seven mary three come back

Posted on By Wil

This last weekend, I was in Pensacola, Florida. When I told my friend that, he said “what are you doing in Florida?” I said, “Trying to get out.” But I was actually there for Pensacon. It’s a convention that has invited me year after year, but hasn’t ever fit into my schedule until this year, so it was my first time.

Florida deserves the jokes we make about it, but my experience when I was there was quite lovely. Every person I interacted with was kind, friendly, helpful. I had an incredible piece of blackened gulf red snapper for dinner one night, my bed was comfy, and I did not have a single awkward or uncomfortable encounter with anyone at the show.

None of that is why this will be one of the most memorable conventions of my life, and I will now tell you why.

Holy. Shit.

I turned to my friend, Leah, who works with me at conventions to keep things running smoothly. “Dude, I have to come do this tomorrow.”

“Okay, we’ll take care of it,” she said.

So Saturday comes around, and I’m signing autographs at my table. Leah taps me on the shoulder and says, “it’s time to go downstairs.”

The excitement that surged inside of me threatened to explode out of my chest like Alien. I told the people who were in the line that I would be right back, I was going to fulfill a childhood dream.

We went downstairs to the photo-op area, and I apologized to the line I was cutting. They seemed to understand, my fellow fans of CHiPs, who also could not believe this was actually happening.

I bounced on the balls of my feet while I waited, and oh shit here comes Larry Wilcox. And he’s wearing a CHP uniform shirt with a name tag that says JOHN! I tried so hard to control my bouncing, but I’m pretty sure I failed.

We made eye contact and I said, “Hi, I’m Wil. I’m a huge fan and I am so excited to take a picture with you.”

“It’s so nice to meet you, I’m Larry.” We shook hands, and I didn’t keep shaking it like I did when I met Henry Rollins thank god.

There was a commotion around the corner, which could only mean one thing. Here comes Erik Estrada, much taller than I expected, and he is wearing a uniform shirt with a name tag that says PONCH.

Dude, it’s totally Ponch. Like, right there, right in front of me, are Ponch and John and I’m so excited I can’t tell if I’m going to burst into tears or throw up or what.

They take their positions on their marks, which are the same marks I had been using just a little bit earlier, and the photographer tells me that they are ready.

This is my chance. This is the one time I get to say this. I take a deep breath, and I say, “I don’t want to take up a ton of your time, so I’ll say this quickly. I grew up in Sunland-Tujunga, and you guys used to film in my neighborhood all the time.”

They looked at each other. “Sunland-Tujunga!” Larry Wilcox said. “We love Sunland-Tujunga!”

“Yeah, it was a great place to grow up. So I loved watching CHiPs, and I loved that I could see streets I recognized when I watched it.

“One day when you were filming, in like 1979, I think, my babysitter went to the set and came back with your autographs for me. I cherished them, until they were lost in a move probably 40 years ago.”

Erik Estrada’s eyes lit up and he flashed me that classic Ponch smile. I took a steadying breath.

“But this is really what I wanted to tell you: I had a rough childhood, with a lot of abuse an exploitation. I was sad and scared most of the time. But whenever you were on my TV, I was happy and I was safe. I loved CHiPs so much. You were the adults I wished I’d had in my life. You guys protected people, you stood up to bullies, and the whole cast felt like a group of people who were always there for each other. I desperately wanted that in my life, and watching CHiPs got me as close to it as I could get. So I really just want to say thank you for your work and for the joyful memories you gave me.”

“Oh, buddy,” Erick Estrada said, “thank you. Come here,” and he pulled me into a warm and loving hug.

“Thank you,” I said, “you have no idea.”

“I think maybe we do,” Larry Wilcox said, very kindly, with a warm smile. Maybe I’m not the first person to share a story like mine with them.

“Let’s take a great picture,” Erik Estrada said.

“Thank you. I’d love that,” I said.

I stood between them, they put their arms around me, and a dream came true for 9 year-old Wil.

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They were such kind men. I felt seen and I felt special. All these years later, Ponch and John can still make this weird, sad, scared, little kid feel safe.

I will cherish this memory for the rest of my life.

blog

i think i leveled up

Posted on By Wil

I turned in a story on Friday. It was over a year late. It needed eyes that aren’t mine, it needed another pass from me, it needed a polish. So it isn’t done done, but it’s close enough to done that I feel safe writing about what may turn out to be one of the most important things I’ve written in my creative and professional journey as a writer, maybe a close second to Still Just A Geek.

