Stories of Weird Mystery

Category: Writing (Page 1 of 3)

Story: The Imaginative Youngster’s Handbook to UFOs

[Appeared originally in the January/February 2026 issue of Asimov’s Science Fiction.]

Have you ever gazed up into the infinite cosmos at night with your family and observed a light in the sky moving in a way it shouldn’t?

Maybe the light stopped suddenly and then started again. Maybe it skittered across your field of vision like a bug across a forest pond. Or maybe it wobbled and danced as though you were its only audience.

Your mom or her boyfriend may have told you it was a weather balloon or a military aircraft, or perhaps they called it a “trick of the light.”

What if I told you that sometimes, perhaps even often, your mom and her boyfriend are wrong?

When you see something in the sky your parents can’t explain, scientists call that an Unidentified Flying Object, or UFO. You may have seen stories in magazines or on TV about them these days because they are becoming more and more frequent as we prepare to enter the 1980s.

Partly this is due to improved technology in optics, making good cameras cheaper for the common citizen. Some of it is because “aliens” are popular right now in the movie houses. A lot of it is just because more people than ever are looking up!

People like you.

You probably found this book on a special shelf in the school library with others like it about ghosts and missing people and Bigfoot. That’s 001.9 in the Dewey Decimal system, and it’s a magical place where curious and open-minded young people learn about things the grownups don’t want them to know.

Are you ready to learn more about UFOs? They’re nothing to be scared of, and with a little tenacity they can become IFOs: Identified Flying Objects. That makes them no less special…perhaps even more, because once we know the truth, we can take our first steps into our destiny among the stars.

What Can a Kid Like Me Do About UFOs?

When you think about how important UFO contact could be to the future of humanity, you may wonder if it would be better left to adults. They are, after all, smarter and stronger and more practical than kids.

But is that true? Think about who is usually saying so: adults. And while they have jobs and cars and big heavy books of laws, isn’t it at least possible that a kid is a better representative precisely because they don’t have those things?

A kid like you, for instance.

Adults don’t build forts in the woods. Nor do they make helmets from the bottoms of plastic soda bottles so their stuffed animals will be safe from falling Skylab debris. Nor do they make their own comic books or mix every flavor at the soda dispenser to see if one of the mixtures will explode.

In other words, they’re effectively dead and too boring for aliens to travel thousands of light years to visit.

What Could UFOs Be?

UFOs are not a new phenomenon. Humans have been observing strange lights and movement in the sky for millennia.

In 218 B.C., Livy reported “phantom ships…gleaming in the sky.” Isaiah 13:5 mentions beings that “come from a far country, from the end of heaven.” Japanese Samurai saw a wheel of fire near Nijo Castle in 1606.

Some suggest even the creatures of folklore, such as fairies, could be visitors from beyond the Earth possessing extraordinary powers and a curious interest in the development of humans.

We describe things with the tools we have. What you call a “flying saucer” was a “wagon wheel in the heavens” to an ancestor of the last century, or a “halo of flame” to one further back than that.

There have always been people of the lights, those who ride them and those who see them.  

You may have noticed by now that adults find it difficult to hold a mystery in their heads without explaining it. When they don’t know enough to make a theory, they build an answer from their own fears.

To young folk like you, though, the whole world is wondrous and it isn’t scary to let an experience sort of float unattached to anything in your brain. Seeing a light wavering in the sky isn’t much different than seeing an armadillo trundling across a highway: it happened and it’s obvious and there’s no web of wrongness inside you for that fact to get stuck in.

The difference is that you want mysteries and grown-ups don’t.

That’s why when you tell a grown-up about seeing a light in the sky or a glowing person in the woods, they’re quick to give you a theory.

The most common, of course, is that it’s all your imagination. To them, your mind is an unformed jelly that can’t tell dream from reality. What if there isn’t a difference? What if one is just a reflection of the other? A dream doesn’t come from nowhere, after all—it’s built from your memories and sensations from the so-called real world.

