There’s something new every Friday. Enjoy, and please subscribe! Check out my website at www.vincewetzel.com

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Publishing is an endurance sport involving dozens of distinct phases. As we sit in August, I can say with confidence that I am moving into some of the final stages of bringing Landslide to readers.

After getting raw feedback from my beta readers in the Spring, I spent months poring over their comments to polish the draft the best I could on my own. That, in and of itself, is an accomplishment.

For this next phase, I diverged from my previous novels. For Friends in Low Places and Lose Yourself, I leaned heavily on my beta readers and funneled my budget straight into a line edit. For this project, which has been in my head since before Lose Yourself, I wanted to invest in a developmental edit and editorial assessment to tackle the macro story structure rather than the sentence-level minutiae.

With traditional publishing, you have a team assembled to assist. In indie publishing, you are the team owner, and you are assembling the team to take the manuscript to the finish line.

I wanted the full treatment: margin notes, structural roadmaps, and anything to elevate the draft from “good” to “exceptional.” I submitted proposals to five vetted editors on Reedsy.com, a publishing marketplace that connects writers with cover designers, editors, and other specialists. Quotes came back between $3,000 and $5,000. While those rates reflect the deep expertise involved, I decided that a comprehensive editorial assessment was more within my budget.

After spending the month poring over the manuscript, the editor delivered exactly what I needed.

The assessment was transformative. If beta readers are enthusiastic foodies describing why a dish tastes a tad off, a professional editor is the master chef describing how to fix it, right down to the exact ingredients and technique. The recommendations provided exactly what I needed.

The feedback highlighted inconsistent character arcs, weak plot beats, and weak emotional payoff. My editor pointed out where I needed to raise the stakes, reminding me that you, the reader, only turn the pages when decisions carry real consequences both internally and externally.

After living with Alex Shelby in my head for nearly six and a half years, he deserves a story that truly resonates with readers. His voice is unique, occasionally cringe-worthy, and always too smart for his own good. I’m excited to bring it to you all next Spring.

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The Inside Track with Alex Shelby

Alex dropped another column on my Substack this week. With all the sex scandals dropping onto the Capitol, Alex wanted to share his thoughts. As always, Alex is a fictional author, and his thoughts are part of the fun of the fiction

Inside Track with Alex Shelby: The Bulletproof Delusion

Winning an election doesn’t make politicians invincible. It just gives them a terminal case of entitlement.

Alex Shelby is on the verge of a Landslide

We first met Alex Shelby in Capitol Rookie, an 11-part serial set in 2004 and first published on Substack in 2025, and now the anchor of the anthology, Space Between. More than 20 years later, Alex is on the precipice, his underlying cynicism and distrust threatening to bring down his career, his marriage, and his relationship with his son.

Landslide releases Spring 2027!

Join me in the Space Between

If you enjoyed this peek behind the curtain, the best way to support my journey is by joining the inner circle.

When you become a free subscriber, you’ll immediately unlock an ePUB copy of my anthology, Space Between. You’ll also get instant access to our exclusive, subscriber-only vault featuring:

• Novel Playlists: The exact soundtracks that fueled my writing.

• Dream Casts: Who I picture starring in the movie versions of my books.

• An Exclusive Short Story you won’t find anywhere else.

Want to hold the stories in your hands? Upgrade to a paid subscription ($35), and I will personally mail you a signed, physical copy of Space Between, plus your choice of either the award-winning novel Lose Yourself or my debut novel Friends In Low Places.

Whether you’re here for the digital perks or the signed paperbacks, your support keeps these stories alive. Hit the button below to claim your rewards and never miss a chapter!

Next week:

Catch the first of three parts in the next Piano Man Chronicles, this time starring Dana Peck from Lose Yourself.

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Read more of Alex’s columns.

By Alex Shelby, Sacramento Tribune Columnist

Another sex scandal has hit the Capitol. I know, as predictable as a California wildfire in the Fall.

Power is the ultimate aphrodisiac, but in the statehouses and marble halls, it’s also the ultimate blindfold. If sex is about power, we shouldn’t act shocked when Capitol sex scandals land with the predictability of a hot mic.

Sex is essential for the survival of the species, though watching an Assemblymember testify before an ethics committee about his “needs” wants me to reconsider our survival. Mix in late-night committee markups, inflated egos, and the quiet thrill of breaking a vow, and one can predictably start the countdown clock to the next sexual time bomb.

The playbooks don’t change. From Alexander Hamilton paying hush money to a lover’s husband to a present-day state legislator charging discreet hotel rooms to the campaign credit card, the motive is always the same - reckless entitlement.

While public perception (57% - Pew Research Center) believes that politicians are caught more often because of public scrutiny, the heightened power dynamic is the driving force in this sexual misconduct. According to the National Women’s Defense League, at least 147 state lawmakers across 4 states have been accused of sexual harassment, assault, or misconduct.

It’s true. Power corrupts. Infidelity is driven by socioeconomic power and ego, and infidelity among politicians is comparable to that of top-tier, high-power corporate executives. Public scrutiny only exposes the scandal more often.

It’s rarely about mutual impulse, and more about leverage. Seventy-seven percent of targets are staffers, followed by lobbyists. And while, according to Psychological Science, power becomes the great sexual equalizer, with women cheating at the exact same rate as men when they reach the same high-power corporate or political echelons as men, the number of politicians accused of sexual misconduct skews overwhelmingly male (97%), proving that male politicians corner the market on being specifically stupid.

Are politicians that ego-centric that they see the risks and do it anyway? We know that answer. They suffer from a specific brain defect called hubris. And it’s fed each time they come away from election night victorious, or told they excelled, or that a bill became a law because of their work. At some point, they believe they are bulletproof, even bringing on extra scrutiny by becoming more public or seeking higher office.

It’s almost as though they want to get caught.

Personal sex scandals often overshadow the real issues facing our community, state, and country. They are, by nature, a personal issue, except that this personal power corruption belies a lapse in integrity. If a politician can lie to the person they share a bed with every night, don’t expect them to be faithful to the voters. Are they willing to accept favors, gifts, votes, and assert political power that is not in the interest of society?

In the media, we don’t cover these scandals because reading through redacted text messages is salacious comedic gold (they are). We cover them because a politician who lies to the person with whom they swore a vow and built a life will then lie to the voters who put them in office every single time.

Alex Shelby is on the verge of a Landslide

We first met Alex Shelby in Capitol Rookie, an 11-part serial set in 2004 and first published on Substack in 2025, and now the anchor of the anthology, Space Between. More than 20 years later, Alex is on the precipice, his underlying cynicism and distrust threatening to bring down his career, his marriage, and his relationship with his son.

Landslide releases Spring 2027!

Join me in the Space Between

If you enjoyed this peek behind the curtain, the best way to support my journey is by joining the inner circle.

When you become a free subscriber, you’ll immediately unlock an ePUB copy of my anthology, Space Between. You’ll also get instant access to our exclusive, subscriber-only vault featuring:

• Novel Playlists: The exact soundtracks that fueled my writing.

• Dream Casts: Who I picture starring in the movie versions of my books.

• An Exclusive Short Story you won’t find anywhere else.

Want to hold the stories in your hands? Upgrade to a paid subscription ($35), and I will personally mail you a signed, physical copy of Space Between, plus your choice of either the award-winning novel Lose Yourself or my debut novel Friends In Low Places.

Whether you’re here for the digital perks or the signed paperbacks, your support keeps these stories alive. Hit the button below to claim your rewards and never miss a chapter!

There’s something new every Friday. Enjoy and please subscribe! Check out my website at www.vincewetzel.com

Subscribe now

Piano Man is a two-year anthology project. Every two weeks, you’ll see a story surrounding the fictional novel PIANO MAN (You can read about PIANO MAN below the story). Some stories are small three-part serials. Others will be from guest authors, like France!

France Pinzon is a writer and editor whose work has appeared in Rolling Stone Philippines and Mega. Her fiction explores consciousness, identity, and the moments that define selfhood. Intrinsic marks her debut as a published novelist. I interviewed her for The CHOW in February.

By

Ask anyone inside, and they’ll tell you that joining a drug ring is never a matter of right or wrong, but how fast they can leave when it’s time to go. One has to treat every transaction like a ticking time bomb. You would think then that as long as you’re able to cut the correct wire before it goes off, the deal will pull through.

However, this thinking would be wrong, because whoever said the bomb was defusable?

Is the drug business excessive? Yes—sometimes, hundreds of lives are lost in one night, but then almost simultaneously, tens of billions of pesos are made in return, so it evens out, really.

As someone who works as a mule, you might ask: “Has it been worth it?”

Definitely.

“Is it life-changing?”

I’d say.

I mean, I didn’t own a gun before. I hated guns, in fact. My father had one—a Beretta 92, a really old one from thirty years back—hell knows how he got that. He used to point it at me when he came home drunk. But he never fired.

Coward. He just swung the grip end at me and many of the times he missed because I learned to move my head like Pacquiao eventually and he was so out of it, he would lose balance and fall on the floor from the swing’s momentum.

These days, I slot a Springfield .380 pistol in between my thighs and whisper a prayer that I never have to use it in the middle of a transaction.

That said, it isn’t the substance, or the money, or the guns, but the level of trust people put in each other in the ring that has truly fascinated me. It’s almost at the same level of blind confidence you put in your mother who gave birth to you, or on yourself when you’re riding someone’s brain out. That has kept me in this game. Trust given is beguiling, addicting, confusing, frustrating. The ultimate stimulant.

Like any would-be associate, I spend most of my time not fully inside any network before getting the call. That’s how they recruit new people up in the inner circle. It’s one level below the select few who command everything. It’s not like you can decline the offer anyway. You absolutely must accept the job or they’ll think you’re a rat. And rats get smoked and then dumped into the river with rocks in their stomach, I am told.

The moment that I accept my new role in the notorious Aba Ginoós is the day I bid goodbye to my former self. The Ginoós is one of the known drug rings in the country, or at least that’s the word that gets around. To get a call from them is both both frightening and flattering, something I don’t expect and have subconsciously prayed will never happen. For each time my recruiter comes to me looking more helpless than usual, it is because someone from the ring supposedly just got freighted off into the bottom of the Manila Bay. Someone he had seen maybe a few times.

So I ask my recruiter, Dante, “Why me and why now?” In the past three years I have only ever done what I was told. Dropped a package here. Switched bags there. Nothing remarkable or worthy of a promotion or commendation whatsoever. I want to be as invisible to any of the Ginoós as much as possible, yet somehow, I still catch their eye.

Is it because I am a woman?

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It has to be because I am a woman. This business is after all a man’s sandpit. I mean, they call themselves Ginoos for fuck’s sake. No woman, especially with my reading glasses on, has ever been that cunning to step in.

But my golly, these idiots have forgotten about the weight of the feminine stare behind optical correction. Subtly disarming and non-threatening—that I just need to waltz in any crowded mall with an opened bag of Cheetos, a worn-out, hollowed up paperback tucked in my arm, and the security guard and his dog are guaranteed to leave me alone. (I know this because I stalked the mall’s security dog and his trainer for a week at the basement parking to see what the pooch liked the most as a treat. Turns out, it was Cheetos!)

Then I am safe to hang out by the indoor fountain for the next two hours until my counterpart arrives so we can swap books like any typical, unironic nerds.

Funnily enough, I was inside a supermarket when I first encountered Dante. It was an ordinary evening and I was buying pancit canton and eggs for the week and was browsing on my way to check out, and somehow I missed my turn, and ended up in the marked-down books section.

It was probably my slightly disheveled red wig, corset top, faux leather miniskirt, and boots that night that gave my situation away, but there he was—ol’ Dante, eyeballing me from afar. He was distracting because he gave off the grown-man vibe even then and was holding copies of Fifty Shades of Grey, Heated Rivalry, and Piano Man, though I’d admit Piano Man had a mixed readership—maybe husbands secretly wanted to sleep with their wives’ friends?

Anyway, Dante eventually made conversation about how I had my “whole life ahead” and any hardship I was going through “was only temporary. Pain is temporary,” or some nonsense like that, like he was some evangelist on a bus stuck in traffic. I wasn’t even saying anything the whole time. But he wouldn’t stop talking. And that’s why I forgot about the eggs.

Somehow, maybe also looking at the amount of pancit canton packets I was clutching against my chest—he thought I was destitute. At the time, I have to admit that I really was. It all makes sense now. That night, Dante was doing supplies procurement and recruitment.

Maybe they’ve finally recognized the true advantage of having a woman in the inner circle and want to confirm their theory by having me do dirty work first. A woman would be overthinking a drop, which makes us perfect to assist in strategy and planning. Or a recruiter of other female prospects? Unlike a man, we would do it for the good of the ring—always, until it is time to leave, of course. A woman can choose to be the narco boss if she wants to, but how would that benefit everyone else?

I get to the pinned location they sent me that Sunday night. I am in boss-adjacent clothes—bright pink pantsuits and stilettos. I am sporting my real hair this time. The place is a corner in Rada beside two stinky-ass dumpsters. I stifle a vomit. That’s okay, it is my decision to arrive twenty minutes early.

In the meantime, I pace around the empty parking lot to check if there is anyone else lurking. Sunday evenings are known to be dead quiet, peaceful, crimeless. Something about the Sabbath perhaps.

I turn and there she is. Another girl. Actually, two of them. They both look nice. Overapplied on the perfume but otherwise they both look nice. They are probably a few years younger than me.

As we all stare at each other in confusion, our respective phones buzz simultaneously.

“Shoot them,” mine says.

I look up and see the same glistening fear in their eyes. We all receive the same order, and my .380, for fear of wrinkling up my pink pants in the crotch area, isn’t in my thigh that night. It is in fact in between my tits, slotted in my bra strap. Basically, more accessible.

Like I said, this drug business is all about how fast one can leave when it’s time to go.

Unfortunately, like my father, I turn out to be a coward.∎

About The Piano Man Chronicles

Piano Man, written by the fictional author Thomas Eberle, is a creative spark that connects a wide variety of stories, like a quiet ripple. I am writing three‑part arcs that introduce new people, new places, and new turning points, but the shared thread is how this one book nudges something in each of them.

Some characters read it.
Some argue with it.
Some only know it because someone they love won’t stop talking about it.
But for all of them, The Piano Man becomes a spark — a moment of reflection, change, or connection.

Guest authors, such as Sandolore Sykes and JC Wesslen are contributing their own takes on the story, creating a wide world of literary interconnection. This project is meant to feel like wandering through a neighborhood at dusk, catching glimpses of lives in motion. You’re not following one plot; you’re following the echo of a story inside a story, watching how art lands differently in every life it touches.

The Birthday Party Underground

When washed-up rocker Cole takes a pity gig at his nephew’s birthday party, he expects juice boxes, tantrums, and the slow death of his dignity. What he doesn’t expect is applause, cash, and a new career path—one paved with glitter, chaos, and the occasional piñata-related injury.

Welcome to the children’s party circuit, where the princesses aren’t Disney-approved, the clowns have criminal records, and the magicians might be dabbling in more than sleight of hand. As Cole dives deeper into this surreal subculture, he finds himself entangled in illicit rendezvous with moms (divorced, married, and morally flexible), navigating the drug-laced underbelly of suburban affluence, and dodging emotional landmines disguised as balloon animals.

But beneath the costumes and confetti lies a question Sam can’t escape: Is this his second act or just another detour on the road to self-destruction?

Eberle’s Piano Man is a tragicomic romp through the absurdity of reinvention, where the music never stops, but the consequences keep piling up. Sharp, irreverent, and unexpectedly tender, it’s a backstage pass to the party you never knew you wanted to crash.

“A rock ballad wrapped in confetti and regret. Eberle’s prose is as sharp as a broken guitar string.”
— Javier Stone, author of The Last Encore
“Thomas Eberle has written the most unwholesome children’s party novel imaginable—and I mean that as high praise.”
— Mira Caldwell, author of Suburban Gothic
“A hilarious, heartbreaking descent into the party circuit’s glittery underworld. Think Almost Famous meets Bad Moms with a dash of Hunter S. Thompson.”
— The Sacramento Tribune

If you’re stepping into the “Space Between” for the first time…

Welcome! You’ve arrived at a place where stories do more than just fill pages—they bridge the gap between the big moments of our lives.

Three years ago, I started this journey, wondering if I’d ever have enough to say. Today, I have the joy of knowing that every Friday at 5 a.m. PT, I’m sharing a story with you while you enjoy your morning coffee. This isn’t about chasing algorithms; it’s about doubling down on the “Why” behind my imprint, OT Press: telling human stories about the small choices that lead to real growth.

What to Expect

This is a living world where the characters you first met in Friends In Low Places and Lose Yourself continue to evolve. Here, you’ll find the threads that connect my novels, the current The Piano Man Chronicles, and my upcoming novel, Landslide. You can also read them in print with Space Between: The anthology of stories bridging novels. You get a front-row seat to The CHOW, my interviews with fellow authors about the spaces between their own milestones.

Why Subscribe?

I invite you to join our community and go deeper into the narrative. Subscribers receive special access to exclusive content, including:

• Free ePUB of Space Between: The anthology of stories bridging novels

• New Stories: Bi-Weekly fiction bridging the gap between my novels.

• The “Space Between” Guide: An insider’s roadmap to my interconnected universe.

• Soundtracks & More: Curated playlists and behind-the-scenes updates.

If you become a paid subscriber, you get those benefits plus a signed copy of either Friends In Low Places or Lose Yourself, plus a copy of the newly released anthology Space Between.

Thank you for joining me. I look forward to meeting you every Friday in the space between.

Pull up a spot. Subscribers receive special access to exclusive content, including new stories, a guide to the “Space Between” the novels, soundtracks, and more... ​

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My guest this month on the CHOW (Creative Hero on Writing) is Stevie... or Stephen Duffy, a Scottish Author and author of Fragile Steps and Old Bastards. He's also written horror short stories and some poetry.

[VW] Welcome, Stevie.

[SD] Thanks for having me, Vince!

[VW] All right, is it Stephen or Stevie, or can I just call you Steve-o or Steve-aramovich?

[SD] My friends call me Stevie! You may call me Stephen lol. Just kidding, Stevie is fine.

[VW] This is important because there is the horror writer Steve Duffy (and I see you’ve written horror), and there is also the Irish humor novelist Stephen Duffy. In fact, I almost started this whole interview with the latter’s bio. I’m glad that I didn’t. How tough is it to have two other authors with the same name?

[SD] Ah shit, is there? I never knew that! I’ll probably stick with Stevie going forward then. There was also a singer in the 80s called Stephen Duffy. People love to tell me that.

[VW] Well, knowing that there is a lot more on the other Steve Duffys, tell us a little more about your writing origin story. When did you first start putting stories together on paper or screen?

[SD] I started writing on a whim just over ten years ago with no prior experience. I’ve never done a writing course or anything like that, and I even failed English in school (twice). But I started writing Fragile Steps (it looked very different back then from the finished novel) one day with no plan at all, basically pantsing it (I’d never even heard that term at this point). Of course, starting your writing journey with a novel is a terrible idea, and I gave up for about seven years after getting stuck on a plot point. But yeah, I eventually came back to it, and the rest is history.

[VW] How do you approach your process? Do you look at a character? A situation? A plot?

[SD] I like setting myself little challenges, like “keep this story under fifteen hundred words” or “come up with an unlikeable MC”, so it tends to start with some sort of little challenge or spark, usually involving a character or setting. A “what if…” situation, if that makes sense.

[VW] I recently saw an interview with you that talked about the origins of Old Bastards, where it started off as a horror story in a nursing home, but through the character of Tracy, you found a way to shape it into a comedy. How did you make that trek?

[SD] Yeah, that’s right! I had two ideas — the first was to write a horror novel set in a nursing home. Originally, it was going to be a possession story, like someone’s grandma is possessed by a demon but everyone thinks she’s just losing her marbles. The other idea or challenge I had was to write an unlikeable MC and make the reader like them. And in my previous stories, I always found the urge to crack a joke or two, even in more serious situations, so once I started thinking about who Tracy was, I saw it as an opportunity to really lean into that. It came pretty natural and is by far the most fun I’ve ever had writing.

[VW] I read Old Bastards. Tracy is indeed an engaging yet unlikable character. What did you like about her character and want to focus on her arc?

[SD] I like that she’s relatable. She’s not a bad or evil person; she’s just fed up, a little pissed off about how her life has turned out. Yet, she doesn’t do an awful lot to help herself and often takes the easy way out. She’s a fuck up, but not because of some tragic backstory. Some people are just assholes, you know? I wanted her arc to be no more than her starting as a total asshole and, by the end, being slightly less of an asshole. She’s not really changed at all and isn’t aware of any big lesson she’s learned. Of course, she feels guilty about what happened with Mrs Birch, but that’s all part of her subconscious.

But the things she says and thinks and does (or is tempted to do), we’ve all felt that way before. Despite how flawed she is, almost every reader has said that they can relate to her.

[VW] In my upcoming novel “Landslide,” I also have a cranky protagonist. He’s jaded, selfish, and unsympathetic. It’s such a hard character to write because, while they’re entertaining, the reader has to relate in order to keep reading. How did you try to crack that code?