I worked on this story for about eighteen months, even though I “only” spent about 12 hours actually writing it. It was a year late, even though it “only” took me three days to write the draft that I turned in. I have never worked harder or longer with fewer words to show for it at the end. But they are good words. I am so glad that I did this, that I put this at the top of my queue and left it there, even when I felt like I couldn’t put two words together, because when I accepted it, I made a promise to myself that I would do the thing,1 and it was really important to me that I didn’t break that promise, even if it meant that the queue did not move at all, for a year.

(more…)
Books

It’s Storytime – Magnificent Maurice, or the Flowers of Immortality

Posted on By Wil

It is Wednesday, my dudes, and that means a new Storytime is waiting for you, wherever you get your podcasts.

This week’s story, Magnificent Maurice, or the Flowers of Immortality, was SO MUCH FUN to narrate. Here’s my intro:

About ten thousand years ago, some cats in Mesopotamia looked at a bunch of humans and thought, “I bet we could trick them into giving us food and shelter,” so they domesticated themselves. As a dog owner who is a member of my cat, Watson’s, staff, I’d say that it worked out pretty well for them.

This week, it is a privilege to tell you a story about one of the greatest cats who has ever lived (just ask him, he’ll tell you), a very special cat, with a very special job. I’m going to straighten my collar and make sure my hair is just so, as I tell you the tale of Magnificent Maurice, or the Flowers of Immortality.

You’re going to love this, especially if you are on staff for one or more housecats. In Patreon, we are celebrating our feline bosses, sharing their full names (Watson’s True and Full Name is His Royal Majesty, Sir Waddington Pottybottoms III, Esq.,The First of His Name, Head of The Complaint Department) and the titles of the songs we sing to them, featuring their names. It’s a lot of fun, and I encourage all of my fellow pet owners to jump in, here, if not there, and share.

“I’m not in your way, am I?”

Also, before I hit publish and get ready for work, I want to take a minute to thank all of you who listen to the podcast, who have subscribed to our Patreon, who have taken the time and effort to rate, review, and recommend us so we can grow. You are making it possible for me to do this, week after week, and I am intensely grateful to you. It is such a privilege to entertain you, to tell you these wonderful stories, and introduce you to authors you may not know, but I think you will love. And speaking of that, if you missed this, I wanted you to know that Senaa Ahmad, whose The Skin of a Teenage Boy is not Alive was on the pod a couple weeks ago, has a brand new short story collection out called The Age of Calamities (“Written by an inimitable new voice, The Age of Calamities is a genre-defying, mind-bending collection of absurdist, funny, and speculative short stories.“), that is available wherever you get your books.

It is such a gift to do this, y’all. If I can do this as my regular job for the rest of my career, if I never have to go work on camera again, if all I do is tell you stories and promote the Arts, I will be so happy. It feels like that has a very real chance of happening, and that fills me with such joy, I feel like I’m going to burst.

Okay. NOW I am going to go get ready for work. Stay safe, friends.

blog

It’s Storytime: Wend-Way-Go

Posted on By Wil

It is Wednesday, and that means there’s a new episode of It’s Storytime With Wil Wheaton, waiting for you wherever you get your podcasts.

This week’s story is Wend-Way-Go by Tim Pratt. It was originally published in Uncanny Magazine.

I made a creative choice for this week that I haven’t made before on the podcast, and it was so satisfying, I wanted to talk about it a little bit.

When I was working on Star Trek, one of the adults in the cast — and I can’t remember who, no matter how hard I try — introduced me to the concept of “meeting the demands of the material.” They meant that our job as actors is to serve the writer’s intention, not the other way around. Before we start changing words or rewriting lines, it is our responsibility to do the work of understanding the author’s intent until the scenes work. And if the scene still doesn’t work after all of that, then it is time to talk about making changes. But you don’t go making changes because you’re 15 and don’t yet know what it means to be an actor, beyond following direction.

It took me awhile to process that, and it took me even longer to reliably meet the demands of the material, but I eventually got there and never left.

As a narrator of over 100 titles, my job is easier, more joyful, and more satisfying because I know to listen to what the author wants to say, and then do my best to communicate that through my performance. When it works, the listener doesn’t even know what I did; they just feel the story more completely than they would, otherwise. It’s a pretty great trick.

