends who have found far greater success with writing than I have, who struggle with self-doubt. It’s insulting to say, “I do it—so can you!” My view on things like that is generally, “If you can do it, recognize how fortunate you are and don’t discredit the struggles of others.” All right, enough of that…)

It’s my hope the self-doubt and anxieties of the protagonist in “Revisions” are familiar to some. Writing can be lonely, and when you see people on social media talking about writing 2500 – 5000 words a day, even a good day writing for you can feel puny. (If I have a 1000-word day, it’s a great day writing. Hell, if I write 250 – 500 good words, I’m happy.) Add to that people who say writer’s block isn’t real, that you should just do it, and it’s no wonder why many writers wonder if they have what it takes. I know plenty of writers who gravitate toward online memes about doing laundry or the dishes to avoid writing because it lets them know they aren’t alone.

I don’t give great thought to deeper things in most things I write, but I’d lying if I said the house in “Revisions” isn’t symbolic of whatever our daily struggles are. For me, it’s balancing the writing I most love with the writing that pays the bills. (But I’ve written enough stories about day jobs getting in the way of things, so…this time, it was a house!) For many friends, it’s writing vs. raising kids. I know people who try balancing writing and school or writing vs. illnesses and disabilities. Hell, for some people, it’s just mustering the energy to sit down and write when it seems like the world is coming apart.

* * *

I wanted the self-doubts and struggles of “Revision’s” protagonist to resonate with the creative people I love who have their own battles. My wife does volunteer art for farm animal sanctuaries…and…she has an autoimmune disease. Some days it’s a struggle for her to just get up. Some days, art goes down with no effort; other days, she’s exhausted and not willing to deal with requested changes or the challenges of timelines because her body is fighting her.

I know a lot of writers who struggle to sit down and write for similar reasons…and many other reasons. I don’t even want to say “legitimate” reasons because that’s a shitty qualifier. If you struggle, that’s legitimate…even if you feel like you have no reason to struggle.

It’s amazing to me the number of adults who feel like they require permission to do the creative things they want to try. But…chat with them, and you find out they’ve had lifetimes of people telling them what to do and how to think. I’m not a fan of saying “Get over it!”

One doesn’t just get over a lifetime or self-doubts brought on by growing up in a controlling or outright abusive environment. Or even an environment where expectations were high, and nothing less than perfection would do.

So many creative people I know (and people who want to be creative), struggle because they feel if what they create isn’t perfect (often from the start) that they somehow suck. They compare themselves to others and only see perceived flaws, rather than their own strengths.

Trust me, there are so many writers I admire—people I wish I could write like. But I’ve also written enough that I know, even with just a tiny following, there are people who wish they could write like me.

* * *

I was raised by a mother who had few rules for my sister and me, but one of her biggest rules was, “No self-ridicule.” Negative self-talk was a no-no!

Sadly, I have friends who, when they make what they perceive as a mistake, still call themselves idiots. They shred themselves over the tiniest things. Tell them 5000 positive things about them and someone gets one negative thing through, that solitary negative thing will eat at them for weeks.

I’m not saying my mom’s influence is not present in “Revisions,” but it’s not as pervasive as some who know her and have listened to the story think. Still, I know how fortunate I am to have been raised in such an environment.

Life can beat up the luckiest of us on any given day, and some of us aren’t even fortunate enough to be lucky. Add to that the expectations we put on ourselves, or expectations we accept from others, and the things we love can feel like an anchor.

I didn’t set out to solve any problems with “Revisions,” but I did want to write something that maybe made some people feel heard and even understood.

Why? Because we can all afford to be kinder to others and, especially, ourselves…

* * *

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.

I’m really looking forward to April’s story: a fun tale about a geek who, while knocking around an antique shop with his grandmother, finds something that changes his life in a most curious way…

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