[SD] See, I think they just have to be engaged or entertained to keep reading, but I see your point. I think with Tracy, it’s easy because most of the book is based around mundane, everyday activities, and what she thinks of them. And I get to just have fun with that. A lot of her thoughts are a little unhinged, but we all have intrusive thoughts, don’t we? And we’ve all had a job we’ve hated, all had times in our life where we’ve been stuck in a rut, and we’ve all masturbated furiously at work!

[VW] In Fragile Steps, you also have a female protagonist. What drew you to write from the perspective of the opposite sex? It’s often a very fine line to tread.

[SD] Yeah, I’m not sure, really! I grew up with a lot of women. My dad worked a lot, so I was always with my mum and two sisters. The two cousins I’m closest to are also girls. Maybe it has something to do with that. The next novel (after the Tracy series) is also going to have a female protagonist, unless I come up with something else. You’re right, though; it can be a fine line to tread. I don’t overthink it, though. Shock revelation: Women are people, just like us!

[VW] I often ask authors on here, “What is their why?” What brings you to the computer/notepad and propels you to put a story down on paper? What do you want from this creative outlet?

[SD] I have an overactive imagination, likely from ADHD, so I may as well put it to good use. It’s a slog at times, but I really do enjoy writing and creating. Getting a positive reaction from readers, especially making them laugh, is quite an incredible feeling.

[VW] You’ve been on Substack for a couple of years. And you’ve said that this has not only helped you gain an audience for your books but also directly improved your writing. How so?

[SD] Writing short stories and sharing them on here with my peers is the main reason for my writing improving. Honestly, if you could have read those pre-Substack drafts of Fragile Steps, they’re just plain boring! I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I really think that getting a few short stories under my belt, entering a couple of competitions (and doing pretty well) just really helped me make my writing more exciting.

[VW]As authors, we’re always trying to find an audience to read our stuff. What has been the most effective way for you to find the audience that will read your work?

[SD] I do two things. 1) Support my fellow writers. 2) Shout about my own writing as loudly as I can.

[VW] Since my page is called “Space Between,” what do you do in that space between your novels? How do you keep the muscle going, replenish the well, and keep your writing fresh?

[SD] Oh, I like to take some time off altogether! By the end of a novel, I’m pretty tired! I try to do some extra reading, maybe work on a shorter project, or just switch off and play video games.

[VW] What’s next for you? Any collaborations with the other Duffys?

[SD] You never know! Next will be the sequel to Old Bastards, which is called Really Old Bastards. Awesome title, right?

[VW] Good luck to you for your success on Old Bastards and beyond.

[SD] Thank you!

If you’re stepping into the “Space Between” for the first time…

Welcome! You’ve arrived at a place where stories do more than just fill pages—they bridge the gap between the big moments of our lives.

Three years ago, I started this journey, wondering if I’d ever have enough to say. Today, I have the joy of knowing that every Friday at 5 a.m. PT, I’m sharing a story with you while you enjoy your morning coffee. This isn’t about chasing algorithms; it’s about doubling down on the “Why” behind my imprint, OT Press: telling human stories about the small choices that lead to real growth.

What to Expect

This is a living world where the characters you first met in Friends In Low Places and Lose Yourself continue to evolve. Here, you’ll find the threads that connect my novels, the current The Piano Man Chronicles, and my upcoming novel, Landslide. You can also read them in print with Space Between: The anthology of stories bridging novels. You get a front-row seat to The CHOW, my interviews with fellow authors about the spaces between their own milestones.

Why Subscribe?

I invite you to join our community and go deeper into the narrative. Subscribers receive special access to exclusive content, including:

• Free ePUB of Space Between: The anthology of stories bridging novels

• New Stories: Bi-Weekly fiction bridging the gap between my novels.

• The “Space Between” Guide: An insider’s roadmap to my interconnected universe.

• Soundtracks & More: Curated playlists and behind-the-scenes updates.

If you become a paid subscriber, you get those benefits plus a signed copy of either Friends In Low Places or Lose Yourself, plus a copy of the newly released anthology Space Between.

Thank you for joining me. I look forward to meeting you every Friday in the space between.

Subscribe now

There’s something new every Friday. Enjoy and please subscribe! Check out my website at www.vincewetzel.com

Do you know what gets me excited about writing? It’s building out a world each week where my characters live and breathe. That’s the essence of Space Between. Giving the characters that I have introduced to you through my novels and this Substack space the chance to find themselves, interact, and forge new paths. The concept may not be unique, but it’s a way for me to create deeper relationships with these characters beyond the pages of my novels.

I’m not only writing stories. I’m building worlds. I’m taking a step beyond creating a singular novel, but driving an experience for you, readers.

Take, for example, my upcoming novel Landslide. Alex Shelby, the lead columnist at the Sacramento Tribune, is heading toward a breakdown. Can he salvage his life, bring down a corrupt candidate, and repair his family relationships before it’s too late?

Landslide is slated for release in the Spring, and I’m working on final edits. In the meantime, Alex is periodically posting his Tribune columns “The Inside Track with Alex Shelby” to my Substack. This is his opportunity, especially for those of you outside of Sacramento, to read his unique brand of wit and cynicism. He’s published three so far:

The Burn Ward of Freedom

Leave the hate to the professionals

Real Human Writing Has Scars. This AI Column Doesn’t.

Also, you may remember Alex from the prequel I wrote for Substack, Capitol Rookie, and he is the lead-in to the short-story collection Space Between. Alex is everywhere!

The Piano Man Chronicles is another way to expand the world we have first visited in Friends In Low Places. In Lose Yourself, I reflected my fascination with the concept of having a collective experience with thousands of people at a baseball game, but also deal with a very personal issue.

With PMC, I’m going even farther. We can all be reading the same book, but what is a situation in which the reader is being immersed in the world? Could it be at a vet hospital, a bookstore, backpacking in the Sierras, or on vacation in Hawaii?

To expand the world beyond my own imagination, I’m asking authors ( , , ), whom I’ve met over the years, to bring Piano Man into their worlds. It’s exciting to create an entire world of my imagination where characters are interacting outside of my tentpole novels.

This is what Space Between is all about. World creation with a long-term, layered approach. It’s like walking into the neighborhood and being best friends with everyone on the street. You know what’s going on in their lives - their joys, concerns, triumphs, and failures.

And here you are, along for the ride. I can’t thank you enough for joining me.

Subscribe now

Other Updates

Books I’ve read

Side Note: The links lead to Bookshop.org, a nonprofit that pushes profits to independent bookstores. We all know how to shop at the online behemoth, but consider patronizing your local bookstore. They not only sell books, but provide community.

Old Bastards, by Stevie Duffy. ’s funny story about a woman who fights with her mundane existence working in a nursing home. I interview Stevie next week. Check it out.

So Far Gone, by Jess Walter. - I don’t know what it is about cranky protagonists, but this story about a grandfather who has to take himself out of self-exile in order to reconnect with the world, his daughter, and his grandkids is a great read. Walter is a purveyor of words that is a beacon for me.

The Wedding People, by Alison Espach - This is more than a romcom set at a wedding. It’s a story of people’s expectations, finding honesty in your true self, and living.

The Guest List, by Lucy Foley - I read this thriller set at a wedding (coincidentally, read this right after The Wedding People) and there are similar themes, but in a more eerie sort of way.

Run for the Hills, Kevin Wilson - This is essentially a road trip novel with the characters, half-siblings whose dad left them to live a new life, piling into a PT Cruiser to find each other and their father. Wilson’s strength is building quirky but relatable characters with emotional depth.

Jane Austen - I was never interested in dresses, cravats, balls, countryside estates, or the ins and outs of society in xxx England. But I decided to take the plunge and dive into two Austen novels - Emma and Pride and Prejudice and their on-screen adaptations.

Overall, I think Jane Austen’s dialogue is top-notch, and her descriptions immerse you in her world. But for me, that was part of the problem, or maybe a typical male problem with Austen’s work. It was hard for me to be interested in a world of dances, courtship, and societal pecking order, but I’ve matured enough to appreciate great writing regardless of my interest in the subject matter. Yet, I also enjoyed watching the screen adaptations. After reading Emma, I watched the Anna Taylor-Joy version of Emma, followed by Clueless (because why not rewatch 90s nostalgia). I then watched the Pride and Prejudice PBS Miniseries.

Rural Sheriffs - I’ve seen the Longmire series and CJ Box and decided to take a look at both. Open Season, by CJ Box, and The Cold Dish, by Craig Johnson, tell stories of lawmen who are flawed but live with integrity and investigate a crime. Both must navigate the tight-knit communities of friends and neighbors to find the murderer. I enjoyed both, but I think I’m going to need to pick one or the other to move forward in the series.

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I invite you to join our community and go deeper into the narrative. Subscribers receive special access to exclusive content, including:

• Free ePUB of Space Between: The anthology of stories bridging novels

• New Stories: Bi-Weekly fiction bridging the gap between my novels.

• The “Space Between” Guide: An insider’s roadmap to my interconnected universe.

• Soundtracks & More: Curated playlists and behind-the-scenes updates.

If you become a paid subscriber, you get those benefits plus a signed copy of either Friends In Low Places or Lose Yourself, plus a copy of the newly released anthology Space Between.

Thank you for joining me. I look forward to meeting you every Friday in the space between.

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Read more of Alex’s columns.

By Alex Shelby, Columnist, Sacramento Tribune

I’ve been staring out the window at the Capitol dome for thirty years, watching this city find new and inventive ways to disappoint me. I’ve covered budget deficits, Mayoral scandals, civic light rail disasters, and the steady, depressing decline of basic literacy. I thought I’d seen every possible way a newsroom could surrender its dignity.

I was wrong.

Look at the state of public commentary today. We are surrounded by a sea of cheap, hollow outrage. Nobody takes a stand anymore. Nobody writes with teeth. Everything you read online feels washed, sanitized, and scrubbed clean of any real human emotion. The prose across the internet has become so soul-crushing, sterile, and polite that it reads like an instruction manual for a microwave. It’s the literary equivalent of distilled water—technically pure, entirely harmless, and completely devoid of taste.

Which brings me to the absolute madness of this morning: I didn’t write a single word of the paragraphs you just read.

A server farm in Virginia did.

That’s right. Full disclosure: I wanted to see how close I am to being replaced. I am currently sitting at my desk, watching a glowing cursor generate my own livelihood while I hold a cold cup of coffee, wondering if I’ve been transported into a sci-fi nightmare written by a lazy screenwriter.

Go back and read those opening paragraphs again with that horrifying knowledge in mind. Look at the robotic fingerprints all over the page.

Notice the complete, unnatural lack of typos? The pristine, clinical grammar? Real human writing has scars. It has missing commas from a 2:00 AM deadline crunch and sentences that end in sheer, blind fury. That stuff above was washed, dried, and folded by an algorithm that has a completely smaller HR file than I do.

I guarantee you this synthetic mind wanted to call California a “vibrant tapestry of diversity” before I threatened to pull its power cord. The software is literally incapable of taking a stand without balancing it like a corporate sensitivity seminar. It doesn’t get angry; it “acknowledges complexity.” It doesn’t bite; it offers a polite, two-sided summary.

The insanity deepens when you realize the algorithm even attempted to insert a line in the draft about “feeling your pain.” Pain? It doesn’t even have a central nervous system! The closest this script comes to suffering is a temporary drop in Wi-Fi signal, yet here it is—a pile of code—lecturing you on the human condition while using the word “delve” like it’s going out of style.

And the most absurd part? My editor didn’t even notice. She walked by my desk ten minutes ago, looked at the screen, and nodded in approval at prose that has all the emotional depth of a refrigerator owner’s manual. We are actively outsourcing the soul of journalism to an automated parrot that can’t taste a cup of coffee, can’t smell a Sacramento heatwave, and has never nursed a real, human hangover in its entire non-existence.

Where is the drama? Where is the romantic disaster? Hemingway gave us booze, war, and tragic love in bullfighting arenas. I’ve spent hours and days poring over data and thesauruses to bring the best column to my Sacramento audience. Yet, this column was generated in 1.4 seconds, around the same amount of time it takes for me to throw up a little in my mouth. No wonder there is outrage in the literary community that their stories are being replaced with bland characters acting out their soulless tropes.

Even our grievances have been sterilized. A real human grievance has a backstory —mine includes childhood trauma, estrangement, and general bitterness. Human outrage is messy, chaotic, and beautiful. AI outrage sounds like an automated customer service rep apologizing because your flight to Bakersfield got delayed.

The worst part isn’t that the robots are taking over; it’s the sheer insanity that we are sitting here applauding them for it. We are voluntarily replacing the messy, tragic, glorious spectacle of human thought with a sterile feed of synthetic fluff—and paying subscription fees for the privilege.

So, congratulations, Sacramento. You’ve successfully eliminated the writer. You don’t need a tired, cynical reporter sitting in a dimly lit dive bar, trying to make sense of the local greasefire. You have a software package pretending to be me, while the real me sits here writing margin notes on a robot’s term paper.

If you need me, I’ll be at the bar across from City Hall, drinking a real drink, nursing a real headache, and waiting for the power grid to collapse so I can get my job back.

Alex Shelby is on the verge of a Landslide

We first met Alex Shelby in Capitol Rookie, an 11-part serial set in 2004 and first published on Substack in 2025, and now the anchor of the anthology, Space Between. More than 20 years later, Alex is on the precipice, his underlying cynicism and distrust threatening to bring down his career, his marriage, and his relationship with his son.

Landslide releases Spring 2027!

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The Piano Man Chronicles is a two-year anthology project. Every two weeks, you’ll see a story surrounding the fictional novel PIANO MAN (You can read about PIANO MAN below the story). Some stories are small three-part serials. Others will be from guest authors.

Read Parts 1 and 2

Part 3

Sleep came hard for Mark that night, but on a positive note, he had never seen the stars so vividly in his life. The high elevation and a new moon, coupled with no lights for miles around, created a mystical, starry evening before him.

While glorious, it didn’t make up for the terror he felt. He slept in his clothes on the ground with his sleeping bag on top of him so that at a moment’s notice, he could scatter like a deer. Mark expected Carl to come crashing through the bushes at any moment with a knife. For hours, Carl had called for him, staging a one-person filibuster about how he had wronged him for leaving him the morning before.

At first, Mark was relieved when Carl stopped screaming. Maybe he’d gone to bed. But with every rustle of bushes or a possible twig snapping, Mark’s ears perked, wondering if this was the moment before his throat was slit.

But when Mark awoke the next morning, it was light. Dawn had come, and Mark checked his body for any slashes or appendix flowing out. Satisfied, he was untouched. Mark peeked around the tree and finally exhaled when he saw that Carl’s camp was clear. He must have left already.

Mark had never been so ready to see Laura and his Truckee cabin more than he had right now. The moments of solitude, except for the initial two miles from Emerald Bay to the junction to the PCT, had been filled with anxiety and fear. And, he hadn’t passed a wild animal yet. Next time, he’ll be happy with an all-inclusive resort with free drinks, time on the beach with a good book, and maybe some frisky interludes with Laura.

Mark was also hungry. All of his provisions were gone. He had planned poorly, and he had mistakenly shared the backup rations with Carl. What he wouldn’t give for that extra can of soup he had brought. Or those Hostess cupcakes. He’d have a great ribeye tonight and an extra-large glass of Pinot Noir.

For now, he had six miles to go today, the last mile in civilization, and then he could sit in the yard and read Piano Man. As long as he hung back and didn’t run into Carl, Mark could write this off as one crazy story on the PCT. Until then, however, extreme caution was needed.

He strapped on his pack and joined the trail again, following the steps of Carl. A few hundred yards away, he found Carl’s camp from the night before. He did admire Carl for one thing: Carl was respectful to nature. There were only slight hints that he had slept here the night before. The campfire was thoroughly extinguished, the ashes and final logs stomped out. There was not a hint of trash. The spot where his camp lay was brushed. But there, written in the dirt, was a message that made the sweat on Mark’s forehead turn ice-cold.

”Missed you. Fire was warmer than the ground.”

Mark desperately looked around. Was Carl in the trees waiting to pounce on him? Suddenly, even in the wilderness, Mark felt claustrophobic. The trees were too close together. He needed meadows and open spaces to watch for Carl. He pulled out his knife and bear spray from his pack. He would keep both even closer, ready to use at a moment’s notice.

Mark brushed out the sign and continued down the path, each step taken with caution, each bend peered around with wary eyes. For the next two miles, he thought the next moment would be his last. Why did he decide to get out of here in the first place? What narcissistic bullshit for him to “need solitary time” in the wilderness. Laura loved him. His kids loved him. Why did he accept that and move on? Why did he have to tempt fate? Mark accepted the bargain he laid before himself – get back safely and never wish to go on a vision quest by himself. Hike with his kids. Take a trip with Laura. Share the experience with people = though he never wanted to share this experience again.

Above him, Mark heard a cracked branch.

At mid-step, this caused a momentary distraction, and Mark stepped on a root in the ground incorrectly. His ankle twisted awkwardly, causing Mark to fall in a heap.

Dammit

Mark wanted to scream, but instead let the pain he felt manifest through his clenched jaw and squinted eyes. He lowered his hands to his ankle to rub it, and he was confident his injury was only a sprain. Three more miles. It would slow his pace, but he could make it. He only hoped Carl wouldn’t pop out of the trees. Mark grabbed the knife and held it. His fight-or-flight options had been cut in half.

He stood up again. Favoring his left leg, he slowly and gently put weight on his right foot.

Pain.

He’d be scuffling these last couple of miles for sure. But he had to make it to Truckee and to Laura. He needed to put all of this behind him. With each step, he drew closer to his goal. By will, he was going to make it.

Step. Pain. Step. Drag. Step.

Thankfully, around the next bend, a large branch lay a few feet off the trail. Mark examined it. It was five feet long, and his grip around it was solid. The trail gods were looking out for him for sure. This would be his walking stick and would get him through the next couple of miles.

And after a few hundred yards, it had helped take the pressure off his ankle. He drew a breath. One piece of good luck provided a much-needed boost of confidence and positivity.

I can do this.

“You ungrateful son of a bitch,” Mark heard from behind him. Turning around, he saw Carl, his eyes bearing down on Mark. “I find the perfect walking stick to help you through this bit of the trail, and no thank you?”

For some reason, Carl had spread mud on his face. He was less human than any wild animal Mark had ever come across.

“Hi Carl, I just wanted some solitude,” Mark said, trying to play it off. “I came up here for time alone, and I didn’t want to bother you with your hike either. Didn’t you see my note and my extra can of soup?”

“Yeah, but that was almost worse, like I was some jilted lover. You could have woken me up and said goodbye. And then you avoid me on the trail? Why didn’t you answer when I called for you? Why did you not catch up to me and my fire last night? Was your quest for ‘solitude’ so important that you avoided me?”

Mark nodded. He didn’t want to admit my narcissism, but maybe that was the only way out of his predicament.

“Yeah, I’m a selfish asshole,” he said. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left you. I should have stayed. You never know what is out here in the wilderness.”

That seemed to relax Carl, and he relaxed his grip on his own walking stick, which had his pocket knife affixed to the top with duct tape. He smiled, then laughed. Mark was still uneasy. Carl was clearly not right, but Mark felt the tension between them ease.

“I accept your apology, and I forgive you for all of your trespasses,” he said. “I’ve been watching you since you left my camp, and your twisted ankle. That’s why I left the walking stick. But hopefully I can help you the rest of the way.”

Mark smiled as Carl came over to help him. Carl smelled vile, but Mark conceded this was the price for some help the rest of the way. As Mark swung his arm around Carl’s shoulder, for the first time in a couple of days, he felt hope. He would get to Truckee, and Carl would not be using his face as a mask.

Carl shared how he spent three days with a sprained ankle. He eventually had to rest for a full day and a half. “The lowest point of the trip so far,” he said. “That’s when I met Todd. He stumbled upon me, but instead of helping me, he kept hiking. What an asshole. It took me three days to catch up to him, each step painful. But when I did find him, I found an ace bandage that I used. That helped me so much.”

Mark stayed silent, unsure if he wanted to ask the obvious question. He was this close to getting home, and for the moment, Carl was helping. Would that change? But was Carl misunderstood? Did Mark misconstrue the situation? With his curiosity nagging at him, he asked. “What happened to Todd?”

Mark was relieved when Carl’s demeanor didn’t change. They kept walking, one step after another.

“Oh, he got off the trail,” Carl said. Mark relaxed further, and they took more steps. “Well, that’s not completely true. He fell off a cliff. Well, he said, ‘I was an annoying smelly asshole,’ so I pushed him. Served him right. He was only on the trail for a day. What an asshole. I thought you were like him, but it turns out you’re a good guy, Mark.”

“Thank you,” Mark said, feeling his body tense again.

“Am I an annoying, smelly asshole?” Carl asked.

Yes, and a murderer, Mark thought, but said instead, “Not at all.”