So when you think about it, even if you are “only imagining” a UFO, you’re actually seeing or feeling something your brain is choosing to weave together from real life experience.

In other words, the UFO in your mind may be a delayed echo of one you really saw. Perhaps you were asleep when it happened. Or maybe you saw something from the corner of your eye that your brain decided to identify later.

Adults have long forsaken the logic of the dream, so they’re going to tell you UFOs are just weather balloons, swamp gas, experimental aircraft, meteorites, reflections of lights in the clouds, imperfections in the glass of a window or lens, or satellites.

They are skeptics, and what makes a skeptic feel smart is to think of the least interesting explanation for what they say and stick to that at all costs.

What Do I Need to Go Looking for UFOs?

Luckily, you can search for UFOs with the equipment you’ve evolved after uncounted millennia: the roving light buckets in your face that people call “eyes.” As a young person, you are likely blessed with unadulterated vision, free of cataracts or glaucoma or myopia, but even if you aren’t, your willingness to even look is still your most useful tool.

There are ways to improve your experience by assembling a simple kit containing these suggested items:

  • Binoculars, which are superior to a telescope because they have a wider angle of vision and don’t look suspicious when you carry them around your neck
  • A notebook or binder where you can write down your observations
  • Sunglasses to protect your eyes from the local star, the Sun, as well as from the dazzling lights on most UFOs
  • A light windbreaker or poncho for inclement weather
  • A compass to locate yourself and the UFO in relation to Earth’s magnetic pole
  • A camera, if you can afford or borrow one, to record what you see…though be warned that UFOs require an imaginative intelligence that film cannot often capture
  • Resealable plastic bags to gather samples (burned grass, wilted foliage, mysterious jellies)
  • A Thermos of water or Kool-Aid
  • A candy bar for energy
  • A backpack to contain your UFO spotting kit

You do not need a weapon of any kind, not a pocketknife and certainly not a firearm. UFOs are not hostile, but even if they were, your tools would be useless against them.

Again, we hasten to repeat that, aside from convenience, you need no tools but the ones in your head.

Where Do I Look for UFOs?

First, everywhere. Then up.

That’s a little joke that, like most, contains the truth. People across the world have reported UFOs at every time of the day and every point on the planet, so it isn’t necessary to wait until darkness or visit a specific place to see them.

What is necessary is to be the kind of person extraterrestrials would want to talk to, curious, excitable, open, and strange. It means knowing a lot of peculiar and interesting facts about your world. It means having theories about the mysteries of the universe, like what happened to Amelia Earhart and what’s going on in the Bermuda Triangle.

If you know people like your parents who have never seen a UFO, the most likely reason is they care too much about money and respectability to be caught looking up.

That can never be you.

What Should I Do If I See a UFO?

Can you believe there was a time when human beings didn’t write things down? It’s true. They remembered as much as they could about the world around them (which wasn’t much), and then they made up stories and rhymes to transmit those experiences to other people.

What this meant was most people didn’t know what was weird and what was ordinary. If you’ve only seen a cat once in your life, it can seem like a wondrous being.  

Writing things down and gathering them together is called “data collection,” and it helps us understand and predict how the world works. Your not-so-distant ancestors saw lights in the sky just like you do, but after pointing them out to their tribe, they returned to gnawing on bones or hoeing.

In a way, that’s like killing a UFO. It diminishes the knowledge of our whole species.

What the smartest observers do is document their experiences. They do it as consistently as possible so they can compare one experience to the other to find patterns.

When you see a UFO, you can follow this simple procedure to do the right thing:

  1. Note the time.
  2. Continue watching the phenomena as long as you can. If necessary, move to the side of the road away from traffic. There is no reason to flee; it is unlikely that brilliant interstellar creatures would travel so far to harm you.
  3. As soon after the event as possible, complete a copy of the Encounter Form included at the end of this book.