When we recorded this week’s story, Gabrielle (who directs and produces) and I both felt that the material was making a specific demand, that was also a gift to me: without saying so directly, Tim sets this story in what felt to both of us like South Carolina, for some reason. It was so clear in the text that the narrative character needed to speak in a soft drawl, that supported his fundamental gentleness.

It is a creative risk, to be sure. Accents are tough, and present a unique trap that catches me all the time when I discover I am doing an accent, when I should be performing with an accent.

So it’s exciting and a little scary, but I’m glad I did it. I loved this story, and I hope you do, too.

And now, links!

You can also support the show on Patreon, where $5 a month gets you access to the show with no ads, a growing community of lovely people, live AMAs with me, and weekly insights behind the scenes of the show.

If this is your first time reading or visiting my blog, welcome! I’m glad you’re here. If you’d like to get my posts in your inbox, here’s the thing:

the footsteps of a rag doll dance

Posted on By Wil

Marlowe and I were out on her morning walk, when we saw one of her friends.

“Hi Marlowe!” He said with a huge smile, while I struggled to keep up with her efforts to get her head under his outstretched hand.

While they enjoyed scritches, he and I had a long talk about the squirrels and birds in the neighborhood.

Y’all, I became a weird Bird Person so gradually, I can’t even tell you when it started.1

Marlowe looked back at me, letting me know she had finished Friendship and was ready to return to Walkies.

Her friend and I said goodbye, and continued our walks.

We were about halfway up the block when I started thinking about my blog. Every morning, and almost every evening, I sit down at my desk and open WordPress. I click new and spend some disappointing minutes trying to post … something. Usually, I get overwhelmed by options or current events or both, and close the tab in frustration.

I’ve been trying, and failing, to find my way back to writing every day, even if it’s about something that I have decided is silly or pointless. Not everything has to be Super Important, I tell myself, and then I look at the news. It’s so awful. It’s like America ripped off the mask, and the monster we always knew was lurking underneath it wasn’t just a monster, it was a cosmic horror, indescribable and incomprehensible in its violence, fear, and anger. I look at that and I’m like, how can I not do something about this? How can I not talk about it, if only for the record? And I get stuck there.

One of the local ravens, Little Kevin, landed on a branch in front of me. They did that corvid chortle cluck thing, which I have come to understand is a greeting.

“Hey, buddy,” I said. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a couple of peanuts. I made my own clicking, clucking, chortling sounds as I tossed them into the middle of the street. Then I deliberately looked away, which I understand is a way to let corvids know we aren’t a threat.

I had only taken a couple of steps when their shadow passed across my face. I glanced behind me and watched Little Kevin pick up one, then two, peanuts, before they flew up into a tree. I made corvid sounds at them.

I love this, I thought. I’m going to mark this moment, so I don’t forget.

We rounded the corner, walking out of the shade. The sun was warm and welcoming on my skin. I am grateful for this. Everything is terrible, but I am grateful for this.

Maybe I’ll write about this on my blog, I thought.

And that’s when I got this anxious tightness in my chest, like I have a midterm in an hour and I haven’t studied. At all.

What the actual fuck is that about?

I don’t know, but It’s literally just a blog post, Wil. It’s not … whatever you’re making it.

I noticed that Marlowe was looking up at me, expectantly. I became vaguely aware of the jingling of dog tags. I realized that my body was on the corner, but my mind was someplace very far away. I realized that I was looking at a dog we call Marlowe’s Nemesis. Their Person waved to me, and I waved back. For the last three or four years, we have worked to convince our dogs that they don’t need to yell at each other when we pass on the street. Around a year ago, something changed and they both just … got over it. So now, when Marlowe sees her, she does a super good sit, just like I taught her. Her nemesis ignores us both, while their person and I exchange a silent greeting. None of us knows each other’s names.

“Better late than never, but waiting until you were 14 was certainly a choice, Mars,” I said as I gave her a treat.

Little Kevin flew over me and landed on the street light. They called, loudly, bowing their head a little bit and opening their wings. Almost immediately, another raven joined them. I was pretty sure it was their older sibling, who was a fledgling last year. We named them Kevin, after the bird in Up. Did you know that corvids live intergenerationally in the same nest? The older sibling will stay for a year and help raise the new fledgling2. We watched Kevin teach Little Kevin how to hunt and eviscerate baby birds last summer, for instance. There’s nothing quite like walking out into the yard and discovering an avian ritual killing, first thing in the morning.

“Hi Kevin,” I said. I tossed another handful of peanuts into the street.