Despite his best efforts, the remark came off as flippant and sarcastic, and Carl recognized the insincerity instantly. Carl stopped walking and took his arm away so swiftly that Mark lost his balance and fell on the trail and the granite. Suddenly, Carl was lording above him, the walking stick and the knife in front of him.

“Ungrateful,” Carl said. Even though Mark was staring at a knife taped to a walking stick, he gripped his own knife. Was this how it was going to go down? And if it was, he wasn’t going to live his last moments in fear. It was time to stand up.

But nature had other plans.

Mark’s eyes went wide, but not because of Carl’s knife and what could happen. Behind both of them was a 400-pound black bear. Perhaps it was Carl’s stench or that they crossed the wrong path, but the bear eyed them with curiosity. Mark started to back away, the adrenaline making his ankle less painful.

“This is even better,” Carl said. “I’ve always wanted to meet up with a bear and see how I’d stand up.”

“Carl, don’t,” Mark said, finding the bear spray attached to his belt. “The bear will win. Use the bear spray, and then we can get away.”

“Fuck that,” he said. “The thing to do is to confront the bear. It only responds to alpha strength.”

With that, Carl took two aggressive steps toward the bear, shook his makeshift spear, and let out a menacing scream. At first, the bear cocked its head to one side in curiosity. It wasn’t used to its authority being challenged. But then, it raised itself onto its back haunches and roared with a ferocity Mark had never experienced. Holding the bear spray, Mark backed behind a rock hidden by a bush.

Instead of backing down, Carl pushed forward. There was a menace to his laugh, as though he knew and accepted the fate that was laid before him. Mark felt an urge to give Carl a fighting chance. He gripped the bear spray and pulled the pin from behind the bush. He pushed the trigger, and a vile orange cloud of blazing hot capsicum blasted Carl and missed the bear,

“What the hell, Mark?” Carl screamed, falling down in a heap. Those words would haunt Mark for the rest of his life.

With a nimble quickness one doesn’t associate with a mammal that large, the bear pushed forward and swiped Carl with its right claw, slashing Carl across the neck. Carl, so tough and terrifying in his own right, went down like a rag doll. The bear was quickly on top of him, striking and slashing with a brutality that the civilized world cannot comprehend.

The bear only stopped after Mark emptied the rest of the can of bear spray at the beast. After snarling, sneezing, spitting, and shaking its head, the bear continued further down the trail in the opposite direction from Mark’s home.

Mark sat on the trail, his eyes transfixed on Carl. While he wasn’t sure if he would have perished on that trail if the bear hadn’t appeared, Mark wondered if Carl wanted this ending to his journey on the PCT. Why had he been on the trail for months?

After what seemed like an hour, Mark resolved to cover Carl’s body, put notes on the trail on both sides warning of the carnage that lay ahead, and mark the spot on his map so that he could let authorities know where to find what remained of Carl’s carcass.

Mark arrived at the destination four hours after his expected time. Laura nearly passed out when she saw some of Carl’s blood spattered on his shirt, until he reassured her it wasn’t his. Over the next couple of hours, he retold the story at least half a dozen times to various law enforcement and fish-and-game officials. At first, he was worried that he would be charged with Carl’s murder until some of his story was confirmed with the discovery of Todd’s body the day before. Plus, there was no doubt of the carnage that the bear left behind.

When they were done, he took his shower and crashed at the cabin for an entire day before he emerged from his three-day nightmare. Even when he awoke, he didn’t talk to Laura for a long time. He wasn’t sure if he’d tell the tale, but he knew he wouldn’t be hiking alone ever in his life.

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About The Piano Man Chronicles

Piano Man, written by the fictional author Thomas Eberle, is a creative spark that connects a wide variety of stories, like a quiet ripple. I am writing three‑part arcs that introduce new people, new places, and new turning points, but the shared thread is how this one book nudges something in each of them.

Some characters read it.
Some argue with it.
Some only know it because someone they love won’t stop talking about it.
But for all of them, The Piano Man becomes a spark — a moment of reflection, change, or connection.

Guest authors, such as Sandolore Sykes JC Wesslen, and Andrew Robert Colom are contributing their own takes on the story, creating a wide world of literary interconnection. This project is meant to feel like wandering through a neighborhood at dusk, catching glimpses of lives in motion. You’re not following one plot; you’re following the echo of a story inside a story, watching how art lands differently in every life it touches.

The Birthday Party Underground

When washed-up rocker Cole takes a pity gig at his nephew’s birthday party, he expects juice boxes, tantrums, and the slow death of his dignity. What he doesn’t expect is applause, cash, and a new career path—one paved with glitter, chaos, and the occasional piñata-related injury.

Welcome to the children’s party circuit, where the princesses aren’t Disney-approved, the clowns have criminal records, and the magicians might be dabbling in more than sleight of hand. As Cole dives deeper into this surreal subculture, he finds himself entangled in illicit rendezvous with moms (divorced, married, and morally flexible), navigating the drug-laced underbelly of suburban affluence, and dodging emotional landmines disguised as balloon animals.

But beneath the costumes and confetti lies a question Sam can’t escape: Is this his second act or just another detour on the road to self-destruction?

Eberle’s Piano Man is a tragicomic romp through the absurdity of reinvention, where the music never stops, but the consequences keep piling up. Sharp, irreverent, and unexpectedly tender, it’s a backstage pass to the party you never knew you wanted to crash.

“A rock ballad wrapped in confetti and regret. Eberle’s prose is as sharp as a broken guitar string.”
— Javier Stone, author of The Last Encore

“Thomas Eberle has written the most unwholesome children’s party novel imaginable—and I mean that as high praise.”
— Mira Caldwell, author of Suburban Gothic

“A hilarious, heartbreaking descent into the party circuit’s glittery underworld. Think Almost Famous meets Bad Moms with a dash of Hunter S. Thompson.”
— The Sacramento Tribune

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There’s something new every Friday. Enjoy and please subscribe! Check out my website at www.vincewetzel.com

Today, I’m posting from where it all started. Shaver Lake is the spiritual home of my first novel, Friends In Low Places. For those of you who haven’t read it, it’s the story of four buddies who go up to the lake to spread the ashes of their friend, Jim. Along the way, they read the journal Jim scribbled in over 20 years of coming to the Lake. They relive their shared laughter, life moments, revelations, and regret while coming to accept their grief.

This novel is based on my experiences with my friends on this trip over the years. There are several embellishments, heightened realities, and some fictional digressions included to serve the story, but the heart is the same. And the unsung heroes of the story are Shaver Lake and its sister, Huntington Lake.

Nestled in the Sierra Nevada mountain range above Fresno, Calif., Shaver and Huntington Lakes are part of the Big Creek Hydroelectric Project for Southern California Edison electric utility. Dubbed the “Hardest Working Water in the world,” water from Huntington uses high-elevation drops through a massive network of tunnels to generate electricity before flowing into Shaver. At night, when electricity rates are low, that water is pumped back to Huntington, where it will be used again and again. Built more than 100 years ago, it is the definition of renewable energy.

In 1993, with three guys finishing their freshman year of college and two others graduating high school, this was just a place for a bunch of buddies to go camping and participate in underage drinking. Who knows? Maybe meet some girls. That first trip was epic, and it was followed by more lasting memories.

Nearly thirty-five years later, we aren’t looking for girls or to drink ourselves silly. We have graduated from camping in tents to sleeping in cabins. But the vibe remains the same - good times, good conversations, and lots of laughter.

Do you have a trip you look forward to with your ride-or-die friends?

Updates

The Inside Track with Alex Shelby

Read the rants of the protagonist of my next novel, Landslide. You’ll get to know Alex through his writing leading up to Landslide’s release in Spring 2027.

The Burn Ward of Freedom (July 5)

Alex thinks our drunken stupidity overshadows our celebration of treason

Leave the hate to the professionals (July 20)

Alex thinks that you should not post performative rants.

Alex will periodically invade The Space Between a couple of times a month to provide his unique insights and perspectives on life in Sacramento over the next several months.

Speaking of Landslide

This month, I received editorial feedback from my editor. It was generally very positive, with a few specific tweaks to make the narrative more effective. One of his observations:

Alex is in that great tradition of irascible writerly types, and his voice really zings. His little asides, such as ‘I would bet my salty disposition that they were,’ make him come alive and give him a distinct and memorable voice - as well as when we get to see him scoff at things like having to put his phone in a basket in the first meeting for the campaign (which really made me laugh).

My editor also observed some areas for improvement.

I think you do need to dial down his world weariness just a bit. That is the only thing where he drifts into cliché, and where you run the risk of him seeming like someone we would find a bit exhausting to deal with after a while.

What does this mean for you, the reader?

Editors not only look at the language, the story, and the characters, but also aim to make the novels even better for the reader. For Landslide, I want to take the narrative to the next level. I’ve spent a lot of time with Alex since I first conceived of him in 2020. This is his story. Beneath his rough exterior, he’s a fascinatingly layered character, and I want to give you the best chance to get to know him.

For the next few months, I’ll be integrating these notes into the manuscript and be on track for release next year. Stay tuned.

Piano Man

We’re in the next Piano Man Chronicles story, A Savage Solitude, following Mark on a two-day trek on the Pacific Coast Trail, where he meets Carl, a long-hiker on his second month on the trail. Parts 1 and 2 are up. Part 3 releases July 31. I also created a Flash Fiction, The Hero’s Journey (linking Piano Man, A Thousand Faces Of Elias Thorne, ’s community project, and the Odyssey in one piece). Please check out Ian’s Elias Thorne project. So many fabulous stories from the Substack author community.

As for the Piano Man novel, I am taking a different approach to writing this story than I did with my previous three books. In writing circles, you are either a plotter (outlining the entire plot beforehand), a discovery writer… or pantser (write by the seat of your pants), or somewhere in between.

For Friends In Low Places and Lose Yourself, I was somewhere in between. I knew the directions I was going and the different beats I needed to hit. I allowed the characters to breathe a little and find their own way. In Landslide, I went full discovery and let Alex go on his own journey. But, man, that was a tough slog, with starts and stops and so many rewrites that I have three versions that will never see the light of day.

So for Piano Man, I’m outlining the entire plot, chapter by chapter, beforehand. I have a spreadsheet with the basics of what happened, the scene drivers, the character motivations, and the creation of curiosity gaps to keep the reader reading. My hope is that this makes me more efficient and focused, allowing the discovery to happen in the outline. I’ll keep you updated on how this translates onto the page.

Author Interview

Did you get a chance to check out my lovely conversation with fellow Sacramento writer ? She opens up about her debut novel, weaving hidden American history into fiction, and finding her local writing community.

Why Subscribe?

I invite you to join our community and go deeper into the narrative. Subscribers receive special access to exclusive content, including:

• Free ePUB of Space Between: The anthology of stories bridging novels

• New Stories: Bi-Weekly fiction bridging the gap between my novels.

• The “Space Between” Guide: An insider’s roadmap to my interconnected universe.

• Soundtracks & More: Curated playlists and behind-the-scenes updates.

If you become a paid subscriber, you get those benefits plus a signed copy of either Friends In Low Places or Lose Yourself, plus a copy of the newly released anthology Space Between.

Thank you for joining me. I look forward to meeting you every Friday in the space between.

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By Alex Shelby, columnist for the Sacramento Tribune

I long for life before the digital gold rush. It was simple. My only competition for California’s biggest crank came from a fellow columnist at the LA Times and Oscar the Grouch.

Now? Every amateur who possesses functional thumbs and a Gmail account can spew whatever bile they want. No wonder the Republic is circling the drain like the final peas from dinner.

There was a time when being a columnist meant something. It required a shield of steel and prose to match. There were titans like Jimmy Breslin or Leonard Pitts. Even the establishment scribes like George Will, Maureen Dowd, Paul Krugman, and the sentimental sports hack Mitch Albom sometimes produced flashes of brilliant writing. They were worth the ink and paper they were printed on.

But then came the internet. And worse, its toxic waste offspring: social media. And when the leader of the free world communicates with UNPUNCTUATED ALL CAPS, I wonder if I should just end it all now, don an apron, and start scooping mint chocolate chip at Gunther’s in the summer Sacramento heat. Even a brain freeze comes with a side of sugary delight.

The trouble is that the modern digital rant has the depth of the cardboard alphabet kindergarten teachers tape above the blackboard. They are primitive, reductive, and entirely unburdened by facts. They are the regurgitated cable-news rhetoric captured on an iPhone by users who leave enough holes in their arguments for their limitless egos to fill.

And that’s just the written garbage. Since “reels” have infected the world, my screen is a cesspool of human intelligence. I’ve seen enough suburban “analysts” sitting in the front seats of their SUVs in aviator sunglasses who have never caught a glimpse of a cockpit and spewing simplistic Middle East geopolitical policy to wonder if we could solve carbon emissions by harnessing all their hot air.

By the way, why do these reel-spewing critics always record from the front seat of the car? Or walking on a trail? Or staring off into the distance and drinking a cup of coffee? Why does my algorithm treat me to this steady stream of performative degenerates?

I’ve bled and have literally risked my life to have my name above the fold on the front page of the Sacramento Tribune. (For those of you under the age of 30, there used to be these physical objects made of dead trees, not something you scrolled every moment you were threatened with boredom.) Now, my editors label my words as “content.”

Every piece I report, verify, and cross-reference is now thrown into the same digital cesspool with a teenager performing the latest TikTok craze and some influencer spewing the latest conspiracy theory about how dog-eating aliens met with Russian influencers in a pizza parlor to plan the next insurrection.

We just celebrated 250 years of this grand American experiment. Imagine if Thomas Paine’s Common Sense were dropped as a meme. Or if the Declaration itself was pushed out on X with 25,000 comments declaring Paul Revere a classist, or sharing Ben Franklin’s bar tab in Paris.

There is value in scarcity. Just because the First Amendment grants you the absolute right to speak your mind, it doesn’t mean you have an obligation to broadcast your profound ignorance to the planet. Just shut up and read a book. Better yet, read a newspaper.

Alex Shelby is on the verge of a Landslide

We first met Alex Shelby in Capitol Rookie, an 11-part serial set in 2004 and first published on Substack in 2025, and now the anchor of the anthology, Space Between. More than 20 years later, Alex is on the precipice, his underlying cynicism and distrust threatening to bring down his career, his marriage, and his relationship with his son.

Landslide releases Spring 2027!

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The Piano Man Chronicles is a two-year anthology project. Every two weeks, you’ll see a story surrounding the fictional novel PIANO MAN (You can read about PIANO MAN below the story). Some stories are small three-part serials. Others will be from guest authors.

Part 2

Read Part 1

By Vince Wetzel

It was still dark when Mark woke. His first night on the Pacific Crest Trail was cool, but his sleeping bag made the night comfortable. His goal was to pack up and leave in the early light of dawn and be quiet enough not to disturb Carl.

Mark had met Carl at the beginning of his three-day journey. He was pleasant enough, and eased his solo adventure into the wilderness. But the more stories Carl shared of his two months on the PCT, the more uneasy Mark became. Carl had even rummaged through Mark’s pack and stolen his Hostess cupcake.

As he pulled on his pack and started down the trail again, Mark reconsidered staying around, saying a proper goodbye, and moving along. Leaving this early could be considered rude, and really, what had Carl done? Sure, he ate his cupcake. Yes, some of the stories Carl shared made Mark uncomfortable. And, finally, Mark didn’t appreciate Carl sharing that he’d kill a bear and make a blanket the two of them could snuggle under. But was that just in Mark’s mind? Had he misunderstood Carl?

Mark decided it was best to move on. He’d leave a short note and his last can of soup, thanking him for the company, but that he was moving on. Leave and chalk it up to a good story to tell his friends and family when he returned to civilization. Who knows? Maybe, he’d write a book someday, and Carl could be an eccentric character to add flavor to the story. Mark looked back at Carl’s tattered tent and gave a slight wave before turning back to the trail.

Mark marveled at the beauty of dawn on the trail. He didn’t miss his morning coffee. The energy provided by that initial warmth of the sun on a summer morning was all the go-go juice he needed to move through the day.

He paused for a moment to take stock of his life. He had been married to his wife, Laura, for nearly twenty-five years. Two of his children, Lane (23), and Joe (22), were employed, while his daughter Chrissy (21) was heading into her final year of college. He’d done it. He and Laura had raised three lovely kids without too much drama. They were on their way to retiring on time with enough savings to live out the rest of their lives in comfort. They were set.

So, why was he lost? Lately, he had taken to wandering around the house and looking for small projects to do, not because they needed to be done, but because it occupied time previously committed to his children’s games, performances, and taxi service. And time with Laura now included which Netflix show to watch that night. He tried reading, and he grew bored. He took yoga, which was nice, but he still felt like he was going through the motions rather than having a passion. He hoped that being outdoors would bring him clarity. So far, it was a great day, but was it life-changing? Not yet.

At noon, he came to a cliffside with a large rock face rising high above the trail. He worked himself up the rock face to where he thought he could rest, eat lunch, and pull out his Kindle to read Piano Man. His wife had a physical copy and was reading it in a cabin in Truckee, where he would end up after this hike.

He pulled out his sandwich and bit into the peanut butter and jelly. After hastily packing his pack, he found the sandwich squished, but it provided the same sustenance. As he read more of the book, the warmth of the day on the rocks and the early morning, he decided to lie against a tree and catch up on sleep.

As he drifted off, he dreamt about Lane’s sixth birthday party, when they had hired a children’s musician to play a few songs. But it wasn’t the young keyboardist who was barely in his 20s, and who refused a congratulatory beer. It was Carl, bellowing inappropriate songs about hunting bears. The children ran off disturbed, and Mark was left having to deal with the trauma they’d endured.

“Mark?” he heard Carl yell. “Where are you, Mark?”

Mark’s eyes shot open, immediately into his conscious self. This wasn’t a dream. It was a warm day, but he felt the chills on his arm.

“Mark? Why did you leave without saying goodbye? I thought we were friends.”

Mark couldn’t tell how far away Carl was, but he was thankful that he had left the trail to come this far up the rock face. He turned and stood straight against the tree. He didn’t want Carl to find him up here. That would be too embarrassing, that Mark had ditched Carl and was now hiding from him. He felt shame and remembered a time in high school when he befriended a classmate in a wheelchair, only to ignore her when he saw her at the county fair, even as she waved to him.

Don’t let him see me, Mark thought. Just keep moving.

“Are you mad about me stealing your cupcake?” Carl yelled. “I think that’s a pretty poor reason to leave your friend behind.”

Mark agreed. It was a pretty asshole excuse to leave. But it wasn’t just that. Mark’s gut told him that Carl was bad news and that leaving was the best course. And Mark’s trail stalking had confirmed that gut instinct.

It was more than the cupcake, you psycho. You wanted to kill a bear to make a blanket for the two of us.

Mark looked down the hill and the trail about 100 yards. In the distance, he saw Carl walking, his eyes darting around. With all of the switchbacks, he might get to the spot on the trail where his footsteps ended on the dirt. Would that lead Carl to look up to this tree, to Mark? What would happen then?

“I thought you were different, Mark. Turns out, you’re like all of the others I’ve met on the PCT. They all want an acquaintance, but nobody wants a companion.”

And what happened to them? Mark wanted to know.

He looked around the rock for a better hiding place than a singular tree. He saw a clump of three pines growing out of the granite with bushes sitting in front. Mark picked up his pack and scurried to his new hideout, hoping he could let him pass without disturbance. Unfortunately, letting Carl pass him would mean Mark could no longer move at his own pace, which might mean he wouldn’t be at the rendezvous point when Laura was expected to meet up with him.

Carl was now fifty yards away. Yesterday’s look of amusement and friendliness turned to a relentless focus on the trail and its surroundings. Mark squatted further, with only the top of his head above the shrubs. He found his heart beating and his breath labored.

Why am I so scared of this guy? Mark asked himself. This is silly. He’s a little strange, but is he dangerous? I should go down, apologize, explain that I need some solitary time, and let him move on. He’d understand.

“Mark?” Carl was near the spot where Mark started up the granite face. If there were footprints, Carl would soon see them stop and look upward. “Mark, I thought we were friends. Turns out you’re an asshole like everyone else. You remember that jackass Todd, I told you about? You’re a lot like him. He ditched me, too. That is, until I caught up to him. I guess I should thank him. After all, I have his tent and his pack.”

Mark’s eyes went wide. If Carl had Todd’s gear, where was Todd? At that moment, Carl looked up toward the bushes where Mark was hiding. Mark didn’t dare breathe. Carl smiled, more sinister than anything Mark had ever seen. Mark was sure Carl had spotted him.

But like that, Carl turned and continued down the path.

“Mark, I’m going to catch up with you eventually. You know that, right? And when I do, you have some ‘splaining to do. Hahaha. Remember that from the old I Love Lucy show. I think Desi Arnaz would say that. I used to watch that as a kid when my dad would leave me home to go to work. I watched that and F Troop, Leave it to Beaver, and Gilligan’s Island. It was all I could watch until Dad came home and unlocked the basement. You know, when you spend that much time alone, you get comfortable by yourself, but you can’t help but love the time you get to meet good people. But then again, people like you always disappoint me. Like you, Mark. You disappoint me. And I can’t wait to tell you when I see you next.”