If you don’t have the form with you (which you should at all times), make note of these facts on a sheet of paper:

  • Names of all witnesses, including yourself
  • Time of day
  • Your position on the Earth in latitude and longitude
  • Your current speed, if any
  • Brief summary of light and weather conditions
  • Detailed description of the object, including shape and color
  • Your best estimate in degrees of its position above the horizon
  • Description or diagram of its movement
  • Description of any sounds it produced
  • Length in minutes of your encounter
  • Description of any visible beings and their behavior
  • Description and location of any physical evidence of the experience (such as scorch marks on the ground)
  • Inventory of anything you ate or drank within four hours of the event
  • Summary of your emotional state before, during, and after the sighting
  • Description of any long-term effects of the encounter (fatigue, sunburn, tinnitus, ennui)

The more of these you note for each encounter, the easier it will be to correlate the results to find patterns. Are the UFOs in your area particularly loud? Do they appear at a certain time of day? Do they make you feel the same way each time or is it different?

We suggest you buy a three-ring binder for your observation forms so you can keep them all in one place. If you live among people who are religious or otherwise untrustworthy, you may also do well to hide this binder.

Are UFOs Dangerous?

There are no documented cases of children being eaten by aliens, being turned into monsters, or being taken away unless they wanted to be.

There’s no technical reason an advanced civilization couldn’t do those things, but it seems a long and circuitous way to find prey, doesn’t it? Certainly there are more delicious or monstrous beings closer to home. 

UFOs are only dangerous to terrible people.

Do UFOs Prefer Kids Who Are Good in School?

Smart kids who like things like UFOs and ghosts can sometimes have a hard time at school, not only from the little cretins in their classes but also teachers with minds as dead as bricks. To someone with a spirit of adventure, division facts and the notable exports of Belize are no substitute for real knowledge.

Youngsters like you who carry around UFO Reporting Forms in their pockets may also have problems at home which you express in ways your school doesn’t like. If your mom’s new boyfriend yells at you a lot, that yelling has to go somewhere…and it’s no good to keep it inside. Sometimes it makes your foot stick out in P.E. class to trip the boy who always wins.

See? You’re not so alone.

Advanced extraterrestrials care not for human academics because most of them are wrong. What is the use of being the most wrong of everyone else?

Who Should I Tell If I See a UFO?

You know by now that telling your mom or her boyfriend at the wrong time is a good way to get shushed or, in his case, smacked. Neither are responses you deserve, but adults are too busy digging their own graves to understand your profound experiences.

Likewise, reporting UFOs too frequently to your teacher or principal can lead to uncomfortable discussions with the guidance counselor about “acting out” or “seeking attention.” For most institutions designed to make people grow up, the capacity for wonder is a symptom, not a sign of beauty.

The police and FBI may be even worse because there are deep tracks in their brains carved by the terrible things they’ve seen, and to them, everything is suspicious or dangerous. Their allegiance is to the powerful, which is why they were nowhere to be found when those boys on the dirt bikes ran you off the road into the pond.

The unfortunate truth is there is no one to tell except perhaps another perceptive young person like yourself. There are more of you than you think, but you must be careful when seeking them, much like spies in an enemy country.

What should you look for? Kids who talk to their stuffed animals or action figures. Kids who stand on the edges of kickball writing in little notebooks. Kids who make whooshing noises on their bikes. Kids who draw even after grownups tell them they shouldn’t.

You are the aliens, and kind knows kind.   

Are There Kids on UFOs?

Of course there are, some even from your own planet.

It wouldn’t be accurate to suggest UFOs are crewed by children, but they are certainly crewed by creatures with the hearts of children. No adult committed to the status quo ever built a craft capable of exceeding the speed of light for the specific purpose not to make money or conquer a foe but to find friends.

UFOs are built for the same reason you constructed that raft of plywood and Styrofoam to cross the retention pond: because there might be something—or someone—cool on the other side.