I’ve been doing daily meditations with the Calm App, off and on, for a few months. I started using it to help manage my anxiety, and to help fall asleep. It was super effective, so I looked into a more regular meditation practice, averaging about ten minutes a day. I can’t tell you why, because I don’t know and I don’t understand, but holy shit does it WORK. I struggle with nervous system dysregulation almost every day, and CPTSD flashbacks is my Sword of Damocles. I’ve been working diligently for years with a trauma-recovery therapist to help me, well, recover from my trauma. I use EMDR and IFS therapy, and it is working more effectively than I ever thought possible.3 I’m so much better, you guys, than I was just a year ago,4 but recovery is a journey with no destination beyond the next step, so my work doesn’t really end (but daily life has gotten much, much, easier. I think I may have enough to write a book about the experience).

So. To support my therapy, and give myself a kind of booster between sessions, I do meditation. I don’t know how it works or exactly what is happening, but I do know that, starting in like … October last year? I think? … I have been able to slow down in my head. I have been able to quiet my racing, anxious, worried, hypervigilant brain. And I don’t even know how I’m doing it, just that I am doing it.

Slowing down has made a huge, significant, difference for me.

A lightbulb popped over my head.

“Marlowe, this is important,” I said. “When I was regularly writing in my blog like twenty years ago, everything was slower. We didn’t have smartphones; we barely had dumb phones. We didn’t have social media. We didn’t have Influencers. It was slower, quieter. I could spend a whole day thinking about what I was going to write that night or the next morning. I wasn’t distracted and pulled in a dozen different directions. Daily life wasn’t an endless string of compounding traumas while we all hoped with everything we had that it will happen today.

“A thought that is now one or two posts on a social network was developed into a whole post on a blog. There was a community of regular readers who commented every time, and I had no idea how much I would miss that when it was gone.”

Marlowe looked up at me and did her best to understand. The Kevins fluttered down to the ground and began picking at the peanuts.

“It is unrealistic for me to expect myself to write now like I did then, because Now is fundamentally different. I am fundamentally different.”

Is it really as easy as adjusting my expectations for myself? Is it really as easy as not judging myself, and hitting publish instead of cancel?

There’s nothing tricky about it! It’s just a little trick!

I need to unplug. We all need to unplug. We all need to take breaks from the horrors. We need to slow down, even if it’s just for a couple of minutes.

Everything won’t be terrible forever. There’s a reckoning coming and I, for one, want to be ready.

If I don’t write about the mundane, if I don’t exercise the muscles I use when I make a post about walking my dog, watching birds, and reflecting on who I am right now, because all I want to do is scream at the horrors until I have no voice left, then I have surrendered in advance. I have given up doing something I love, that gives my life purpose and meaning.

I keep forgetting that I am a Helper, which I know is silly since I literally just wrote about that. But, you know, trauma makes you weird sometimes.

The Kevins followed us for a few houses. I tossed them some more peanuts and a minute later they both passed close by me, carrying them in their beaks. I could hear the soft rustle of their feathers and felt the downdraft on the side of my face.

I’m not gonna lie, it was magical.

When we got back to our house, I took Marlowe’s collar off at the driveway so she could walk up to the door. She got there ahead of me, turned around, and looked at me with that great Pittie smile, her tail wagging.

“You did such a great job, Mars,” I told her. “A+.”

We walked into the house. She had what Anne and I call “one thousand times drinks” from her doggie fountain, then lay down, happily, in front of the couch. I kneeled down in front of her and kissed the top of her head. She thumped her tail twice and sighed.

“I’ll be in my office if you need anything, honey,” I said, “I going to go write something for my blog.”

Thanks for reading. I’m glad you’re here. If you’d like to get my posts by e-mail, here’s the thingy:

  1. Yesterday, I was on my way out the kitchen door, stopped with a gasp, and quietly called Anne over to see the California Towhee that was perched on the wire over the patio. We have tons of finches and sparrows, even the occasional cowbird, but I just love the Towhees, and this was the first time I’d ever seen one on my patio.
    We sat there and made excited noises for a second. Then I looked at her.
    “Still punk as fuck,” I said.
    “Yeah, obviously. Still punk as fuck.” ↩︎
  2. I was one of the lucky ten thousand about a year ago. ↩︎
  3. Honestly, it works so well, it is indistinguishable from magic at times. ↩︎
  4. today is a terrible anniversary; one year since America pulled the trigger on the gun it put to its head in 2016 ↩︎