Carl’s voice trailed off as he rounded the next bend. Mark didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t get out of these hills soon enough. But how could he move, now that he was behind Carl? He couldn’t chance meeting him on the trail. He could end up like Todd, whatever his fate.

Mark waited another hour, then slowly moved onto the trail. With each step Mark took, he looked ahead as far as he could for any sign of Carl. Satisfied, he continued walking until dusk. He looked at his map and compass and figured he was about three miles off his targeted destination. He’d stay here tonight, then stay behind Carl until Truckee. As soon as he had cell service, he’d call Laura and have her pick him up as close to the first road as possible

Mark didn’t think to build a fire, to give Carl any smoke or far-off light to double back and find him. Instead, he sat outside his tent and ate the rest of his protein bars. In the distance, he thought he saw a campfire. It was Carl, not only because of who else was on the PCT, but also because of his wails at the top of his lungs.

“Mark. Where are you, Mark!”

Read the Conclusion July 31…

About The Piano Man Chronicles

Piano Man, written by the fictional author Thomas Eberle, is a creative spark that connects a wide variety of stories, like a quiet ripple. I am writing three‑part arcs that introduce new people, new places, and new turning points, but the shared thread is how this one book nudges something in each of them.

Some characters read it.
Some argue with it.
Some only know it because someone they love won’t stop talking about it.
But for all of them, The Piano Man becomes a spark — a moment of reflection, change, or connection.

Guest authors, such as Sandolore Sykes JC Wesslen and Andrew Robert Colom are contributing their own takes on the story, creating a wide world of literary interconnection. This project is meant to feel like wandering through a neighborhood at dusk, catching glimpses of lives in motion. You’re not following one plot; you’re following the echo of a story inside a story, watching how art lands differently in every life it touches.

The Birthday Party Underground

When washed-up rocker Cole takes a pity gig at his nephew’s birthday party, he expects juice boxes, tantrums, and the slow death of his dignity. What he doesn’t expect is applause, cash, and a new career path—one paved with glitter, chaos, and the occasional piñata-related injury.

Welcome to the children’s party circuit, where the princesses aren’t Disney-approved, the clowns have criminal records, and the magicians might be dabbling in more than sleight of hand. As Cole dives deeper into this surreal subculture, he finds himself entangled in illicit rendezvous with moms (divorced, married, and morally flexible), navigating the drug-laced underbelly of suburban affluence, and dodging emotional landmines disguised as balloon animals.

But beneath the costumes and confetti lies a question Sam can’t escape: Is this his second act or just another detour on the road to self-destruction?

Eberle’s Piano Man is a tragicomic romp through the absurdity of reinvention, where the music never stops, but the consequences keep piling up. Sharp, irreverent, and unexpectedly tender, it’s a backstage pass to the party you never knew you wanted to crash.

“A rock ballad wrapped in confetti and regret. Eberle’s prose is as sharp as a broken guitar string.”

— Javier Stone, author of The Last Encore

“Thomas Eberle has written the most unwholesome children’s party novel imaginable—and I mean that as high praise.”

— Mira Caldwell, author of Suburban Gothic

“A hilarious, heartbreaking descent into the party circuit’s glittery underworld. Think Almost Famous meets Bad Moms with a dash of Hunter S. Thompson.”

— The Sacramento Tribune

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I invite you to join our community and go deeper into the narrative. Subscribers receive special access to exclusive content, including:

• Free ePUB of Space Between: The anthology of stories bridging novels

• New Stories: Bi-Weekly fiction bridging the gap between my novels.

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If you become a paid subscriber, you get those benefits plus a signed copy of either Friends In Low Places or Lose Yourself, plus a copy of the newly released anthology Space Between.

Thank you for joining me. I look forward to meeting you every Friday in the space between.

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By Vince Wetzel (with a nod to Homer)

The line stretched around the store, all to meet Thomas Eberle, author of the bestseller Piano Man. This was a huge get for Elias Thorne and Ithaca Books, his tiny bookstore in midtown Sacramento.

“I don’t know how you got Thomas Eberle here,” said Anthony, a local developer who had made no secret of wanting to buy the building. “But this little stunt isn’t going to save you.”

“Sorry, Anthony,” Penelope said from the register. “Tom is Elias’s old friend from college. And it looks like it’s making a big difference.”

“Well, if you’re not careful, all of these smut-loving degenerates are going to run over the place. Where is Elias?”

Penelope looked around and shook her head. She was trying to keep a level head herself. She hadn’t seen this many people in Ithaca Books since she and Odie, her pet name for Elias, named after the dog in Garfield, bought the store ten years ago.

“Odie went out to get some extra Sharpies for Tom, but he’s been gone for 20 minutes,” Penelope said with a deep sigh. Despite the confidence she was portraying to Anthony, she was nervous and control hanging by a thread. If the crowd decided to walk out with her inventory, there was nothing she could do. As it was, Penelope couldn’t run the cash register and help customers at the same time. And her young son, Tal, wasn’t much help in the store either.

“Well, you’d better find some help soon,” Anthony grinned, looking beyond the frustrated customers. “You may have a mutiny, and this place will be toast.”

Penelope, repulsed by Anthony’s grin, called over Tal, who was playing with their pet dog Athena in the corner. A boy of 13, Tal was eager for any responsibility, even though his parents still thought he was too young to do anything at the store.

“I need you to go and find your father,” Penelope said. “He needs to be back here before this becomes a total disaster. He was heading to Spartan Stationery, but he might have stopped by Nestor’s Bakery. Take Athena. She’ll help you.”

Tal nodded. As they left, Athena pulled him south toward the stationery store. Along the way, he was greeted by neighbors whom he had known since they moved in. He’d known his father to be respected in the community, but it was only now that he understood how he had such an impact.

Meanwhile, Elias knew his return was needed, but obstacles kept him from making it back. After unsuccessfully searching for Sharpies at Spartan, he had journeyed farther to the local CVS drugstore, which had to have them. Blocking his path to the sliding doors stood Cyrus, a large, homeless neighbor with a glass eye and wearing dark sunglasses, moaning and agitated.

“Get me some liquor,” Cyrus snarled and approached Elias near the door. “I need some drink, man.”

Elias shook his head. “No way. I’m just going to get some supplies and get back to the store.”

Cyrus ignored Elias and stepped forward more aggressively. “Come on.”

Elias, not wanting a direct confrontation, faced another test. The last thing he needed was to be recorded attacking a homeless man. Instead, Elias knocked off Cyrus’s sunglasses. Facing the sun, Cyrus winced at the sunlight sliding between the buildings, allowing Elias to slip by and into the store.

“Did old Cyrus wander here from the riverbank again?” asked the clerk, looking up from his phone. Cyrus was a constant presence around the neighborhood, and he was well known by law enforcement and the community alike. Elias nodded as he passed, knowing that it was a hassle, but it was the only way to keep the neighborhood safe. Elias found the extra Sharpies and took them back to the clerk, who was still focused on his phone.

“Yo, Elias, you should check out this dude Lotus on Instagram,” the clerk said, handing the phone over. On it, a man is knocked down repeatedly by a dog. “Shit’s hilarious. I can’t put my phone down.”

Elias nodded and left the store, frantically checking his watch. He’d already been gone for 10 minutes. Penelope must be overwhelmed by the customers. As he reached the corner, he heard a man cursing at himself and waving his arms wildly on the other side of the street. On the other corner, a man and a woman, armed with pamphlets and demanding passersby to repent for their sins, eyed him with opportunity and hunger.

“I don’t care what you said, man, they are here, amongst us,” the man told himself, then pointed at Elias. “There is one over there.”

Elias didn’t have time to walk two blocks out of his way to avoid these neighborhood nuisances. He needed to get back to his bookstore. Elias chose to cross through the intersection and the middle of the street. With the Sharpies in hand and dodging cars and hearing the cacophony of horns blasting around him, Elias threaded between the two corner threats before finding his way to the sidewalk on his way back.

Only three blocks left to go.

It was only then that he caught the smells and sounds of his favorite Jamaican takeout place, Calypso. Thinking of lunch for Penelope, Tal, and his friend Tom, he felt a pang of hunger as he took in the smells of Jerk Chicken, Saltfish, Oxtail Stew, and Fried Plantains.

“Ah, Mr. Thorne, welcome,” said Zahra, the owner, a vibrant Jamaican woman with a permanent warm smile. Her dark skin contrasted with her full, flowy dress splashed with red, gold, green, and black, paired with a matching headscarf. “What will you have today. More Run Down?”

With a store full of people, he didn’t think the smells of the fish stew would be welcome. Instead, Elias ordered three jerk pork sandwiches on coco bread, with sides of rice and peas, and fried plantains.

He watched as she called to her husband, Kwesi, before looking at his phone. He was sure it was not the best decision to stay away from the store, but the food was so good, the smells so enticing, he couldn’t help himself. It was only when he received his takeaway order that he saw Athena, his Pomeranian, bark at him from the door that he knew he had to rush.

“How did you get here, girl?” Elias bent down to pick up the dog. “Where’s Penelope or Tal?”

Tal came next, winded but also excited to see his father.

“Dad, we didn’t know where you were,” Tal said. “Athena literally pulled the leash out of my hand and ran three blocks here. You have to come back. “Mom’s way too busy. She needs you back right away. There are too many customers.”

Elias nodded, and they rushed back to Ithaca Books, where the line was out the door to get a Thomas Eberle-signed copy of Piano Man. Elias passed Anthony, who gave him a passing smirk.

“Your girl is about to be overrun there, Elias,” Anthony mocked. “Great crowd, but lots of impatient readers in there.”

“Shut up, Anthony,” Elias said, stepping inside. As he walked in, Penelope was both excited and exasperated to see her husband. She was also a bit angry with him for holding the takeout bag.

Without another word, Elias pulled out his phone with the Square App, which allowed him to make electronic transactions. With Tal helping his father cull customers into a credit-only line to work with Elias, they soon took care of all the buyers in quick order.

By the time Tom Eberle had finished his allotted time, they had sold more than 200 copies of Piano Man and moved more inventory than a month of sales. As they sat and ate their food from Calypso, Tom turned to Elias. “I saw you leave at the height of the crowd. Where did you go?”

Penelope looked at Elias, “Yeah, Odie, what took you so long to get Sharpies?”

Elias shook his head. “Let me tell you. It was quite an Odyssey.”

About The Piano Man Chronicles

Piano Man, written by the fictional author Thomas Eberle, is a creative spark that connects a wide variety of stories, like a quiet ripple. I am writing three‑part arcs that introduce new people, new places, and new turning points, but the shared thread is how this one book nudges something in each of them.

Some characters read it.
Some argue with it.
Some only know it because someone they love won’t stop talking about it.
But for all of them, The Piano Man becomes a spark — a moment of reflection, change, or connection.

Guest authors, such as Sandolore Sykes, JC Wesslen, and Andrew Robert Colom are contributing their own takes on the story, creating a wide world of literary interconnection. This project is meant to feel like wandering through a neighborhood at dusk, catching glimpses of lives in motion. You’re not following one plot; you’re following the echo of a story inside a story, watching how art lands differently in every life it touches.

The Birthday Party Underground

When washed-up rocker Cole takes a pity gig at his nephew’s birthday party, he expects juice boxes, tantrums, and the slow death of his dignity. What he doesn’t expect is applause, cash, and a new career path—one paved with glitter, chaos, and the occasional piñata-related injury.

Welcome to the children’s party circuit, where the princesses aren’t Disney-approved, the clowns have criminal records, and the magicians might be dabbling in more than sleight of hand. As Cole dives deeper into this surreal subculture, he finds himself entangled in illicit rendezvous with moms (divorced, married, and morally flexible), navigating the drug-laced underbelly of suburban affluence, and dodging emotional landmines disguised as balloon animals.

But beneath the costumes and confetti lies a question Sam can’t escape: Is this his second act or just another detour on the road to self-destruction?

Eberle’s Piano Man is a tragicomic romp through the absurdity of reinvention, where the music never stops, but the consequences keep piling up. Sharp, irreverent, and unexpectedly tender, it’s a backstage pass to the party you never knew you wanted to crash.

“A rock ballad wrapped in confetti and regret. Eberle’s prose is as sharp as a broken guitar string.”

— Javier Stone, author of The Last Encore

“Thomas Eberle has written the most unwholesome children’s party novel imaginable—and I mean that as high praise.”

— Mira Caldwell, author of Suburban Gothic

“A hilarious, heartbreaking descent into the party circuit’s glittery underworld. Think Almost Famous meets Bad Moms with a dash of Hunter S. Thompson.”

— The Sacramento Tribune

Pull up a spot. Subscribers receive special access to exclusive content, including new stories, a guide to the “Space Between” the novels, soundtracks, and more... ​

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Today on The CHOW (Creative Hero On Writing) Interview, we are sitting down with , who has lived several fascinating lives and woven each one into her creative journey. From her early roots in Columbus, Ohio, she discovered the thrill of the written word back in the seventh grade as a school newspaper editor. With a bachelor’s degree in music and a master’s in natural resources, Julie spent decades in public school classrooms, writing thousands of lesson plans and inspiring the next generation. Now officially retired from teaching, she has returned to her first love: writing from the heart. She is proof that it is never too late to write your next chapter.  Welcome Julie!

[JS] Thank you, Vince! It’s an honor to be interviewed.

[VW] So, first off, you went to THE Ohio State University to study music. Of course, the Buckeyes’ marching band is famous. I know you played in the orchestra, but did you ever dot the I?

[JS] Haha—nope, never dotted the I. That was the job of either the drum major or a sousaphone. I sure enjoyed listening to them play, though.

[VW ] Like you, I discovered a passion for writing when I saw my byline in the school paper for the first time. For some, it might be frightening to put their words out for the public to see. But what sparked your passion? And how did you cultivate it while you were studying and teaching?

[JS] My passion for the written word began practically at birth, since Mom and Dad were avid readers. I was an early reader myself and was one of those geeky kids who devised her own list of words to learn at the beginning of every week during summer vacation. I think my passion for writing was ignited when an elementary school teacher assigned haiku poems, which I found delightful. My all-time masterpiece: By blowing bubbles, turtles create tiny waves unseen by humans.

As I grew up and studied music, played in orchestras, worked for nonprofits, etc. I continued writing snippets of stories whenever I had the time. I remember making little songs about parts of the cell—original lyrics set to popular tunes—to help middle schoolers remember the functions of each. The “Mighty Mitochondria” was quite a hit!

[VW] You have a diverse background in music, science, and teaching. Was it a story, or the act of storytelling, that brought you to writing after retirement?

[JS] It was like an itch that I finally could scratch. I’d thought about themes that mattered to me, then knew I had to weave them together into a novel. I’ve always loved challenges, and this one fascinated me.

[VW] Did writing require a change in mindset compared to the work you did during your career, or did you take a similar approach?

[JS] The commonality was taking a problem and breaking it down into smaller pieces, moving from idea to story arc to individual scenes and down to the sentence level. What was new was learning exactly how to do that, which required a lot of reading, asking questions of established authors, and a ton of humility.

[VW] Your debut novel, Chapel Bay Secrets, came out earlier this year. Congratulations. Tell us about the story and why this story?

[JS] The story centers on Brend Kato, a Japanese American librarian. She lives in the idyllic town of Chapel Bay on the Central California coast. Her mother, Toshi, who spent time in a Japanese Internment Camp, never told Brenda who her father was. Now, ten years after her mother’s death, Brenda knows it’s time to find him. While pondering this problem, she receives an anonymous email threatening a book ban. As both a Japanese American and a lesbian, she feels doubly targeted. As she tries to come to terms with her search for family and the possible book ban, she encounters two unlikely people in the community: a wealthy widow who feels snubbed by the local writing community and a retired psychologist who feels terrible guilt for a long-ago affair with a client. The three learn they must work together to find the answers each seeks.

There’s history, mystery, and a touch of romance in the book!

[VW] Often, debut novels are deeply personal. Was this the case with Chapel Bay Secrets?

[JS] Yes.

Over twenty years ago, I happened upon Tule Lake Internment Camp in the far northern part of California. I was shocked and horrified that I’d never known about this awful part of the American story. I decided that if I ever wrote a book, I’d include something from this tarnished tale in it. Also, I believe in weaving social justice into my writing whenever possible. As a married lesbian, I felt I needed to include something about the LGBTQ+ community and our struggles in the book. But believe me, there’s lots of humor and many twists in Chapel Bay Secrets!

[VW] This interview resides in my weekly Substack, “Space Between,” where I share stories that happen between novels, and my story between the release of books. What is your Space Between like? After Chapel Bay Secrets, how do you focus your writing time?

[JS] I divide my writing time between working on my own Substack, , crafting my next novel, and writing shorter pieces. I want to write more flash fiction in the future, too.

[VW] You’re very active in the California Writers Club - Sacramento Branch as a member of the board of directors. What brought you to the club, and what benefits do you find in a local writing community? 

[JS] California Writers Club has been a wonderful source of education, camaraderie, and opportunity. I joined three years ago in order to meet other local writers and see what life was like for those who’d published one or more books.

Despite my lack of publication credits, they greeted me with warmth and acceptance, and I even found a small online magazine that accepted my pieces because of the friends I met at CWC. Over time, it’s been wonderful to give back to that community by presenting talks on topics that help others in their writing journey. Once a teacher, always a teacher, I guess!

[VW] We were at the same Sacramento Book Festival, selling our novels across the aisle from each other. How did you like it? What’s the best part of participating in a community event like that?

[JS] That book festival was an incredible event! What were there…seven thousand readers browsing the tables that day? For me, the joy came in meeting people face-to-face who value reading. I sold a good number of books, met other authors, and it was a beautiful day in so many ways.

[VW] For the club, you recently shared your experience about utilizing Substack to promote writing. What do you like about it?

[JS] I love the ability to write about the things I care most about on Substack. I write about the natural world, book-related topics, travel, and a smattering of other topics. I can include poems, snippets of short stories, and even book reviews. And the best part is that people can respond to the posts within Substack. My other newsletter, the one I send via Mailerlite, doesn’t afford that opportunity.

[VW] What’s the next story you are working on?

[JS] I’m working on a second book set in Chapel Bay, this one more of an actual mystery. I’m keeping the details quiet until the draft has gone through more revision!

[VW] Thank you again for coming on The CHOW. Good luck, and we’ll see you at a Writer’s club meeting soon.

[JS] I look forward to seeing you soon, Vince!

If you’re stepping into the “Space Between” for the first time…

Welcome! You’ve arrived at a place where stories do more than just fill pages—they bridge the gap between the big moments of our lives.

Three years ago, I started this journey, wondering if I’d ever have enough to say. Today, I have the joy of knowing that every Friday at 5 a.m. PT, I’m sharing a story with you while you enjoy your morning coffee. This isn’t about chasing algorithms; it’s about doubling down on the “Why” behind my imprint, OT Press: telling human stories about the small choices that lead to real growth.

What to Expect

This is a living world where the characters you first met in Friends In Low Places and Lose Yourself continue to evolve. Here, you’ll find the threads that connect my novels, the current The Piano Man Chronicles, and my upcoming novel, Landslide. You can also read them in print with Space Between: The anthology of stories bridging novels. You get a front-row seat to The CHOW, my interviews with fellow authors about the spaces between their own milestones.

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I invite you to join our community and go deeper into the narrative. Subscribers receive special access to exclusive content, including:

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By Alex Shelby, Columnist, Sacramento Tribune

The Fourth of July is a monument to human idiocy.

Let’s be clear: I’m not talking about the founding fathers. You have to admire a room full of wealthy elite who willingly signed a death warrant, gambling on a little George Washington know-how against the might of the British Empire on a treasonous piece of parchment. That took spine.

Nor am I knocking the rare, fleeting miracle of national unity. For twenty-four hours every year on what seems to be the hottest day, we pretend to actually like each other. We treat the date with genuine reverence, on par with Thanksgiving or Christmas. It’s not just a hollow excuse for a three-day weekend (looking at you, Presidents’ Day, and we won’t even talk about how badly we neglect Memorial Day).

No, the holiday isn’t stupid. We are stupid. The moment the calendar hits July 4, the collective American IQ drops into the single digits.

First, consider our choice of high culture. We have elevated the act of stuffing our faces into a premier national sporting event. Last summer, 35,000 citizens crammed onto the Coney Island boardwalk, accompanied by 1.6 million viewers at home, to watch grown men submerge long skinny pieces of white bread in water and inhale pulverized, encased animal parts at a rate rivaling a garbage disposal. It’s billed as “The Olympics of Competitive Eating” because nothing says freedom quite like a man vomiting on national cable.

Then comes the mandatory gluttony. The average American will casually munch down 2,000 calories by sunset, trailing only Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Super Bowl Sunday. Yes, my waistline is a dead giveaway for a man who enjoys a charred cheeseburger, a handful of greasy chips, and a couple of cold IPAs, and is later coated in a big bowl of homemade ice cream. But as a nation, we view the Bill of Rights as a mandate to push our digestive systems to the absolute brink, comforting ourselves with the knowledge that we said no to taxes on imported tea but yes to ingredients harder to pronounce than “unalienable.”