How Do I Prepare for a First Contact?

We can’t deceive you. A vanishingly small percentage of UFO sightings result in encounters with their occupants.

That percentage is not zero.

UFO sightings tend to escalate from the visual (lights in the sky) to the physical (scorch marks in the woods) to the personal (direct contact). Your best chance is to stay in the game long enough for that to happen, much like a fisherman who doesn’t expect every day to be a bounty.

Staying in the game means preserving yourself for the greatest moment in your life. It means playing along by brushing your teeth and going to bed on time. It means doing as much of your homework as you can stomach instead of stuffing it way to the bottom of your backpack. It means sometimes being what they call “good,” even though you don’t agree on the definition. 

Above all else, it means preserving the tiny surging pulsar at the center of your body from the forces that want it to go cold and dark. That isn’t easy, and there will be times when you are sad and times when you are scared, crouching under the bathroom sink while the adults rage at one another. There may even be times when you are physically damaged.

During those times, you must keep your eyes to the sky and off the horrible things happening to you on the Earth. Being the kind of person to whom UFOs appear requires seeing Beyond What is Now, no matter how hard they make it.

The best way you can prepare for first contact is to fight your battles where they matter, inside where no one can truly reach you.

Also, it is a good idea to assemble a kit in case a First Contact turns into an evacuation:

  • Your favorite book
  • Your favorite toy or playset
  • A representative portfolio of your creative work: drawings, stories, pipe cleaner sculptures
  • A change of clothes
  • Comfortable shoes
  • Samples of your favorite foods for replication

A good contactee is a prepared contactee.

What Will Happen During My First Contact?

As your encounters escalate, you will begin to feel a strange quivering in your heart. This is the sensation of your body preparing to leave its life behind, and it is the surest sign your First Contact is coming soon.

You may be tempted to announce this to your mom or her boyfriend or maybe even a trustworthy adult, but we advise against it. For one thing, grownups are alarmed when their children grow beyond them. For another, they can place serious physical obstacles (including hospitalization) between you and your rightful place in the stars.

You may also want them to know why you prefer to meet strangers from dizzying light years away than eat another dinner of baloney and ketchup sandwiches with them. You may have grievances to air, injuries to avenge, explanations to demand. You may want righteous vengeance, if only the brief emotional sting that you know who and what they really are.

Your revenge, the revenge of all evolved beings, is to leave the others behind to grow in their own way as you grow in yours. That’s what being evolved means: understanding not everyone is on the same path in the same way.

When you are ready to let go, your people will come for you.

Have you ever wondered why no other child you’ve ever met has heard of this book? Or why it isn’t for sale at Waldenbooks in the mall? Or why it was on your favorite shelf in the library in the first place?

The reason is this is your book. It’s for you exactly and specifically, a young person we’ve been watching for all your life, whose experiences we’ve nudged to make you a superior form of humanity. A more interesting form.

We do this across time and space because the universal constant we’ve discovered is that pain is infectious, and hurt sentient beings—ones with skin, ones with fur, ones with fins–pass their hurt on to others. Your mother was hurt by the loss of your dad, and her boyfriend was hurt by his uncle, and like tea kettles, the steam must go somewhere.

Some special people have the capacity to spare others their steam, and those are the ones we seek. They tend to be imaginative but sad, curious but reluctant. Their injuries make them natural reconcilers of hope and reality, what has been and what can be, which makes them perfect for meeting their neighbors among the stars.

Kind knows kind, and we’re on our way.

Did You Know People Actually Asked Me to Speak at a Graduation?

I happened to notice that today is the fifteenth anniversary of my graduation with an MFA in Writing from the University of Southern Maine’s Stonecoast program. I wrote the first version of A Scout is Brave for my thesis–which an agent would later ask incredulously if I passed–and met a lot of wonderful people with whom I suck at keeping in touch.

I was lucky enough to be asked by my fellow graduates to speak at the graduation ceremony to the assembled crowd of relatives wondering what this all was for. Since I was part of the “popular fiction” program, I decided to defend the notion of escapism.

This is the speech I delivered. Some of it feels a little overwrought now, but I still largely agree with the sentiment. If we’re doomed to wallow in bullshit, I far prefer the imaginative and aspirational kind.

You know, there are days when I seriously doubt my writing will ever be as good as it was when I was seven, chasing the dog around my yard with the Millenium Falcon yelling “pyew! pyew! pyew!” I lived so much in stories then — talking to stuffed animals, looking for hobbits in the woods — that I was barely distinguishable from schizophrenic.

Don’t worry – I’m better now. Thanks for asking.

I suspect — I hope — that’s how it was for many of us graduating this evening, and I’m sure there are people out there in the audience who shudder to remember the symptoms of our madness: all those plays, skits, puppet shows, poetry readings, magic performances, comedy routines, concerts, and oh-so-many long-winded stories.

Don’t forget to thank them tonight. Or, you know, apologize.

Whatever forms it took then and takes now, we’re all crazy. We hear voices just like any hobo yelling at a mailbox – the only difference is that we know you don’t start a scene with dialogue. Most of us have lost any hope of pleasant neighborhood barbecues because we talk too much about the seas of Titan or the Manson family or the birthing habits of dragons…or all at the same time. People worry about us, and I think that’s a sure sign we’re doing something right.

I came to Stonecoast, perhaps like you, to learn how to be intelligently and usefully crazy. For two years, our wonderful mentors have shown us how to hold madness in asbestos gloves just long enough to get it on the page. We’ve studied the masters. We’ve critiqued the work of our peers. We’ve filled our mental toolboxes with structure and meter and point of view. We’ve discovered that the best writing is risky and dangerous.

We’ve learned, in other words, how to do it “right.” And, God, how I needed that.

But the worst thing that could happen after Stonecoast, I think, is for us to let all the intelligence and usefulness we’ve learned to overcome the crazy. It would be terrible to lose all we’ve learned by trying to hold it too consciously, failing to trust that the voices of our teachers and our friends will come again when we need them.

Because that madness we share, that reckless abandon, is really our only hope of making something wondrous. It’s the fuel by which we get out of our minds — risking our comfort, giving ourselves away, revealing the feelings that most people don’t. All that’s left is to decide whether we’ll get enough out of our minds to escape the gravity of ordinary life, and whether we’ll achieve enough lift to take others with us.

It’s easy to call what we do escapism, and I certainly don’t deny it. Stories of ghosts and spaceships helped me escape a harrowing youth to be sure, and I see all too many things worth escaping as an adult, too. I don’t think escapism is a bad thing, especially when we’re escaping the tedious patterns of existence, the prejudices that confine us, the fears that estrange us from ourselves.

Either people can be as noble and adventuresome and intelligent as they are in our fantasy stories, or they can’t. If they can, then our “escapist” fictions are the experimental conscience of our culture. If they can’t, then our “escapist” fictions are the last refuge of the human spirit from the coming darkness.

Either way, people are counting on our ability to escape. They’re counting on the demented and relentless verve we had when we told ourselves the stories as if nobody was looking. Art is never stopping short, and if it is worth doing at all — worth the dedication of our lives — it’s worth overdoing, right?

School’s out, my friends. Go play.

“The Imaginative Youngster’s Handbook to UFOs” now available!

My latest story for explorers of the nostalgic strange, “The Imaginative Youngster’s Handbook to UFOs,” appears in the January/February 2026 issue of Asimov’s Science Fiction.

Have you ever gazed up into the infinite cosmos at night with your family and observed a light in the sky moving in a way it shouldn’t? Maybe the light stopped suddenly and then started again. Maybe it skittered across your field of vision like a bug across a forest pond. Or maybe it wobbled and danced as though you were its only audience.