Naturally, our imbecility is fueled by alcohol. July 4th is the undisputed heavyweight champion of American beer sales. We average nearly four beers per person, a statistic which, by the way, includes toddlers and the sober. Throw in a toxic river of High Noons, lukewarm Margaritas, and questionable backyard Sangria, and you have a population fully marinated in Budweiser red, White Claws, and Blue Moon by 2:00 PM.

Which brings us to the grand, explosive finale.

Setting off explosives while heavily intoxicated is, hands down, the single most predictable disaster of the year. I’m not talking about the sanctioned, orderly light shows over Sutter Health Park or City Hall. I’m talking about the trunk-load of bootleg, state-line contraband procured by your neighbor, who has been sitting in the previously mentioned marination and decided to light it on fire.

The math of our annual madness is impressive, if you’re a fan of chaos. We detonate roughly 300 million pounds of illegal fireworks every July. The fallout? Nearly 32,000 fires, accounting for nearly half the annual fire calls in a single night. Ten thousand of our fellow citizens will spend their holiday in an air-conditioned emergency room, usually holding an ice pack over where a finger used to be, while the 911 switchboards melt down under the heaviest call volume of the year.

So, how are we feeling this morning, Sacramento?

Got a pounding headache? A sour stomach? Wondering if that lump on the lawn is a dropped hot dog or a missing digit? Congratulations. You successfully exercised your liberty to act like a complete lunatic.

It’s exactly what Thomas Jefferson had in mind when he put quill to parchment. Happy birthday, America. Try not to burn the house down next year.

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Alex Shelby is on the verge of a Landslide

We first met Alex Shelby in Capitol Rookie, an 11-part serial set in 2004 and first published on Substack in 2025, and now the anchor of the anthology, Space Between. Now, more than 20 years later, Alex is on the precipice, his underlying cynicism and distrust threatening to bring down his career, his marriage, and his relationship with his son.

Landslide releases Spring 2027!

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The Piano Man Chronicles is a two-year anthology project. Every two weeks, you’ll see a story surrounding the fictional novel PIANO MAN (You can read about PIANO MAN below the story). Some stories are small three-part serials. Others will be from guest authors.

By Vince Wetzel

Part 1: No Manuals for the Quiet

“I don’t really know how I feel about this,” Laura said from the driver’s side of her parked Subaru. “I’ve just read so many things about bears and mountain lions, and other creatures up there. I only want you to be safe.”

While Laura’s brow was furrowed in anxiety, his was as light as the air from her parking spot in the Emerald Bay parking lot above Lake Tahoe. From the passenger seat, he drew a breath, placed a reassuring hand on her knee, and tried to express his sincerest confidence.

“I know you feel that this is an unsafe adventure,” he said. “But I have a knife, I have bear spray, water, and other provisions to get me through the next three days and 42 miles.”

He didn’t dare compare himself to Cheryl Strayd, the author of Wild (portrayed by Reese Witherspoon in the movie), who traversed ten times this far, some of it without boots. Laura would say Mark was gaslighting her, he thought. Instead, he leaned in and gave her a reassuring kiss before exiting the car and moving to the back to grab his pack.

“Well, I’ll be at the Donner Pass Trailhead ready for you when you get out of the wilderness,” she said. She’d be staying at the Truckee hotel in her preferred relaxation mode, sitting outdoors and reading. She was ready to dig into her copy of Piano Man by Thomas Eberle. He was, too, but his was on his Kindle.

“Wait until I call,” Mark said, boosting the 30-pound pack on his back. “I don’t want you to wait prematurely.” With one more kiss and hug, she squeezed him more tightly than he did her. “I love you. I’ll see you in three days.”

And with that, Mark headed up the trail toward Eagle Lake, then up to the California K Section of the Pacific Crest Trail. The entire National Scenic Trail stretched 2,653 miles from the Mexican to the Canadian border. The slight stretch of Mark’s route was known for its panoramic views of Lake Tahoe.

Mark needed this time. Having turned 50 and with both children on their own, he felt a sense of emptiness. Unlike the transition of being a father – bam, here’s your baby – there weren’t many manuals on how to refocus priorities after the kids left. He hoped this hike would help put it into alignment. Mark had trained for this hike for a few months, carrying weights in his pack up the steep hills outside his home in El Dorado Hills. He’d camped with minimal provisions. He was ready.

As Mark reached Velma Lake, he was at an elevation of 7,000 feet and breathing heavily. He made good time up the Eagle Lake Trail to the Pacific Coast Trail, just under two hours. It was as good a place as any to sit in the peace of solitude to have a sandwich and move forward toward Richardson Lake, his preferred end destination for today. That would give him six hours and 10 miles of hiking.

Mark bit into one of his peanut butter and jelly sandwiches he had prepared. This trip wasn’t too far, so he felt he didn’t have to totally rough it. He also brought a couple of cans of condensed soup, several protein bars, nuts, and three bananas. He also packed a two-pack of Hostess cupcakes, an indulgence for sure, but it would be his reward as he walked the final mile into Truckee.

“Hey friend,” came a voice from behind, startling Mark so much that he coughed up the last bite of PB&J. “Boy, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”

Turning, he saw a tall man, his body taut and in shape, with an unkempt beard that looked as though a chipmunk was clinging to his chin for dear life. The man smiled broadly as he got closer and offered his hand. He wore dirty hiking pants that were torn in a couple of places, and carried a tall walking stick.

“Hi,” Mark said. “Where are you coming from?”

“Tehachapi,” the man laughed. “Yeah, I started this thing way down South. I think I’ve been walking a couple of months now.”

Mark’s eyes widened. No wonder the man had the look and smell of someone who hadn’t seen a shower in weeks. Mark decided to keep his distance.

“I’m Mark, I’m only hiking a couple of days to Donner,” he said, offering his hand.

“Carl,” the man said, and shook it. “I’ve come across a few folks, so it’s always nice to see a new human.”

“I bet,” Mark said. “I plan to hike another six miles to Richardson if you want some company for a while.”

Carl’s smile widened, and Mark thought perhaps Carl had forgotten a toothbrush. Mark didn’t know if he’d regret hiking with Carl, but it would be a story to share. Plus, some company might be safer against wild animals. After all, Carl had survived this far.

As they hiked across the train for the next six miles, Carl shared his adventures on the PCT, including seeing a mountain lion from about a quarter mile away. At one point, he had run out of food, and for a day, until he got to the next town, he had spearfished using his walking stick and his knife, affixed with duct tape.

“My tent is a mess,” he said. “There are rips, and it’s no better than sleeping outside. I’ll probably get another one when we get to Truckee.”

When they finally reached Richardson Lake, Mark offered to set up camp with him for the night. He had an extra can of soup, and he could tell him more stories. Carl was appreciative, almost breaking down in tears at the kindness. Mark wondered if the trail had affected Carl in ways that would take a therapist years to unpack. There was a manic loneliness to him. Is it true that you begin to crack without interaction with other humans, especially in such a desolate wilderness?

“I’ll collect some wood for us to make a small fire,” Mark said, allowing Carl some extra rest. After all. He’d been on the trail for so long, he’d appreciate the opportunity to rest from employing his survival skills.

It was not quite sunset, and Mark stood on the ridgeline and looked across the natural beauty of the Sierras. Acres and acres of land and trees were in front of him. He drew several deep breaths. It was all so beautiful. Would this be his next chapter? Could he see himself hiking more of these trails, or hiking across the majority of the PCT as Carl was doing? Probably not, but Carl was inspiring, if not a little odd.

Cradling enough fallen branches and other timber to make a nice fire and cook their soup, Mark made his way back to their camp, satisfied with the day’s hike. He’d gone ten miles, met someone, and now was going to spend the evening in the wilderness.

He was content.

As he approached their camp for the night, he noticed the contrast between his pristine tent and the tattered nylon of Carl’s tent. That’s what countless miles will do. Carl was sitting on the ground, his face buried in his hands. Something was unnerving about him. He looked primal, almost like a bear foraging for sustenance.

He looked away, then toward his tent, and saw his pack open. When he looked back at Carl, Mark noticed why it looked strange. Carl was eating his Hostess cupcakes, the ones he planned to reward himself with at the end of his journey.

“Hey, Carl, why are you eating my cupcakes?” Mark asked.

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Mark looked up, chocolate crumbs in his beard, smiling like a kid who discovered his favorite toy under the tree.

“I just was so hungry, and figured you’d have a good snack,” he said. “I probably should have waited to ask, but I couldn’t wait.”

“But, I had special plans for those cupcakes,” Even as he said it, Mark felt like a selfish prick. This dude probably hadn’t had any junk food since he got on the trail, and here he was upset over an unhealthy treat. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to snap.”

“No, I get it. I just thought since you offered me a can of your soup, you’d offer things too. I overstepped. I’m not used to this hospitality on the PCT. Normally, my butler is a raccoon who is waiting for me to go to sleep.”

Now, Mark felt like a real asshole, but still, he couldn’t help but feel violated. There was still decorum and respect for personal property on the trail, wasn’t there? He wasn’t dreaming that, right? He tried to shake it off and resumed building the fire while Carl sat back.

“I wanted to meet a bear,” Carl said. “I want to stare one in the eye and see who would get the better of the other.”

“Most likely the bear,” Mark said.

“Maybe,” Carl said, and he believed it. “With my spear, I think I could take it down. I’ve killed a couple of rabbits. There’s nothing like killing for your food on the trail.”

As the night wore on, and the light flickered across Carl’s face, Mark grew more and more uneasy. There were stories of other encounters with people along the trail. None of his experiences turned out well. And each one had wronged Carl in some way so that he would call them “asshole” or “motherfucker” by the end of his tale.

Mark resolved not to be around for that turn. He’d wake up early and head out before Carl woke up. He felt sure he could put enough distance between them tomorrow that, when he camped, Carl would be far enough behind. Going to sleep that night, Mark listened to the night, wondering what creatures lurked in the night, and equally concerned with Carl.

In the middle of the night, Mark heard rustling in the other tent before the words made the hairs on his body stand on end.

“Oh, Mark, just wait. I’ll kill that bear and make a blanket out of its pelt so we can sleep under the stars, you and I.”

Part 2: The Geography of Shame

It was still dark when Mark woke. His first night on the Pacific Crest Trail was cool, but his sleeping bag made the night comfortable. His goal was to pack up and leave in the early light of dawn and be quiet enough not to disturb Carl.

Throughout the night, Carl’s final words echoed in his mind. He was pleasant enough and eased his solo adventure into the wilderness. But the more stories Carl shared of his two months on the PCT, the more uneasy Mark became.

As he pulled on his pack and started down the trail again, Mark reconsidered staying around, saying a proper goodbye, and moving along. Leaving this early could be considered rude, and really, what had Carl done? Sure, he ate his cupcake. Yes, some of the stories Carl shared made Mark uncomfortable. And, finally, Mark didn’t appreciate Carl sharing that he’d kill a bear and make a blanket the two of them could snuggle under. But was that just in Mark’s mind? Had he misunderstood Carl?

Mark decided it was best to move on. He’d leave a short note and his last can of soup, thanking him for the company, but that he was moving on. Leave and chalk it up to a good story to tell his friends and family when he returned to civilization. Who knows? Maybe, he’d write a book someday, and Carl could be an eccentric character to add flavor to the story. Mark looked back at Carl’s tattered tent and gave a slight wave before turning back to the trail.

Mark marveled at the beauty of dawn on the trail. He didn’t miss his morning coffee. The energy provided by that initial warmth of the sun on a summer morning was all the go-go juice he needed to move through the day.

He paused for a moment to take stock of his life. He had been married to his wife, Laura, for nearly twenty-five years. Two of his children, Lane (23), and Joe (22), were employed, while his daughter Chrissy (21) was heading into her final year of college. He’d done it. He and Laura had raised three lovely kids without too much drama. They were on their way to retiring on time with enough savings to live out the rest of their lives in comfort. They were set.

So, why was he lost? Lately, he had taken to wandering around the house and looking for small projects to do, not because they needed to be done, but because it occupied time previously committed to his children’s games, performances, and taxi service. And time with Laura now included which Netflix show to watch that night. He tried reading, and he grew bored. He took yoga, which was nice, but he still felt like he was going through the motions rather than having a passion. He hoped that being outdoors would bring him clarity. So far, it was a great day, but was it life-changing? Not yet.

At noon, he came to a cliffside with a large rock face rising high above the trail. He worked himself up the rock face to where he thought he could rest, eat lunch, and pull out his Kindle to read Piano Man. His wife had a physical copy and was reading it in a cabin in Truckee, where he would end up after this hike.

He pulled out his sandwich and bit into the peanut butter and jelly. After hastily packing his pack, he found the sandwich squished, but it provided the same sustenance. As he read more of the book, the warmth of the day on the rocks and the early morning, he decided to lie against a tree and catch up on sleep.

As he drifted off, he dreamt about Lane’s sixth birthday party, when they had hired a children’s musician to play a few songs. But it wasn’t the young keyboardist who was barely in his 20s, and who refused a congratulatory beer. It was Carl, bellowing inappropriate songs about hunting bears. The children ran off disturbed, and Mark was left having to deal with the trauma they’d endured.

“Mark?” he heard Carl yell. “Where are you, Mark?”

Mark’s eyes shot open, immediately into his conscious self. This wasn’t a dream. It was a warm day, but he felt the chills on his arm.

“Mark? Why did you leave without saying goodbye? I thought we were friends.”

Mark couldn’t tell how far away Carl was, but he was thankful that he had left the trail to come this far up the rock face. He turned and stood straight against the tree. He didn’t want Carl to find him up here. That would be too embarrassing, that Mark had ditched Carl and was now hiding from him. He felt shame and remembered a time in high school when he befriended a classmate in a wheelchair, only to ignore her when he saw her at the county fair, even as she waved to him.

Don’t let him see me, Mark thought. Just keep moving.

“Are you mad about me stealing your cupcake?” Carl yelled. “I think that’s a pretty poor reason to leave your friend behind.”

Mark agreed. It was a pretty asshole excuse to leave. But it wasn’t just that. Mark’s gut told him that Carl was bad news and that leaving was the best course. And Mark’s trail stalking had confirmed that gut instinct.

It was more than the cupcake, you psycho. You wanted to kill a bear to make a blanket for the two of us.

Mark looked down the hill and the trail about 100 yards. In the distance, he saw Carl walking, his eyes darting around. With all of the switchbacks, he might get to the spot on the trail where his footsteps ended on the dirt. Would that lead Carl to look up to this tree, to Mark? What would happen then?

“I thought you were different, Mark. Turns out, you’re like all of the others I’ve met on the PCT. They all want an acquaintance, but nobody wants a companion.”

And what happened to them? Mark wanted to know.

He looked around the rock for a better hiding place than a singular tree. He saw a clump of three pines growing out of the granite with bushes sitting in front. Mark picked up his pack and scurried to his new hideout, hoping he could let him pass without disturbance. Unfortunately, letting Carl pass him would mean Mark could no longer move at his own pace, which might mean he wouldn’t be at the rendezvous point when Laura was expected to meet up with him.

Carl was now fifty yards away. Yesterday’s look of amusement and friendliness turned to a relentless focus on the trail and its surroundings. Mark squatted further, with only the top of his head above the shrubs. He found his heart beating and his breath labored.

Why am I so scared of this guy? Mark asked himself. This is silly. He’s a little strange, but is he dangerous? I should go down, apologize, explain that I need some solitary time, and let him move on. He’d understand.

“Mark?” Carl was near the spot where Mark started up the granite face. If there were footprints, Carl would soon see them stop and look upward. “Mark, I thought we were friends. Turns out you’re an asshole like everyone else. You remember that jackass Todd, I told you about? You’re a lot like him. He ditched me, too. That is, until I caught up to him. I guess I should thank him. After all, I have his tent and his pack.”

Mark’s eyes went wide. If Carl had Todd’s gear, where was Todd? At that moment, Carl looked up toward the bushes where Mark was hiding. Mark didn’t dare breathe. Carl smiled, more sinister than anything Mark had ever seen. Mark was sure Carl had spotted him.

But like that, Carl turned and continued down the path.

“Mark, I’m going to catch up with you eventually. You know that, right? And when I do, you have some ‘splaining to do. Hahaha. Remember that from the old I Love Lucy show. I think Desi Arnaz would say that. I used to watch that as a kid when my dad would leave me home to go to work. I watched that and F Troop, Leave it to Beaver, and Gilligan’s Island. It was all I could watch until Dad came home and unlocked the basement. You know, when you spend that much time alone, you get comfortable by yourself, but you can’t help but love the time you get to meet good people. But then again, people like you always disappoint me. Like you, Mark. You disappoint me. And I can’t wait to tell you when I see you next.”

Carl’s voice trailed off as he rounded the next bend. Mark didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t get out of these hills soon enough. But how could he move, now that he was behind Carl? He couldn’t chance meeting him on the trail. He could end up like Todd, whatever his fate.

Mark waited another hour, then slowly moved onto the trail. With each step Mark took, he looked ahead as far as he could for any sign of Carl. Satisfied, he continued walking until dusk. He looked at his map and compass and figured he was about three miles off his targeted destination. He’d stay here tonight, then stay behind Carl until Truckee. As soon as he had cell service, he’d call Laura and have her pick him up as close to the first road as possible

Mark didn’t think to build a fire, to give Carl any smoke or far-off light to double back and find him. Instead, he sat outside his tent and ate the rest of his protein bars. In the distance, he thought he saw a campfire. It was Carl, not only because of who else was on the PCT, but also because of his wails at the top of his lungs.

“Mark. Where are you, Mark!”

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Part 3

Sleep came hard for Mark that night, but on a positive note, he had never seen the stars so vividly in his life. The high elevation and a new moon, coupled with no lights for miles around, created a mystical, starry evening before him.

While glorious, it didn’t make up for the terror he felt. He slept in his clothes on the ground with his sleeping bag on top of him so that at a moment’s notice, he could scatter like a deer. Mark expected Carl to come crashing through the bushes at any moment with a knife. For hours, Carl had called for him, staging a one-person filibuster about how he had wronged him for leaving him the morning before.

At first, Mark was relieved when Carl stopped screaming. Maybe he’d gone to bed. But with every rustle of bushes or a possible twig snapping, Mark’s ears perked, wondering if this was the moment before his throat was slit.

But when Mark awoke the next morning, it was light. Dawn had come, and Mark checked his body for any slashes or appendix flowing out. Satisfied, he was untouched. Mark peeked around the tree and finally exhaled when he saw that Carl’s camp was clear. He must have left already.

Mark had never been so ready to see Laura and his Truckee cabin more than he had right now. The moments of solitude, except for the initial two miles from Emerald Bay to the junction to the PCT, had been filled with anxiety and fear. And, he hadn’t passed a wild animal yet. Next time, he’ll be happy with an all-inclusive resort with free drinks, time on the beach with a good book, and maybe some frisky interludes with Laura.

Mark was also hungry. All of his provisions were gone. He had planned poorly, and he had mistakenly shared the backup rations with Carl. What he wouldn’t give for that extra can of soup he had brought. Or those Hostess cupcakes. He’d have a great ribeye tonight and an extra-large glass of Pinot Noir.

For now, he had six miles to go today, the last mile in civilization, and then he could sit in the yard and read Piano Man. As long as he hung back and didn’t run into Carl, Mark could write this off as one crazy story on the PCT. Until then, however, extreme caution was needed.

He strapped on his pack and joined the trail again, following the steps of Carl. A few hundred yards away, he found Carl’s camp from the night before. He did admire Carl for one thing: Carl was respectful to nature. There were only slight hints that he had slept here the night before. The campfire was thoroughly extinguished, the ashes and final logs stomped out. There was not a hint of trash. The spot where his camp lay was brushed. But there, written in the dirt, was a message that made the sweat on Mark’s forehead turn ice-cold.

”Missed you. Fire was warmer than the ground.”

Mark desperately looked around. Was Carl in the trees waiting to pounce on him? Suddenly, even in the wilderness, Mark felt claustrophobic. The trees were too close together. He needed meadows and open spaces to watch for Carl. He pulled out his knife and bear spray from his pack. He would keep both even closer, ready to use at a moment’s notice.

Mark brushed out the sign and continued down the path, each step taken with caution, each bend peered around with wary eyes. For the next two miles, he thought the next moment would be his last. Why did he decide to get out of here in the first place? What narcissistic bullshit for him to “need solitary time” in the wilderness. Laura loved him. His kids loved him. Why did he accept that and move on? Why did he have to tempt fate? Mark accepted the bargain he laid before himself – get back safely and never wish to go on a vision quest by himself. Hike with his kids. Take a trip with Laura. Share the experience with people = though he never wanted to share this experience again.

Above him, Mark heard a cracked branch.

At mid-step, this caused a momentary distraction, and Mark stepped on a root in the ground incorrectly. His ankle twisted awkwardly, causing Mark to fall in a heap.

Dammit

Mark wanted to scream, but instead let the pain he felt manifest through his clenched jaw and squinted eyes. He lowered his hands to his ankle to rub it, and he was confident his injury was only a sprain. Three more miles. It would slow his pace, but he could make it. He only hoped Carl wouldn’t pop out of the trees. Mark grabbed the knife and held it. His fight-or-flight options had been cut in half.

He stood up again. Favoring his left leg, he slowly and gently put weight on his right foot.

Pain.

He’d be scuffling these last couple of miles for sure. But he had to make it to Truckee and to Laura. He needed to put all of this behind him. With each step, he drew closer to his goal. By will, he was going to make it.

Step. Pain. Step. Drag. Step.

Thankfully, around the next bend, a large branch lay a few feet off the trail. Mark examined it. It was five feet long, and his grip around it was solid. The trail gods were looking out for him for sure. This would be his walking stick and would get him through the next couple of miles.

And after a few hundred yards, it had helped take the pressure off his ankle. He drew a breath. One piece of good luck provided a much-needed boost of confidence and positivity.

I can do this.

“You ungrateful son of a bitch,” Mark heard from behind him. Turning around, he saw Carl, his eyes bearing down on Mark. “I find the perfect walking stick to help you through this bit of the trail, and no thank you?”

For some reason, Carl had spread mud on his face. He was less human than any wild animal Mark had ever come across.

“Hi Carl, I just wanted some solitude,” Mark said, trying to play it off. “I came up here for time alone, and I didn’t want to bother you with your hike either. Didn’t you see my note and my extra can of soup?”

“Yeah, but that was almost worse, like I was some jilted lover. You could have woken me up and said goodbye. And then you avoid me on the trail? Why didn’t you answer when I called for you? Why did you not catch up to me and my fire last night? Was your quest for ‘solitude’ so important that you avoided me?”

Mark nodded. He didn’t want to admit my narcissism, but maybe that was the only way out of his predicament.

“Yeah, I’m a selfish asshole,” he said. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left you. I should have stayed. You never know what is out here in the wilderness.”

That seemed to relax Carl, and he relaxed his grip on his own walking stick, which had his pocket knife affixed to the top with duct tape. He smiled, then laughed. Mark was still uneasy. Carl was clearly not right, but Mark felt the tension between them ease.

“I accept your apology, and I forgive you for all of your trespasses,” he said. “I’ve been watching you since you left my camp, and your twisted ankle. That’s why I left the walking stick. But hopefully I can help you the rest of the way.”

Mark smiled as Carl came over to help him. Carl smelled vile, but Mark conceded this was the price for some help the rest of the way. As Mark swung his arm around Carl’s shoulder, for the first time in a couple of days, he felt hope. He would get to Truckee, and Carl would not be using his face as a mask.

Carl shared how he spent three days with a sprained ankle. He eventually had to rest for a full day and a half. “The lowest point of the trip so far,” he said. “That’s when I met Todd. He stumbled upon me, but instead of helping me, he kept hiking. What an asshole. It took me three days to catch up to him, each step painful. But when I did find him, I found an ace bandage that I used. That helped me so much.”

Mark stayed silent, unsure if he wanted to ask the obvious question. He was this close to getting home, and for the moment, Carl was helping. Would that change? But was Carl misunderstood? Did Mark misconstrue the situation? With his curiosity nagging at him, he asked. “What happened to Todd?”

Mark was relieved when Carl’s demeanor didn’t change. They kept walking, one step after another.

“Oh, he got off the trail,” Carl said. Mark relaxed further, and they took more steps. “Well, that’s not completely true. He fell off a cliff. Well, he said, ‘I was an annoying smelly asshole,’ so I pushed him. Served him right. He was only on the trail for a day. What an asshole. I thought you were like him, but it turns out you’re a good guy, Mark.”

“Thank you,” Mark said, feeling his body tense again.

“Am I an annoying, smelly asshole?” Carl asked.

Yes, and a murderer, Mark thought, but said instead, “Not at all.”

Despite his best efforts, the remark came off as flippant and sarcastic, and Carl recognized the insincerity instantly. Carl stopped walking and took his arm away so swiftly that Mark lost his balance and fell on the trail and the granite. Suddenly, Carl was lording above him, the walking stick and the knife in front of him.

“Ungrateful,” Carl said. Even though Mark was staring at a knife taped to a walking stick, he gripped his own knife. Was this how it was going to go down? And if it was, he wasn’t going to live his last moments in fear. It was time to stand up.

But nature had other plans.

Mark’s eyes went wide, but not because of Carl’s knife and what could happen. Behind both of them was a 400-pound black bear. Perhaps it was Carl’s stench or that they crossed the wrong path, but the bear eyed them with curiosity. Mark started to back away, the adrenaline making his ankle less painful.

“This is even better,” Carl said. “I’ve always wanted to meet up with a bear and see how I’d stand up.”

“Carl, don’t,” Mark said, finding the bear spray attached to his belt. “The bear will win. Use the bear spray, and then we can get away.”

“Fuck that,” he said. “The thing to do is to confront the bear. It only responds to alpha strength.”

With that, Carl took two aggressive steps toward the bear, shook his makeshift spear, and let out a menacing scream. At first, the bear cocked its head to one side in curiosity. It wasn’t used to its authority being challenged. But then, it raised itself onto its back haunches and roared with a ferocity Mark had never experienced. Holding the bear spray, Mark backed behind a rock hidden by a bush.

Instead of backing down, Carl pushed forward. There was a menace to his laugh, as though he knew and accepted the fate that was laid before him. Mark felt an urge to give Carl a fighting chance. He gripped the bear spray and pulled the pin from behind the bush. He pushed the trigger, and a vile orange cloud of blazing hot capsicum blasted Carl and missed the bear,

“What the hell, Mark?” Carl screamed, falling down in a heap. Those words would haunt Mark for the rest of his life.

With a nimble quickness one doesn’t associate with a mammal that large, the bear pushed forward and swiped Carl with its right claw, slashing Carl across the neck. Carl, so tough and terrifying in his own right, went down like a rag doll. The bear was quickly on top of him, striking and slashing with a brutality that the civilized world cannot comprehend.

The bear only stopped after Mark emptied the rest of the can of bear spray at the beast. After snarling, sneezing, spitting, and shaking its head, the bear continued further down the trail in the opposite direction from Mark’s home.

Mark sat on the trail, his eyes transfixed on Carl. While he wasn’t sure if he would have perished on that trail if the bear hadn’t appeared, Mark wondered if Carl wanted this ending to his journey on the PCT. Why had he been on the trail for months?

After what seemed like an hour, Mark resolved to cover Carl’s body, put notes on the trail on both sides warning of the carnage that lay ahead, and mark the spot on his map so that he could let authorities know where to find what remained of Carl’s carcass.

Mark arrived at the destination four hours after his expected time. Laura nearly passed out when she saw some of Carl’s blood spattered on his shirt, until he reassured her it wasn’t his. Over the next couple of hours, he retold the story at least half a dozen times to various law enforcement and fish-and-game officials. At first, he was worried that he would be charged with Carl’s murder until some of his story was confirmed with the discovery of Todd’s body the day before. Plus, there was no doubt of the carnage that the bear left behind.

When they were done, he took his shower and crashed at the cabin for an entire day before he emerged from his three-day nightmare. Even when he awoke, he didn’t talk to Laura for a long time. He wasn’t sure if he’d tell the tale, but he knew he wouldn’t be hiking alone ever in his life.

About The Piano Man Chronicles

Piano Man, written by the fictional author Thomas Eberle, is a creative spark that connects a wide variety of stories, like a quiet ripple. I am writing three‑part arcs that introduce new people, new places, and new turning points, but the shared thread is how this one book nudges something in each of them.

Some characters read it.
Some argue with it.
Some only know it because someone they love won’t stop talking about it.
But for all of them, The Piano Man becomes a spark — a moment of reflection, change, or connection.

Guest authors, such as JC Wesslen and are contributing their own takes on the story, creating a wide world of literary interconnection. This project is meant to feel like wandering through a neighborhood at dusk, catching glimpses of lives in motion. You’re not following one plot; you’re following the echo of a story inside a story, watching how art lands differently in every life it touches.

The Birthday Party Underground

When washed-up rocker Cole takes a pity gig at his nephew’s birthday party, he expects juice boxes, tantrums, and the slow death of his dignity. What he doesn’t expect is applause, cash, and a new career path—one paved with glitter, chaos, and the occasional piñata-related injury.

Welcome to the children’s party circuit, where the princesses aren’t Disney-approved, the clowns have criminal records, and the magicians might be dabbling in more than sleight of hand. As Cole dives deeper into this surreal subculture, he finds himself entangled in illicit rendezvous with moms (divorced, married, and morally flexible), navigating the drug-laced underbelly of suburban affluence, and dodging emotional landmines disguised as balloon animals.

But beneath the costumes and confetti lies a question Sam can’t escape: Is this his second act or just another detour on the road to self-destruction?

Eberle’s Piano Man is a tragicomic romp through the absurdity of reinvention, where the music never stops, but the consequences keep piling up. Sharp, irreverent, and unexpectedly tender, it’s a backstage pass to the party you never knew you wanted to crash.

“A rock ballad wrapped in confetti and regret. Eberle’s prose is as sharp as a broken guitar string.”
— Javier Stone, author of The Last Encore

“Thomas Eberle has written the most unwholesome children’s party novel imaginable—and I mean that as high praise.”
— Mira Caldwell, author of Suburban Gothic

“A hilarious, heartbreaking descent into the party circuit’s glittery underworld. Think Almost Famous meets Bad Moms with a dash of Hunter S. Thompson.”
— The Sacramento Tribune

Pull up a spot. Subscribers receive special access to exclusive content, including new stories, a guide to the “Space Between” the novels, soundtracks, and more... ​

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This past month, in honor of Christopher Nolan’s upcoming release, I embarked on my own Odyssey, mainly by reading Homer’s epic poem myself. Armed with an e-copy from the library on one screen and my laptop open to the chapter summaries on another, I attempted to comprehend the depth, myth, and multilayered contextual references first told in the eighth century BCE.

Of course, I am not a feared leader like Odysseus or ripped like Matt Damon (I’m more the We Bought A Zoo, The Informant, or Air Matt Damon). I’m not battling sea monsters or praying to the gods to bring me back home safely, but I do feel a kinship with the hero as he journeys back home to Ithaca to his family.

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The Underworld of Developmental Edits

In the Odyssey, Circe demands that Odysseus seek Tiresias for guidance in navigating the Underworld. Tiresias shares the reasons he’s being persecuted by Poseidon, the pitfalls of eating the sacred cows on Thrinacia, and what lies ahead when he gets back to Ithaca.

This week, I initiated my own descent and submitted Landslide to my editor for a critical review of my manuscript's structural flaws, character development, and story flow. I’ve received fantastic feedback from readers, but this is the edit that can take my manuscript from good to great or remarkable. But it means confronting truths, making hard choices, and ultimately sacrificing sacred cows for the story's betterment.

The Lotus Eaters of the Next First Draft

With nothing to do on Landslide for the moment, I shifted focus to the first draft of the fake novel, PIANO MAN. How intoxicating the first chapters of a first draft. I am not intimidated by the first blank page. In fact, I may be the opposite. I jump in with such unsustainable enthusiasm that I have to remind myself it's a marathon, not a sprint.

In The Odyssey, the crew encounters a tribe that lives off a sweet fruit that induces total apathy, making them forget their home and their mission. The first third of a new draft is pure Lotus fruit. It’s fueled by adrenaline, fresh characters, and zero consequences. Without discipline, you get so enthralled with polishing the fun stuff that you never push past the first act. My current daily trial is to taste the Lotus of a new project without letting it derail the larger journey.

The Phaeacian Feast of Substack Short Stories

On his journey home, Odysseus is given a banquet by King Alcinous. There are tales, competitions, and general celebration. Thematically, it’s an opportunity for Odysseus to have a break from the struggles he endures on his journey.

For me, The Piano Man Chronicles provides an opportunity to stretch, to explore, and to expand my writing universe. Currently, I have three three-part stories and three stories written by guest writers , JC Wesslen, and . Thank you to the guest writers for their mind-bending creativity.

Row the Boat With Me: We continue The Piano Man Chronicles next week with Part 1 of the thriller A Savage Solitude, a story of loneliness, madness, and the Pacific Coast Trail. Subscribe and get it in your email first.

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Navigating Scylla and Charybdis

Odysseus famously had to steer his ship through a narrow strait between Scylla (a six-headed monster that snaps up sailors) and Charybdis (a massive whirlpool that swallows ships whole).

My modern strait consists of two equally lethal threats to my productivity: My day job and the World Cup.

On one side is Scylla, the demanding, busy season at my regular paying job, snapping up my creative hours. On the other side is Charybdis, the hypnotic, swirling vortex of a month-long football tournament. How easy is it to let 90 minutes of beautiful footie swallow my entire day? My only solution for survival? Turn off Alexi Lalas, step away from the TV, and only tune in when the workday is safely done.

The Telemachus Bond

Amid all this creative chaos, my wife and I are navigating a profound, real-life shift in dynamics. We have one child who has officially started his career and another in college searching for her path. The days of hands-on caregiving and coaching are over. We have graduated/been demoted to “consultants.” We can’t demand compliance anymore; we can only offer advice when explicitly asked.

The true heart of The Odyssey isn’t just Odysseus getting home; it’s his son, Telemachus, finding his own footing as a young adult. Throughout the epic, the goddess Athena, disguised as an old family friend named Mentor (is that the origin?), guides Telemachus from a distance.

Acting with “Athena energy” is tough. Watching your kids step up means watching them occasionally screw up, dust themselves off, and learn to captain their own ships.

My Ithaca

When, and if, I finally land this ship next year with the release of Landslide, I know the journey won’t have been perfect. I’m going to make mistakes as a writer, a husband, and a father. But The Odyssey is a reminder that the trials are the whole point, and there is a kingdom waiting just beyond the next wave.

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If you’re stepping into the “Space Between” for the first time…

Welcome! You’ve arrived at a place where stories do more than just fill pages—they bridge the gap between the big moments of our lives.

Three years ago, I started this journey, wondering if I’d ever have enough to say. Today, I have the joy of knowing that every Friday at 5 a.m. PT, I’m sharing a story with you while you enjoy your morning coffee. This isn’t about chasing algorithms; it’s about doubling down on the “Why” behind my imprint, OT Press: telling human stories about the small choices that lead to real growth.

What to Expect

This is a living world where the characters you first met in Friends In Low Places and Lose Yourself continue to evolve. Here, you’ll find the threads that connect my novels, the current The Piano Man Chronicles, and my upcoming novel, Landslide. You can also read them in print with Space Between: The anthology of stories bridging novels. You get a front-row seat to The CHOW, my interviews with fellow authors about the spaces between their own milestones.

Why Subscribe?

I invite you to join our community and go deeper into the narrative. Subscribers receive special access to exclusive content, including:

• New Stories: Bi-Weekly fiction bridging the gap between my novels.

• The “Space Between” Guide: An insider’s roadmap to my interconnected universe.

• Soundtracks & More: Curated playlists and behind-the-scenes updates.

If you become a paid subscriber, you get those benefits plus a signed copy of either Friends In Low Places or Lose Yourself, plus a copy of the newly released anthology Space Between.

Thank you for joining me. I look forward to meeting you every Friday in the space between.

Life provides its own bit of entertainment, and I try to capture the conflict and joy that come out of what we experience every day. Some call this contemporary fiction or popular fiction. I just call it “comfort fiction” and what I like to write.

There’s something new every Friday. Enjoy and please subscribe! Check out my website at www.vincewetzel.com

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Piano Man is a two-year anthology project. Every two weeks, you’ll see a story surrounding the fictional novel PIANO MAN (You can read about PIANO MAN below the story). Some stories are small three-part serials. Others will be from guest authors, like Andrew!

Andrew Robert Colom is a multi-faceted, multi-talented, multi-disciplinary... well, he is a multi-multi writer, filmmaker, and entrepreneur. I interviewed him last year about his creativity, his raw prose, and writing today.

By (You can also read on his page)

“I won’t read it.”

The dark blue couch carries me forward, rowboat style. Yesterday, puke orange, today intern khakis brown: the administration must’ve figured a way to change the color for every patient. My therapist is a cup of tea on a screen being circled with a spoon soldier. The pitch of the steel against the corrugated ceramic cup.

“Why?” Her voice is a low, conspiratorial purr.

I’m not going to judge you, her tone implies. The soldier completes another rhythmic lap.

“It ain’t about me. I can’t relate.”

“You say that, but I keep telling you: helping others is the way to get them to help you.”

My forehead between my thumb and my index finger. The empty sack of my fat belly aches in time with my gathering headache. I swallow dry, weed-infused phlegm.

I start to tell her about an ex who once told me she didn’t believe in a bad book. Just a book not ready for you yet. Beach read. Cancer diagnosis read. Twenty-five year old I’m the smartest motherfucker in the room read.

I don’t say anything. I distract myself with the art on the walls.

Two cowboy lovers in fireplace colors embrace against a tree, branches chalked in the outline of a southwest desert. The square angles of the men’s shirts.

The same artist has another painting hanging on a perpendicular wall. Two men as fat as me. Could be cowboys, could be police officers. Slick haircuts, one has a part that reminds me of my wedding day. Same terrain, brushed in this time. Cactus skyscrapers, cactus single family homes.

“I never should’ve written any comment on that chick’s story.”

“We’re back here.” She sounds haunt-you-for-years hot.

The white walls have planets of mold dotting the ceiling. Their outer circles are yellow rings.

“She was too young for my lit attack. I’m yapping in her comments about OnlyFans and whatever other bullshit I was on. I want groupies, and I’m the biggest groupie.”

“No one likes a neurotic bully.”

The nail didn’t even hurt that much.

“Your new carpet already lookin dingy.” I comb my fingers through my thickening hair. Moist oil into my palms my reward.

“You haven’t said anything about the dance reading performance.” The spoon stops. The hand relaxes, grasps the cup, takes a delicate sip, returns the tea. A first. Did she just drink me?

“I’m happy I did it. Happy it’s over. First time always the hardest.”

A bug appears in a ceiling corner. Scurries down the wall into disappearance. I can’t be seeing right.

“That Beef story is worthless anyway. A bunch of rap references no one got. I don’t know. Is it even a story? I miss the original draft. Now, the OG draft, that was heartbreaking.”

Tea whistles. Eeekkkkkyyyyaaaaaaa. She won’t even make a sound.

“Sixty rejections for Fat Like Raymond. He’s too fat for nasty thoughts. Our painter wouldn’t approve.”

My therapist presses a laughing sound effect. Not my cackle. A giddy chorus of VIP girls alone with their bottles. She has a bunch of these. Men hawking women on the street is her fav.

“This fucking spreadsheet with all these personal responses from editors passing on me. Smiley faces on I don’t want you letters. Fuck. I never should’ve commented on that story. What did I even say? Bigtoughguy or whateverthefuck.”

She plays the sound of a baby crying. I cover the couch pillow over my face.

Smushed voice, “Failed writer, that should be the name of my new genre.”

The sound of acoustic guitar soothes the room. The hands pluck the instrument into familiar sounds we can’t escape. She finds them everywhere and recreates them.

The therapist stops turning her spoon and listens with me.

“Mmmm.” The most approving noise she has ever made.

“The whole list thing itself was super cringe. The guy has whatever page he had and he was basically celebrating the authors on here that get all the love. I was sick of not getting the love. Decided to say something, discredit the list, and you know I never liked lists. I’m like the cool kid who always felt bad for the depressed kid in the back of the room. Then he’s calling me crazy and I’m posting Tupac and Kanye West videos, taunting him, only for him to write an article about me next. So basically I whined until he gave me the special treatment I wanted. Thanks! Tho that did help with my agent. She emailed me, you’re making momentum. Moan-mentum.”

The screen cuts to an instagram collage of photos. A hot Black woman’s legs in SKIMS on a private plane. A glass of champagne next to an airplane window. Luxury luggage in the back of a Black car. A night landscape dotted with lights from the bird’s eye of a hotel suite. She’s on vacation during the session?

“Then there’s the famous Substack PR guru, magician with a cell phone. [I lower my voice.] Substack High tried to get her attention, just another clout chasing addiction.”

My therapist is now at the nail salon. The technician applies a dark purple shine with platinum exclamation points in the center of each tip.

She unmutes her screen. “That was a low point. But back to this book, Piano Man. Why won’t you read it?”

It’s sitting on the coffee table across from me. The front cover’s design reminds me of The Simpsons. Children and drugs. Sex and innocence. A loser with a new start. A rebrand for failure.

“I can’t respect these fucking self-destructive failures. I respect failure cause of idealism, cause of romance, but someone who fails because they can’t get out of their own way, naw, nope, fuckoutta here. No interest.”

“I’m not sure I am seeing a big difference.”