Your mom or her boyfriend may have told you it was a weather balloon or a military aircraft, or perhaps they called it a “trick of the light.”

What if I told you that sometimes, perhaps even often, your mom and her boyfriend are wrong?

I Won! I Won! (Not Exactly)

As you may have already heard, my novella A Scout is Brave was nominated for a Shirley Jackson Award recognizing excellence in works of the psychological fantastic written by wryly cynical people with serious doubts about the decency of humanity.

Yeah, it’s a niche award, but it’s a niche made for me!

Last night in a ceremony gala at Readercon, a star-studded panel of presenters announced the winners, and alas, A Scout is Brave was not among them. Per the organization’s bylaws, I was frog-marched from the ballroom and stoned (with stones, not the other kind) in the town square.

As many of you know, I am doomed by my Scandinavian heritage toward dark contemplation, and I’m sure people close to me have been dreading my inevitable tailspin.

You know what, though? No tailspin.

As cliche as it sounds, the real award was being nominated in the first place: a sign of esteem from the jury of the award plus some extra recognition for the book. Many people approached me at Readercon to tell me they loved the story, including friends and mentors and even a few strangers.

When one of my favorite writers told me she had her fingers crossed for me, that was the win. When my MFA thesis advisor stood around with me after the ceremony commiserating, that was the win. When the award coordinator handed me my nominee’s rock, that was the win.

I write because I’m still mostly the deranged little boy who liked seeing adults bemused or freaked out by his stories (I wasn’t picky then and I’m still not). Any sign that I’ve reached a reader is a win.

A Scout is Brave has taken a long, long trek through the wilderness from first draft to this very moment, supported by many guides and fellow hikers for whom I’ll always be thankful. I’m grateful for all of you who critiqued its drafts, listened to it at campfires, encouraged me not to let it die, left reviews for it on websites, bought extra copies for your family members, and dressed as its characters for Hallowe’en.

Scholars of the ancients believe this tableau may have had religious significance.

Though I’m usually a rationalist, I’m not above a little superstition every now and then to hedge my bets. In my back pocket during the ceremony, I carried one of my old Boy Scout patches, along with another I found while going through the box of keepsakes: my mother’s patch from her career as a paramedic.

I thought they’d help curry favor with any allies pulling for me in the Great Beyond.

And yes, they absolutely worked.

Thanks again to all of you as well as the administrators of the awards, and congratulations to all of the nominees and winners!

ICFA 2025: March 19 – 22, Orlando

Once again, I’m honored to be an invited guest of the International Conference on the Fantastic in the Arts (ICFA), where I’ll be doing a reading on Thursday, March 20, at 8:30am!

You may call that reading slot “too fucking early to wake up on a Thursday,” but I call it, “setting the tone for a weekend of amazing readings and discussions of wondrous literature.”

Drop by the Orlando Airport Marriott Lakeside to hear me and better writers read from our works!

I’m Big with the Presbyterians

I’m pleased to announce that there is one final stop on the book tour for A Scout is Brave:

7pm on Wednesday, February 5th
Presbyterian College in Clinton, South Carolina

And yes, I’ll take questions at this time.

Cover for the book A Scout is Brave by Will Ludwigsen

Are the faculty and students at Presbyterian College aware of what you write?

They are, and they’ve even invited me back after I visited once before a few years ago! It’s a gorgeous campus full of smart, friendly people, and the audience questions were some of the best I’ve ever gotten.

I’m greatly looking forward to it!

What will take place at 7pm on Wednesday, February 5th?

A reading and Q&A with students and anyone else who shows up. It’s part of their Meet an Author Before They Die Forgotten and Alone in a Gutter series.

Is this really the end of the book tour for A Scout is Brave?

I mean, until the next book or story comes out, I guess the book tour is technically ongoing wherever I am. This is the final planned event, at least.

Blue Skies All the Way, David

David Lynch’s family just announced his passing, a few days after his evacuation from his home during the fires in Los Angeles. I’d be surprised if the two aren’t related.