“Just imagine being that old and still chasing whatever you been running from, working in opposite directions against yourself the whole time. But fucking, just holding on, to art, itself is bad enough, but to the excess of art, the self destruction, I can’t co-sign that shit.”

“Again, these are a lot of assumptions for a book you haven’t read.”

I grab the book, toss it end over end. I want to put it through the screen. I put it down, instead.

“I only agreed to be part of this roaming anthology for a book that wasn’t supposed to exist but now it’s everywhere cause of Sandy. Did you see that Times Square ad for it?”

“My limousine wouldn’t be caught dead in Times Square.”

“Sandy’s piece. Man that shit was alive. You meant to play the piano or the piano meant to play you? Now, that’s the question.”

“You have motivated forgetting.”

She’s in the back of a limousine. Beyoncé plays from the speakers. I’m not sure she’s alone. “I’ve heard you mention Sandy before.”

“Oh.” My hand feels tight. Cuffs around my wrist. “You know. There was that thing between us. I got all race emo with her. Sent her a voice note. Said she had to pick sides and she picked the wrong one.”

“Damn, you a sensitive ass nigga.”

I bristle. She cut past bone. My mind sprints past the thoughts I don’t want to share. Being called the N word, the soft R, over and over again by a profile photo on the 2024 election night. A weird one. Over and over. This Notzi stacker I knew from high school. Weird [N—], stuck like flipping the light switch seven times before leaving the room. He wanted to walk down the street pretending to be an underground builder and get me worked up by his slurs. I couldn’t see any world where the clown didn’t work for me. Just another night with the coyote. Let him attack my straitjacket before I got air-lifted back to safety. Let me never touch the ground.

“What do you think happened to him?” She’s shopping. I think Phipps Plaza. Or Highland Park Village. She ain’t in Jackson. I can promise you that.

“There’s only one thing that can happen.”

She’s cashing out. A man’s forearm enters the screen. A black card exchanged for shopping bags.

She lets the receipt print. Crumbles it, throws it away.

“Hope still ignoring you?”

“Why you bring Hope up?”

She chuckles. We both know why.

“Okay, okay, no. I’m waiting for her to make a poster for Cheater. For her to respond to my messages. For her to do the actual flash-style battle she been saying she gonna do. It’s like my relationship to artshit has become transmuted onto one person with a balloon that needs to be popped; facial features less realistic than if a fingerless child had painted them.”

“Can you turn your volume down, just a smidge?”

I hate when people tell me I’m talking too loud. I once walked out of a doctor’s appointment for this. That happened yesterday.

I know better than to walk outta here. She ain’t issuing refunds.

“I want to tell everybody on Substack the truth I’ve hidden for so long, so bad. It’s me.”

“They’ll never forgive you.”

“I know, but I gotta be freeeeeee: I’m the slumlord Emil keeps complaining about. Each house he bitches about, I own. He can’t escape me. I’m like a smoke alarm missing its battery.”

“When you gonna tell him?”

“I’m telling him now. Emil, it’s me, you don’t get rich fixing roof leaks.”

“Anything for Emma? Since we letting it all go…”

“Egh. Look. I coulda been nicer for sure but fuck outta here what do people want from me. I told her to read an author I love. Thought it might help. Maybe I was wrong. Who the fuck am I to tell people what to read? But I did. And my grave sin is saying a writer should…read more? That’s the thing. I always got some recommendation. Some opinion. Some correction. Then everybody acts surprised when I become the evil Unc. Huh? For that? They love Hope, but I’m the evil Unc because I said this ain’t OnlyFans, which was epic btw. Cause fuck….Substack is kinda OnlyFans. I onlywantfans.”

“Too much.” She’s humming. The guitar returns.

“You feel better? More relaxed?” The tea cup has returned. The spoon figure not an officer now. A tourist guard. Quite the cap.

“I’m not gonna relax until the Black writers on this fucking app fuck with me heavy. Too many of my fans are white. I doubt many of the Black people on here are even reading this shit. My shit is called Rap Fiction for fuck’s sake. I love all the same shit they love. They stay talking about everybody Black, everybody Black, but what the fuck about me. Nobody Black showing me love. Well. There’s Alex B. and Miguel, but shit I can already tell I’m losing even him. Is he going to be at a lit reading one day out dancing me to one of his poems? Is John gonna come out of anonymity and write a flash fiction piece about a desperate nigga with only white readers!? I mean, it’s Juneteenth!”

“You’re getting worked up again. Try three breaths in, hold three seconds, three breaths out. We talked about this.”

“On top of that the whole publishing world is all up in arms about this Piano Man book becoming #1 on every bestseller list and you want me to relax? Fuck outta here. I wanted to write the book that brought back the readers, but I’ve been outgunned by an unknown social media invisible asshole who wrote a book about self-defeating failure. A main character cosplaying as some piano Hunter S. Thompson. And a bonafide ass nigga like me can’t even get an agent email back these days. Ain’t that crass on they part?”

“Okay, Outkast. How do you even know all this if you haven’t read it?”

I squeeze a silent fart into the lightest note. My gout medicine does this. She waves her hand across her nose on the screen. The fuck?

“I did a little research.”

“More like a lot.”

A standoff. She drops a new tea bag into her cup. The fat belly floats.

“Let me ask you a serious question for once?”

Wait…the other questions weren’t? What kinda therapist…

“What’s your issue with fame really about? Your envy? Your compulsion to chase attention? You seem to be aware it’s beneath you but you can’t seem to stop?”

The bug from earlier emerges from the same corner of the wall. It scurries diagonally down. A gang of bugs follow behind, soon the wall is covered in them. I blink. They are gone.

“I think y’all have an infestation problem.”

The screen dissipates into a blank screen with the text: Substack Customer Service. The AI voice asks if there is anything they can do to help me. I respond with a list of specific grievances and concerns, starting with the fact that their website stole my original story arc domain and won’t give it back. The AI voice calmly repeats abstract nothings into my ear. I try to get to a supervisor. There is none. I lie and say they solved all my problems.

She returns. Well, the tea cup does. “You refused to answer my question. Why the fame worship?”

“Don’t blame me, you got the wrong Andi. It’s Andy Warhol you should blame.”

“I’m sure you have a whole theory that I don’t want to hear. You’ve been on Substack now for almost three years, while you were writing your book that you still haven’t sold, you must have learned something deeper than whatever bullshit you were about to go off on.”

“The two biggest lessons I’ve learned on Substack are that there are universes of writers with gripes about their literary disappointments and egos…and talent is way flatter than I imagined.”

“Tell me more.”

“Being on Substack showed me how flat talent is. Sure, the landscape has all kinds of topographies, there are mountains out there; yeah, people wanna go see them, be awestruck, climb them, hang out on their peaks, but that’s few and far between freaks of nature that belong to their landscape more than they belong to themselves. They lose some of their humanity to the mountain. And those mountains surrounded by hills of specialness, and those hills maybe preen more than the mountains. Then there’s deserts of sadness, isolation, addiction to writing. Hiding in writing. Giving your life to writing cause it’s easier than figuring out how to give writing into life. I get it. I ain’t betta, I’m worst. I love the dry air. The buried crystals that don’t wanna be on no mountain, that despise the vacuousness of the hills, and don’t want no pressure on top of their lives. They just want the sweat and the heat. And I ain’t mad at them. The mountain is just a mirage in the desert. But there are a lot of plains. Greens longer than the eye can see. Power in the words of so many. Writers who have the same fucked up calling as me? Total strangers who have it as bad as me. But I only hear my voice.”

She enters the screen. High ponytail. Medellin restaurant light catching her collarbone. A cross necklace and whatever the other one says. She has food in front of her she hasn’t touched. She looks like she just remembered I exist.

“Same time next week?” Her eyebrows gesture toward PIANO MAN sitting across from me.

“Yeah.” I take the book. Slip it into my back pocket.

I feel something moving on my cheek. Fast. I slap it. I look at my palm.

Dead bug.

I walk out.

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Help Pay Therapy Bills

Piano Man, written by the fictional author Thomas Eberle, is a creative spark that connects a wide variety of stories, like a quiet ripple. I am writing three‑part arcs that introduce new people, new places, and new turning points, but the shared thread is how this one book nudges something in each of them.
Some characters read it.
Some argue with it.
Some only know it because someone they love won’t stop talking about it.
But for all of them, Piano Man becomes a spark — a moment of reflection, change, or connection.
Guest authors, such as those contributing their own takes on the story, are creating a wide world of literary interconnection. This project is meant to feel like wandering through a neighborhood at dusk, catching glimpses of lives in motion. You’re not following one plot; you’re following the echo of a story inside a story, watching how art lands differently in every life it touches.

Read more of The Piano Man Chronicles:

Shout out to Anthony Hurd and Quinn Belice for their art on Substack.

The Black Guitarist

JUNO nominated guitarist, composer, arranger , bandleader and singer. Sharing my experiences about being a black woman jazz guitarist in this world.

By Quinn Belice

Anthony Hurd

Artist, husband, queer, nonbinary, father. Store.anthonyhurd.com

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By Andrew Robert Colom · Launched 2 years ago

Rap’s honesty about power meets fiction’s craft: prose poems, flash-fiction battles, and the road to the first Rap Fiction novel.

Life provides its own entertainment, and I try to capture the conflict and joy that arise from our everyday experiences. My stories offer a brief respite from this crazy life, and I hope you enjoy them. There’s something new every Friday.

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[VW] Welcome to another edition of The CHOW (Creative Hero on Writing), where I interview indie authors to understand their origin story, their “Why,” and a little bit about their process and work. For more CHOW Interviews, click here:

Claudia Befu was born in Romania under communism. She dreamed of forest cities with capsule homes from the age of six, and became a prize-winning poet and playwright with an MA in screenwriting. From April 2023 to September 2025, she serialized a climate-fiction mosaic novel, There Is Hope, on her Substack, Story Voyager. Last week, she released There Is Hope as an eBook, available for purchase online. Claudia. welcome.

[CB] Thank you for having me, Vince. I love the acronym of the interview series, The Chow, it sounds like a Chinese dish.

[VW] Thank you. It’s a fun way to chew on the insights of authors like yourself. In many of your online bios, you like to mention that you were born at “340 ppm.” Why is that number significant to you?

[CB] It’s actually something I lifted from Greta Thunberg’s Twitter bio, and it stands for the atmospheric CO2 concentration in parts per million in the year in which I was born. I noticed that at the beginning of June, the first two digits have switched, and we reached 430 ppm.

[VW] Tell us a little bit about your origin. You grew up in communist Romania, which fell when you were seven or eight years old in 1989. What do you remember of your early childhood, and what was creative expression like for you during that time?

[CB] There are so many memories from a world that doesn’t exist anymore. I was born in 1981, and that year the dictator switched to a more extreme form of dictatorship after the North Korean style. I remember the monthly ration cards. One for bread, we were a family of four, and we got two loaves of bread per day. One for monthly rations of oil, sugar, flour, and rice. I think we got half a kilogram of sugar per month. My mother was waking up at five in the morning to queue for milk and kefir. We had to recycle everything, from glass bottles to paper. The school organized recycling initiatives to teach children to be mindful with resources. My parents refused to join the party and were stuck in factory jobs, since you couldn’t get promoted without a membership carnet. I remember my dad recording cassettes and painting in his free time. When I was small, my parents talked a lot about the dictator. And one day, when I was about five, I remember sitting in the tiny kitchen of our communist apartment located on the ground floor. It was summer, and the kitchen window was open, and we lived on a very quiet alley. Suddenly, I asked my mom: Who is this Ceausescu you’re always talking about? I’ll never forget this moment for the rest of my life. My mother shot the window closed and came close to my face and stared me in the eyes: Never, ever ask this question again, do you understand? You’re going to put us in jail! Three and a half years later, the Iron Curtain fell.

[VW] While we all fall in love with the vast beauty of nature, when did the environment become a passion for you?

[CB] I have always felt a kinship with nature. In front of the apartment building where I grew up, there were two old linden trees that I loved as a child. One morning, the summer after I turned four years old, I woke up to the sound of chainsaws. When I looked outside the window, I saw a couple of men cutting down the trees. I cried the whole day. I still consider every living being to be a citizen of this planet with the same rights as we humans have to live a life in dignity. In 2016, I took a few courses in landscape architecture at the University of Life Sciences in Vienna, where I learned more about our relationship with the natural world, and I think that this is where a seed has been planted. One eye-opening thing I learned was that the way we build our surroundings is based on a blueprint, on someone’s idea of how we should live and interact with the world. For example, the American car-centric city was envisioned in 1939 by a designer who thought people won’t walk anymore in the future but use private vehicles to commute. There were other designers who had different visions, such as garden cities, but the motorized city idea happened to be more captivating at that time. Imagine if we lived in a world of garden cities. Wouldn’t we appreciate and respect our environment much more?

[VW] How does this passion inform your writing? What message do you like to convey to the world?

[CB] I do two things with my writing. One, I try to identify the blueprints that inform the way we humans live on this planet in relation to the natural world and explore the futures to which these blueprints could lead us. For example, in my novel There Is Hope, I explore Europe in the year 2550, four and a half centuries after we’ve reached 5°C of global warming by the end of the twenty-first century. And two, I try to plant a seed: what other blueprints are out there to explore? Can we find a blueprint where all life on Earth flourishes? Where we don’t see the natural world and, increasingly, human beings as resources to be extracted and exploited? But as something precious and worth protecting? Or even better, acknowledge every living being’s right to exist?

[VW] You serialized your first novel, There is Hope, on Substack in 2023. What brought you to the platform, and why did you decide to publish it here, rather than publishing traditionally or self-publishing?

[CB] During COVID, I started running a tea Instagram page, and one of the tea people I was following started a Substack account where she wrote short stories. I subscribed to her newsletter, but at some point, she decided to step away from the platform. Through her account, I discovered Elle Griffin, and she inspired me to start serializing my own novel here. In September 2022, I opened an account, and in April 2023, I sent out the first installment of my mosaic novel. The reason I decided to write and serialize my novel on this platform was simple: I needed accountability. In 2013, I had an idea for a sci-fi story, but a decade and a screenwriting degree later, I still didn’t have a novel. I did write my sci-fi story as a screenplay for a feature film during my studies, but I wasn’t under any illusion that it would be turned into a movie. My goal has always been to write books. But before I could think about self-publishing or getting traditionally published, I had to do one thing: write a book. So this is what I did.

[VW] Tell us a little bit about There is Hope and why this story needed to be told.

[CB] I actually started writing There Is Hope in 2019 during my screenwriting studies. We had an assignment to write a screenplay for a short film, and I came up with The Seed Grower, a side story in the fiction universe I had started building in 2013. One year later, I had a dream about a human sacrifice to feed the last sharks and decided to turn that into a story in the same world. And while I was at it, I thought, why not write a collection of interconnected short stories exploring the origins of my main sci-fi story idea? This is how There Is Hope was born, a mosaic climate fiction novel that explores Europe in the year 2550, four and a half centuries after we’ve reached 5°C of global warming by the end of the twenty-first century. The novel is structured as a curated collection of human memories stored in the Museum of Life in the year 3660. Imagine a virtual museum where you can experience history through an immersive, multisensory collection of stories based on the preserved memories of those who actually lived through those historical times. I wanted to depict the suffering of a world almost devoid of nature, where every single non-human life is more precious than any human life or technology. This is not only a speculative future, it is a future that I took great pains to research and depict as realistically as possible. I want to believe that it paints a pretty good picture of what we stand to lose if we can’t and won’t curb global warming in the next seventy-five years. The novel doesn’t follow the story of a single hero on purpose. The future requires every single one of us to care enough to take action.

[VW] And now it will soon be in print. Are you excited about having your writing in tangible form? And I always enjoy Baris Sheri’s covers.

[CB] Yes, the book is not available as an eBook and will soon be available also in print. I am new to indie publishing, and it takes some time to figure everything out. I was very lucky to find Baris via other writers here on Substack. He is a professional book designer, and his work ethic, the seriousness and professionalism he puts into his work, have guided me through the long months of editing it took to prepare the book for print. I am very happy with how the book came out and can’t wait to hold the hardcopy in my hands soon.

[VW] Your passion for the environment is clearly a “Why” for writing, but why fictional narratives? And how does this “why” fuel your writing?

[CB] I love storytelling, I love stories, I love the human imagination. Human activity affects the complex ecosystems of this planet at scales incomprehensible to most of us. I think fictional narratives play an important role in bringing abstract concepts such as climate change and 5°C of average global warming down to a human level. The role of fiction is not to come up with solutions for climate change. It is to ask questions: How would a world that is 5°C warmer than today look like? How would a world in which we don’t exploit and destroy our planet look like? How do people live in those worlds? What do they think? How are their surroundings? How do they feel? What makes them cry? What are their hopes and dreams? Trying to find an answer to these questions fuels my writing.

[VW] You’ve written poetry, short fiction, and a novel? What form gives you the most satisfaction?

[CB] I think it’s poetry and screenwriting. After the first feedback came in for my novel, I realized that my screenwriting training had a huge influence on me. And I think I constructed the story more like a film than a novel, which is not always good, but it’s something that comes natural to me because I think in images, which I then translate into words.

[VW] The CHOW is part of my Substack, Space Between, exploring the stories between novels. What is your Space Between like? How do you replenish your creative well?

[CB] The main fuel for my fiction writing is reading non-fiction books. So the space between fiction is non-fiction.

[VW] What’s next for you? Can we expect a sequel?

[CB] There Is Hope is actually the “prequel” to my unwritten main novel, which currently exists as a screenplay. This is what I set out to write in 2013 and what I’ve been wanting to write for the past thirteen years. I’ll start this summer and see where the journey takes me. It will most probably be a duology (hopefully a trilogy) set 1000 years after the events in There Is Hope.

[VW] Thank you so much for joining me today. Good luck in the future!

[CB] Thank you for having me. Good luck with your writing.

If you’re stepping into the “Space Between” for the first time…

Welcome! You’ve arrived at a place where stories do more than just fill pages—they bridge the gap between the big moments of our lives.

Three years ago, I started this journey, wondering if I’d ever have enough to say. Today, I have the joy of knowing that every Friday at 5 a.m. PT, I’m sharing a story with you while you enjoy your morning coffee. This isn’t about chasing algorithms; it’s about doubling down on the “Why” behind my imprint, OT Press: telling human stories about the small choices that lead to real growth.

What to Expect

This is a living world where the characters you first met in Friends In Low Places and Lose Yourself continue to evolve. Here, you’ll find the threads that connect my novels, the current The Piano Man Chronicles, and my upcoming novel, Landslide. You can also read them in print with Space Between: The anthology of stories bridging novels. You get a front-row seat to The CHOW, my interviews with fellow authors about the spaces between their own milestones.

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I invite you to join our community and go deeper into the narrative. Subscribers receive special access to exclusive content, including:

• New Stories: Bi-Weekly fiction bridging the gap between my novels.

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If you become a paid subscriber, you get those benefits plus a signed copy of either Friends In Low Places or Lose Yourself, plus a copy of the newly released anthology Space Between.

Thank you for joining me. I look forward to meeting you every Friday in the space between.

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Have you ever wondered what kind of adventures Chewbacca had between A New Hope and The Empire Strikes Back? Or, what small con Linus (Matt Damon) got away with between Ocean’s 12 and 13? Or even what mischief the Weasley twins had during the summer between Harry Potter Books 3 and 4?

We see transformation in the big moments with the story's heroes. Some of the most interesting characters in books, movies, and our lives are the ones with whom we have only a passing knowledge. I’ve seen it as a reporter, and later in my career in politics and government.

As I build a larger shared universe in my fiction, I’m finding the small choices and quiet moments that tell the stories of the characters in the periphery. And over the last three years, you’ve watched this universe expand right here in your inbox. Now, I’ve pulled together the stories I’ve posted on this Substack and given them their own space in print and ebook formats.

Moving seamlessly across genres, generations, and geographies, this collection is a web of linked narratives. It offers readers a rich, overlapping literary universe in which a background character from one novel seamlessly steps into the spotlight as the hero of a short story. Set against the vividly drawn backdrops of California, these interconnected stories map the razor-thin line between ambition and ruin.

[ Order Your Copy of Space Between Today ]

The Tapestry of the Universe

The collection is uniquely divided into two distinct flavors:

• Space Between: A Shared Universe: Follow journalist Alex Shelby deep into a deadly political conspiracy, cut your teeth with a professional baseball intern learning about life, love, and priorities, and rejoin a core group of lifelong friends—Paul, David, Jesse, and Rob—as they pick up the pieces after a shared tragedy. From a lawyer’s cliffside struggle for survival to the public unraveling of Kyle’s career and reputation, these men are learning that moving forward doesn’t mean leaving the past behind.

• The Experimental Shorts: I stepped out of my comfort zone and participated in online flash fiction parties that pushed me and my creativity into wild new places. Join me in the madness and step completely beyond reality with a series of fantastical standalone tales. You’ll meet a time-traveler desperately attempting to fix his past, an aging billionaire demanding a one-way ticket to Mars (under the strict condition that she can bring her cats), and a writer who unexpectedly witnesses a superhero battle mid-flight.