Like a lot of us stranded in America’s cultural backwaters of the late 1980s, I was introduced to Lynch through his television show Twin Peaks. My friend Norman caught onto him before I did and loaned me fuzzy recordings of the show on videotape. That was the perfect surreal way to enter that world because they required effort to watch—you had to lean close to the television to make out what was going on sometimes, like you were burrowing into another reality.

It’s hard to tell which of the creative powers behind Twin Peaks wrote the lines and actions of the characters that inspired me so much as a high schooler—Mark Frost, Harley Peyton, or Lynch himself—but I know that Lynch broke through the ice of normalcy for them to be more creative than they might have been.

He did that for me too. I was under some pressure to grow up and be more normal when I encountered Lynch, but his loud and courageous oddness helped me slip away from its grasp.

Over the years I sometimes found myself annoyed with his creative choices, many of which seemed chosen to alienate viewers and demonstrate how silly it was of us to fall in love with a story, but I always admired his commitment to pursuing his vision wherever it led.

For years, I wanted to meet him and pitch a story that could salve the open wound he left at the end of the second season of Twin Peaks. Of course, so did half of Generation X. The last thing he’d have wanted from us is a solution or an ending to a mystery.

Lynch was a fellow Boy Scout, though he made it all the way to Eagle. Many of his more annoying fans saw him as a nihilistic edgelord trolling the mundanes, but I suspect that like me, he was a shell-shocked idealist who was hypnotized by the encroachment of darkness.

I think I was just a little more fascinated by what to do about it than he was, which I guess is a gift from the other storytelling spirit animal for my generation, Steven Spielberg.

Thanks to Lynch, I investigated meditation and adopted its practice (though not the form he espoused, Transcendental Meditation). That alone is a wonderful legacy in my life and creative work, and I’m grateful for it.

For a person so committed to following a mystic vision, Lynch was certainly very blue collar about it: you sit down, you see what you see, and you make a mess while making it as real as you can. I always loved his videos from his workshop, chain-smoking and squinting through a window dressed in paint-splattered clothes, providing a weather report.

In those videos, he’d often wish us “blue skies all the way” in our creative work, which is what I wish for him in whatever mystery he’s now investigating.

Do Not Engage the Fuzz!

Some people, apparently not me, can sit down and hack their way through a project from beginning to end, perhaps with some obstacles but largely through perseverance.

I, on the other hand, must contend with the Fuzz.

The Fuzz is an incorporeal cloud of particles, primordial quarks of uncertainty and terror, looming in front of almost everything I try to accomplish. You can’t see through the Fuzz or really much around it, and if you try to go through, you are pushed back with the firm indifference of nature.

NGC 1333 – Perseus Molecular Cloud
Pictured: The Fuzz
(Actually, a NASA image of NGC 1333)

I don’t know what the Fuzz is or where it comes from, but I know I can kind of feel it on the inside of my skull when I get too close. It does no good to think too deeply about the Fuzz.

You cannot directly engage the Fuzz.

What you can do with the Fuzz is quietly and persistently probe its edges and create little outposts of what you know. They’re usually widely flung at first, but eventually they begin to bridge together and their accumulating mass shrinks the Fuzz to its true shape.

You discover what’s behind the Fuzz through parallax, like calculating the diameter of Pluto by measuring how long it takes Charon to transit across it, or like solving a crossword puzzle by answering first the clues you know for sure and then they ones you’re less sure of.

The Fuzz rejects all attempts at certainty and pre-imposed structure. Your only hope is to surround and compress it slowly, improvising with the push it gives you back.

They key to creative endeavors is to not look directly into the Fuzz or let it scare you but to hold it in mutual abeyance, like coming across an alligator on a walk through the woods: “You’re there and I’m here, so don’t mind me.”