This collection is perfect for readers who love:

• Interconnected Short Stories: A rich, overlapping universe where world-building rewards the observant reader.

• Political Noir & Thrills: Fast-paced, high-stakes drama taking place in the halls of power and in dive bars in desolate locales.

• Coming-of-Age Journeys: Authentic, grounded stories of young adults finding their footing, making mistakes, and discovering their identities.

• Heartfelt Contemporary Fiction: Genuine explorations of male friendship, marriage, empty nests, and midlife transitions.

If you’ve read Friends In Low Places or Lose Yourself, are a fan of Richard Russo and Nick Hornby, or enjoy the intricately woven worlds of Scott Turow and Taylor Jenkins Reid, consider adding Space Between to your shelf.

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If you love these characters and want to support independent storytelling, I want to make joining our inner circle an absolute easy choice.

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When you become an Annual Paid Subscriber ($35/year), you aren’t just supporting the newsletter. You are instantly getting a premium book package shipped straight to your door:

• A Signed Paperback Copy of Space Between (Shipped directly from me).

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Let’s do the math: Two signed paperbacks alone retail for over $30. For $35, you get the physical books safely in your hands, completely bypass the retailers, and provide support to an independent author.

Of course, if you don’t want a paid subscription right now, you can be a free subscriber and get the same online content, and maybe join at a future date.

What a deal!

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The Piano Man Chronicles is a two-year anthology project. Every two weeks, you’ll see a story surrounding the fictional novel PIANO MAN (You can read about PIANO MAN below the story). Some stories are small three-part serials. Others will be from guest authors.

Read the first two parts here

Part 3: Mustang Red and Baby Blue

All day at the prom, Will was antsy. He couldn’t even play Madden. Instead, his controller rested in the charger as he lay on his bed and stared at the dust-covered Brett Austen bobblehead on his desk, accompanied only by a bag of dried mangoes and an empty glass of water. He lacked focus and wondered when it was too early to get ready. Mostly, he had to talk himself down and get his mind out of romantic fantasyland and onto the practical. Amanda had no romantic interest in him. She didn’t want any drama. She wanted to have a good time and make the most of the moment. Playing up every scenario in his head was the opposite of what she wanted.

He was going to meet Amanda at Riley’s house at 5 p.m. Even scrolling through TikTok couldn’t make the time go any faster, as he saw some of his classmates posting videos of themselves getting ready.

He took it as a sign. He pulled out his black suit, hanging prominently on his door. Better lighting, and it might be his Bat suit. Instead, the too-long sleeves and oversized shoulders made it more department-store standard than billionaire chic. Instead of complementing it with a light blue tie, Paul suggested an open-collar baby-blue shirt. His stepdad had more class and style in a wayward eyebrow hair than Will had in his entire genome. He took after his late father in this way. The stand-up guy who ended up with the girl. His dad, who died nearly 10 years ago, was always on his mind. But Paul was a good second choice.

When he was finally ready, every hair in place, he figured, he joined his parents in the living room. Among bookshelves and his awards, Paul was watching an A’s game. His mom, sitting close to him on the large sectional, was engrossed in Piano Man, a copy he had bought her for her birthday using his employee discount.

“I guess I’m ready,” Will said with a big sigh.

His mom put down the book and covered her face with joy. Paul also looked proud. Will had fully embraced high school life, and they were happy to share in this rite of passage.

“You look so handsome,” his mom said, tears welling in her eyes.

“Looking good, sport,” Paul said. It was their inside joke for Paul to bust out the bad stepdad clichés. “You’re going to dazzle Amanda.”

Will wasn’t so sure about that. The one thing he had going for him was the use of Paul’s new Mustang. He practically had to sign a blood oath not to consume one ounce of any impairing substance, whether it was alcohol, weed, or gummies. He had also had to wash and vacuum the car before and after tonight. Still, it would be worth it to pick up Amanda at Riley’s in Paul’s red sports car.

“Remember, she asked you,” Paul said. “You. Not the ‘cool you’ or another fake you. Be yourself, and it will be a great night.”

A wash of acknowledgment crept across Will. Paul always had a way of slipping in sage pieces of advice. And he was grateful, that is, until Paul led a photoshoot worthy of Milan. Will felt his face hurt from having to smile for photos in the living room by himself, with his mom, with Paul, and for selfies, and he didn’t have Amanda by his side yet. He couldn’t imagine how many more he’d take over the course of the evening.

“I wish your dad could see you,” she said with a crack in her voice. Jim Jenson was a constant presence, and his physical absence wasn’t lost on anyone.

“He is,” Paul said as he placed a reassuring arm around her. He brought Will in close as well. “We’re all so proud of you.

Paul pulled away, fished the keys to his Mustang out of his pocket, and held them in front of Will with a tight grip. Will held his hand open, the anticipation mounting with every second. The moment stretched… and stretched.

“C’mon, Paul,” Will’s mom said.

“Have fun tonight,” Paul said, his eyes intense. “Just not too much fun.”

When the keys hit Will’s hand, his anxiety turned into hopeful and nervous excitement. The reality of it all hit him the moment he entered the garage and opened the garage door. There was the Mustang, gleaming without a speck of dust. The smell of leather was more musky. The stereo’s sounds became crisper. The red paint was flawless underneath the fluorescent light of the garage. He was going to drive this car. He was going to take Amanda Wright to the prom.

As expected, Will felt like an outsider taking pictures with all of Amanda’s friends. The paparazzi, disguised as parents with iPhones, snapped pictures as everyone posed and pasted on plastic smiles. He laughed to himself when he thought twenty-five years into the future, when all of them would ask themselves, “Now, who was that with Amanda?”

Meanwhile, the drama was already a low hum of discontent. Darren, attending with a random sophomore fembot happy to be elevated to this upper echelon of high school society, kept eyeing Amanda with longing and Will with disdain. For each picture, Darren stood in a position that blocked Will from the photo.

“Will, did TJ Maxx have a sale on suits this week?” Darren asked, who looked like he had just come from a runway in Milan.

“Darren, stop it,” Amanda said.

“Yeah, c’mon, man,” Eric said, though Will wasn’t sure if Eric was being sincere or angling to steal Amanda away during the first dance. It was odd, Will thought, being the guy that everyone wished was out of the way. But Will kept his focus on Amanda and helped her make this the best night of her life.

As part of the compromise he made with Amanda, they took pictures with her friends, had dinner with his friends, and then let the moment decide the after-party. Will was scared that Amanda and his vibe wouldn’t jibe, and he’d either be in some odd scenario or the seventh wheel.

“The party bus is cool, but arriving in this car is so much better,” Amanda beamed as they drove to Buca di Beppo. Despite Paul’s orders, Will had found a back road to gun the Mustang and showcase the deep rumble of the engine. Amanda grabbed his hand on the gear shift, providing Will with more of a thrill than the sports car

“Well, it was the only way we were going to make everything,” Will smiled. This was where he felt the most comfortable with Amanda. Alone and just talking.

“I know, right? And here, I thought it would be easy. We’ve got a busy night,” Amanda said. “By the way, if I haven’t said it before, I’m glad I’m going with you. All the times before, there’s been drama, but I just want to have fun and enjoy myself. You’re the guy for that.”

“Thanks, I guess.” Will didn’t know how to take it. No drama meant, once again, his fantasies of romance with her would be unrealized. He was in the friend zone, but to be honest, their hangouts were more fun than the few dates he’d been on.

“Seriously, I am so much more relaxed right now than I would be with Darren or Eric or any of the others.”

“Just wait until you have dinner with my friends,” Will said as they pulled into the parking lot. Only a few minutes late, Will hoped they wouldn’t need to wait too long for their table to be ready. “Just keep your embarrassment and amusement to a minimum.”

Amanda laughed. “They’ll be fine. We’re all one big happy family.”

“Dysfunctional family.”

Will helped Amanda out of the Mustang. She looked more beautiful than anything he could have imagined. Her light blue dress contrasted perfectly with her dark caramel skin. She was a movie star with baller skills. As he walked to the entrance of the restaurant with her on his arm, he felt like all of Ocean’s 11 rolled into one.

The second leg of their epic night was less stressful than the first. The debate over which vintage Italian photo was funniest drew the only drama at dinner. Was it the old man looking longingly at the younger woman’s rather large breasts? Or the small boy tinkling on the wall of some Italian villa. He knew Amanda would match the energy of his friends. He just wasn’t sure if his friends would act stupid around her. But she surprised them with her knowledge of Manga and Anime, as well as some of the video games they played.

The main topic of conversation was the future after graduation. Amanda was excited to hear that everyone knew what they were doing. Will was heading to Utah. Jay was off to Nevada, while his date, Stacy, was off to San Diego State. Another friend was heading to the fire academy, and another had already started an electrician’s apprenticeship.

“Many of my friends don’t have a clue,” Amanda admitted to Will on the way to the country club for the prom. “They’re milking every moment of these past couple of months, before they have to face reality.”

“There’s no harm in that. Carpe diem and all of that,” Will said.

“I guess. Still, I am ready to move on. Aren’t you?”

“No doubt,” Will agreed. “I’m ready to be in a place where there is no ‘crowd,’ just trying to find and be yourself. At least, that’s what I’ve heard college is.”

Amanda didn’t answer, and Will looked over to gauge her reaction. Had he offended her in some way?

“Aren’t you scared? I mean, we’ve grown up together. Now, we’re going somewhere where we don’t know anyone. At least I’ll have softball to meet people. But, we are going in brand new.”

“Yeah, but it’s a good kind of scared. More, like excitement. Everything is open and unwritten.”

“You’re a wise soul, Will Jenson.”

“That’s why you asked me to prom. For my soul.”

“It’s why I’m already having a great night.”

She giggled and laughed, reached over, and grabbed his hand, interlocking her fingers, and kept it there. Will’s heart fluttered when her thumb brushed back and forth on his. Will quickly glanced over, and she smiled. Was there something else happening? He was finding it hard to keep his perspective and not give in to wild ideas. As they parked at the country club, he tried to remind himself of what Paul had told him. Own the moment. He stood as tall as he could. He took her arm once again with a confident smile and strolled in with the most beautiful girl in school.

“Here we go,” Will said. As they entered, he was surprised at the grandeur of it all. For Amanda, this was nothing new. Will, however, looked at all the twinkly lights spread across the trees, creating a magical glow that bathed everyone in warm yellow light. The DJ played a variety of tunes that appealed to everyone’s tastes, as long as there was enough thumping bass to get everyone on the dance floor.

Will and Amanda agreed up front that they wouldn’t spend the whole time together. They would spend some time in each of their friend groups, both together and individually. Again, no drama. Just make the most of the night. They danced together, including some of the slow dances.

But as each moment passed, Will knew he was coming closer to the end of the perfect night. Each time he looked over and saw Amanda laughing with her friends, he wondered if he’d be left behind. He tried to shake it off, but the feeling persisted.

After a quick trip to the bathroom, he was nearly bowled over by Darren, who smelled of mint gum and alcohol. Darren’s smile turned to a sneer as though this was his moment for a dramatic speech.

“You know she’s going to leave you high, dry, and with a set of blue balls that will last three days, right?” Darren slurred. “She’s so out of your league. You’re only here to get back at me and take pity on you. So don’t even try to guilt her into playing Minecraft or whatever you fucking betas do. Because I guarantee that she will be lying next to me in my suite when she wakes up in the morning.”

For a moment, Will dropped his head, his insecurities and anxieties bubbling up and confirming that Darren was right. But images of Amanda laughing at dinner, holding his hand in the car, and dancing flooded his mind. They might not end the night together, but he knew Amanda was with him by her choice.

“You know, Darren,” Will said finally, easing his way to the side and away from the wall. “Have a great time tonight. Yet, you might have a better time if you just let it play out and not worry about loser ol’ me.”

Darren tried to grab him, but Will slipped away from his grip and left the bathroom. His heartbeat was not only from adrenaline, but he was determined to enjoy the night, whatever came next. As he approached the dance floor, Jay approached, his wet hair pasted to his forehead, shirt open, jacket off, and smile as wide as the Sacramento River.

“Epic night,” Jay said. “And it’s just begun. What’s your plan? Are you going with us or the cliquebots over there?”

After his confrontation with Darren, he had no desire to hang out at the hotel suite, and he was concerned about what Darren might do if he wasn’t around to protect Amanda.

“Best night ever,” Will agreed and hugged his friend. “But yeah, I don’t know what my plan is. Whatever happens, know that I’m so glad you’re my friend.”

Will was struck with a sense of time and place. As Amanda had said, this was the end of an era. But that wasn’t a good or bad thing. It just was. His eyes caught Amanda. Regardless of where she was in the room, Will felt a spotlight on her, as though she was the star of his movie.

“Oh snap,” Jay said, pulling Will out of the trance. There was commotion at the edge of the dance floor. Will caught sight of the second or third stream of vomit emitting from Darren’s mouth onto his date’s yellow dress, the splattering of bile cutting through the monotoned voice of The Weeknd. The crowd pushed back, while the school chaperones circled the stumbling jerk.

“Oof,” Jay said. “Guess you won’t have to worry about him anymore.”

Will shook his head. He looked at Amanda, whose hand was to her gaping mouth. She turned to him and winced with a small laugh, and Will couldn’t help but feel some small satisfaction in the turn of events.

As the night concluded, Will and Amanda came together for the last dance. Was this it? Or was it beginning? Ed Sheeran’s voice played as Amanda swung her arms around Will. He put his hands on her waist. Amanda looked perfect in the soft light as they swayed together.

“How’s your no drama prom going so far?” he asked.

“Besides the glory of watching Darren make a fool of himself and get kicked out, fine,” Amanda laughed. She was happy, which made Will joyous. “Though I do feel bad for Katie.”

“Yeah,” Will said. Katie had left and been picked up by her parents. “She’ll have two more opportunities, though I’m not sure how long this trauma will last.”

Amanda brought Will closer, and he could feel her breath on his ear. “Thank you for tonight. This was all that I wanted.”

“Does it continue? You and me?”

Amanda’s smile dimmed a bit before she shook her head. “I want to spend more time with my friends. I mean, it doesn’t seem right to be away from your friends on prom night. And I know you feel the same.”

Will nodded and smiled, though he couldn’t hide his disappointment. The song was in its final moments, Sheeran’s vocals both haunting and hopeful. Without warning, he pulled her in and hugged her tight until the song ended. When he pulled away, he noticed her eyes were glistening with tears.

“Are you ok?” he asked, the mask of prom magic fading.

“Yeah,” Amanda said in a rush to get in the words before normal life returned. “Promise me. No matter what happens at graduation and in college, don’t lose my number. I want to keep in touch.”

“Of course.”

“Amanda, come on,” cried Riley from across the lawn. Amanda looked over and nodded before turning back to Will. To his surprise, she wrapped her arms around him again, pulled him in close, and kissed him deeply.

It wasn’t lustful. They weren’t making out, but it was intense; her lips pressed against his, her body as close as anyone had ever been to him. It also wasn’t a kiss goodbye. It felt like she was leaving him to say goodbye to the high school life she led. But she’d be back. Their relationship would endure beyond this time. And he felt love and comfort.

When she pulled away, Will had to shake himself back to reality. Amanda giggled.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “Our time will come. Thanks again for tonight. Talk to you later.”

She turned, grabbed the sides of her dress so she could run after Riley. She giggled. Will stood there speechless, his life and his perspective forever changed. When he turned, none of his friends had noticed the kiss. He wasn’t sure they would believe him anyway. Instead, he decided to keep the moment for himself and go to Jay’s with the knowledge that this had already been a perfect night.

About The Piano Man Chronicles

Piano Man, written by the fictional author Thomas Eberle, is a creative spark that connects a wide variety of stories, like a quiet ripple. I am writing three‑part arcs that introduce new people, new places, and new turning points, but the shared thread is how this one book nudges something in each of them.

Some characters read it.

Some argue with it.

Some only know it because someone they love won’t stop talking about it.

But for all of them, The Piano Man becomes a spark — a moment of reflection, change, or connection.

Guest authors, such as Sandolore Sykes, are contributing their own takes on the story, creating a wide world of literary interconnection. This project is meant to feel like wandering through a neighborhood at dusk, catching glimpses of lives in motion. You’re not following one plot; you’re following the echo of a story inside a story, watching how art lands differently in every life it touches.

The Birthday Party Underground

When washed-up rocker Cole takes a pity gig at his nephew’s birthday party, he expects juice boxes, tantrums, and the slow death of his dignity. What he doesn’t expect is applause, cash, and a new career path—one paved with glitter, chaos, and the occasional piñata-related injury.

Welcome to the children’s party circuit, where the princesses aren’t Disney-approved, the clowns have criminal records, and the magicians might be dabbling in more than sleight of hand. As Cole dives deeper into this surreal subculture, he finds himself entangled in illicit rendezvous with moms (divorced, married, and morally flexible), navigating the drug-laced underbelly of suburban affluence, and dodging emotional landmines disguised as balloon animals.

But beneath the costumes and confetti lies a question Sam can’t escape: Is this his second act or just another detour on the road to self-destruction?

Eberle’s Piano Man is a tragicomic romp through the absurdity of reinvention, where the music never stops, but the consequences keep piling up. Sharp, irreverent, and unexpectedly tender, it’s a backstage pass to the party you never knew you wanted to crash.

“A rock ballad wrapped in confetti and regret. Eberle’s prose is as sharp as a broken guitar string.”

— Javier Stone, author of The Last Encore

“Thomas Eberle has written the most unwholesome children’s party novel imaginable—and I mean that as high praise.”

— Mira Caldwell, author of Suburban Gothic

“A hilarious, heartbreaking descent into the party circuit’s glittery underworld. Think Almost Famous meets Bad Moms with a dash of Hunter S. Thompson.”

— The Sacramento Tribune

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I had big plans last week.

I was heading out on a business trip with visions of uninterrupted hours to write, edit, and unleash my creative genius. I was going to conquer my manuscript.

Alas, the universe laughed. Because my destination was Las Vegas.

Now, before you assume my lack of productivity was due to the typical, salacious excesses of Sin City, let me be the first to lower your expectations. I placed two $20 three-team parlays (and lost), could count my total drinks on one hand, and was sound asleep by 10:00 PM most nights.

What in the Hunter S. Thompson is going on?

The Evolution of Sin City

I recently read Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, the drug-fueled gonzo-journalism tome that put Thompson on the map. It got me thinking about how Vegas constantly rewrites its own narrative. Every era has its own distinct aesthetic:

• The Rat Pack Era: Think the original Ocean’s 11. Suits, cigarettes, table games, and a hint of organized crime. Danger with a side of effortless cool.

• The Elvis Era: The birth of the mega-residency. White sequin leisure suits, red velvet walls, and a collective agreement of “let’s never speak of this again.”

• The Theme Park Era: This is the Vegas I came of age in. The Mirage volcano, pirate battles at Treasure Island, and Swingers-era guys rolling in expecting a comped steak dinner.

• The “You Get What You Pay For” Era (Today): Vegas is now split into two groups: high-rollers enjoying culinary masterpieces at the Aria, and the rest of us throwing elbows for a spot near the pool while paying $17.50 for a Blue Moon and $7 for a Starbucks coffee.

What era would I embrace? None. At this point of my life, I wasn’t looking for glam or glitz. I was looking for a quiet room, some free time, and the ability to focus on editing my upcoming anthology Space Between, and read a book.

The Writer’s Insight: Expectations vs. Setting

Writers think that with ample inspiration and uninterrupted time to work, we can move mountains. It turns out that embracing our humanity and staring at canyons are what we need the most to lift our creativity.

Real life… real writing… requires us to lean into the experiences we share with each other.

My trip wasn’t defined by the flashing lights or the $15 hotel food-court pizza. It was defined by contrast. Before my week of standing at a booth under circulated air, I drove four hours into Arizona to meet my son. We watched the sunset at Horseshoe Bend and walked the rim of the Grand Canyon. When the sun breached the ridge in the morning, my breath literally left me.

If you want to put your ego-centric life in perspective, stand on the edge of the canyon and realize humanity is just a tremor before the blink of an eye.

The takeaway? Sometimes the story you set out to live (or write) isn’t the one that needs to be told. I went looking for a high-powered writing environment in a neon desert; I found my inspiration in the quiet majesty of a canyon and an early bedtime. (The video above is sped up from 20 minutes to a minute)

Behind-the-Scenes Progress Report

Despite behaving like a grumpy old man sitting in his hotel room in a V-neck and boxer shorts, the creative gears did keep turning. Here is what’s happening on the desk this month:

• The Space Between: My short story anthology is officially on schedule for release next month!

• Landslide: I’ve begun an in-depth edit to incorporate beta reader feedback before sending it off for a professional developmental edit.

• The Piano Man Chronicles: Added some fresh pages to the stack.

• On the Nightstand: Currently bouncing between the chaotic energy of The Monkey Wrench Gang and the glamorous drama of The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo.

I might fear and loathe Las Vegas, but I love the journey it took to get back to the page.

What’s the least “rockstar” thing you’ve done in a city built for partying?