That probably sounds mystical, but it’s actually the most concrete model I’ve ever contrived for how I work best, explaining why I seldom start at the beginning or end at the end, or why plots and outlines don’t help me. I have to sneak up on my subjects and improvise against that uncertainty.

In other words, you can’t make the uncertain certain by just thinking about it.

Oh, Yeah: That Other Book

With all of the hullabaloo about A Scout is Brave (coming very, very soon!), it’s easy to forget that I have other books…including this one with a redesigned cover!

It has the same great content that lost me a Shirley Jackson Award in 2014, but if it’s been bugging you that the cover wasn’t as snazzy as the one for Acres of Perhaps…well, now they match a little better and you can complete your collection.

It’s available now in all the usual places.

The Writer at Age Nine

Steven Spielberg and E.T.

If you think my work is juvenile now, let me tell you…it was much worse when I was in the fourth grade. The year was 1982, and an obscure director named Steven Spielberg was all over my mother’s entertainment magazines posing with a rubber puppet.

At nine years old, I discovered the idea that someone got PAID to entertain people with made up stories, which is something I’d been doing all my life for free like a chump.

Will Ludwigsen around age nine.
Rocking the Garanimal outfit!

(It’s important to mention that due to some mutation of ADHD or anxiety or schizophrenia, my brain was constantly buzzing with all sorts of random shit like during the credits of The Twilight Zone. I was effectively insane, talking or performing almost constantly even when nobody was around. Stories all but shot out of my eyeballs.)

Steven Spielberg showed me that one boy’s mental illness was a grown man’s career, and I started writing stories down in my famously meticulous handwriting.

My first completed story was called “Cats!”, built upon my assumption that the stage musical was simply a bunch of skits about cats doing funny things around the house.

I showed this brilliant work to my fourth-grade teacher Mr. Clark who, perhaps to gain a moment of peace, allowed me to read it aloud to the class. Their reaction was like water on a grease fire, and I began producing other works for their entertainment.

Most of them were sequels to my favorite films and TV shows.

You’ll notice perhaps that they are dialogue heavy with lots of exclamation points, mostly because – like the early primitive storytellers – they were meant to be performed. Some of them are just outlines of ideas that I’d improvise a story around when I was standing in front of the class.

What was their reaction? I remember mostly that they were relieved to be free of schoolwork and would occasionally offer up a few laughs at the funny parts.

Which was fine by me.

I tried my hand at comic book writing, too, though I had some weaknesses as an artist. Ultra-Dummy and the Legion of Stuffed Animals was the flagship production of a “company” started with my friend Garrett Albritton (hence the name W.A.G. for “Will and Garrett”).

Toward the end of my story-performing career in the seventh grade (when it was starting to get me teased instead of applauded), I wrote my first foray into 1963:

(Who’d have thought that 38 years later, my novella A Scout is Brave would also take place in 1963? Have you heard of it? It’s available for pre-order!)

My teacher Mrs. Kessel, who was mystified that I would only do extra credit reading and writing instead of the actual assigned curriculum, gave me an early blurb I could use on my books even now:

Your story was adorable! You are so funny…a future O. Henry or Steinbeck!

I wonder sometimes whether I’d have chosen writing as a vocation if I hadn’t been praised for it by teachers and family. If they’d loved my work with Lego, would I have been an engineer? Or if they told me I was brilliant at explaining things in a way idiots could understand, would I have gone into corporate training and communication?

I think writing is more fundamental to my personality than those other things for three reasons:

  • I get a thrill out of people’s reactions to it that I don’t get from anything else.
  • I also get a shiver of joy from capturing something exactly and specifically with language.
  • I’m willing to keep doing it even when it doesn’t turn out well.

These pencil scrawls on notebook paper are rather embarassing now; they show a lot more enthusiasm than ability. The only thing that came to me naturally about writing was doing it even when my brain was a scramble and I was bouncing off the walls

Maybe that’s the surest sign that you’ve found your life’s work: you keep doing it anyway.

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