Doug Walsh's Blog, page 4

#PNWA2019 – And Today We Sleep

From the book fair on Friday night to my presentation Sunday morning (sandwiched around my efforts on a 48-hour flash fiction contest), I had a wonderful weekend surrounded by books, writers, and the people who love them. Thank you to everyone who participated — and especially those who bought copies of my books, giving me an excuse to use my newly purchased pen!

Was thrilled with the turnout and reception to my talk at PNWA and can’t wait to return next year.

It’s been a heck of a week since getting home from Japan last Sunday. A week spent waking up at all hours of the night due to work thoughts and jet-lag. A week spent building and revising a 90-minute presentation. A week spent pretending to not care how I placed in the first round of the NYC Midnight Flash Fiction contest. The results arrived Wednesday night.

“Tanuki’s Dream Salon” placed 3rd in my group, thus opening the valve on my competitive juices.

I submitted my second contest entry last night, ten minutes before deadline, with an entirely new title and ending than those that existed an hour earlier. I’ll share “Replacement Cost” with you soon. The top five highest combined scores from the first two challenges advance to Round 3. Pencils crossed.

Apologies for the short blog post, but I took one look at my list of blog topics and realized I currently haven’t the energy to tackle any of them. Not today. For now, I have a wealth of email to get through, a book I want to finish reading, and a novel to reacquaint myself with. More coming soon.

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A Novel Talk – Podcast Interview

Wendy Kendall and Carl Lee invited me onto their YouTube-homed podcast for a chat about my debut novel, Tailwinds Past Florence.

The co-hosts has several insightful questions that I hadn’t heard before – I was particularly pleased when they asked about the importance color has in the novel. This is a short podcast at just 35 minutes, which is a good thing in my opinion. I’d listen to more podcasts if they didn’t go on for hours.Listen In

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Flash Fiction: Tanuki’s Dream Salon

I guess I’m not so immune to peer pressure after all.

After constant encouragement and ceaseless prodding from the short story devotee of my critique group, I decided to throw my crash helmet into the annual NYC Midnight Flash Fiction contest. The first of four rounds was last month. The contest, packed with over 3500 writers from around the English-speaking world, is unlike anything I’ve participated in. I was given 48 hours to craft a short story (

Genre: Fantasy
Location: Costume Shop
Object: Poisonous Mushroom

If you know anything about my reading preferences, you should have no trouble imagining the bewildering collection of expletives I sighed upon seeing my categories. My experience with reading fantasy begins with two-thirds of Lord of the Rings and ends with five-sevenths of Harry Potter. I’ve always been a very bad geek. And it’s very hard to write what you don’t read. I gave it my best shot, which I present to you here – unchanged from what I submitted. Though please remember that I only had 48 hours — and the story sat at double its final length the morning it was due.

Tanuki’s Dream Salon

Aidan had all but abandoned his quest in favor of a conciliatory Big Mac when he spotted a parasol cutting a path through the tourist throng. Its owner, a teenager in a pastel ruffled dress, white knee-highs, and bubblegum makeup moved quickly, ignoring stares and photo requests alike. Without breaking stride, she turned into an alley no wider than a sidewalk.

The girl was pure kawaii, the opposite of goth, but the closest thing to a cosplayer Aidan had seen all afternoon in Harajuku.

Now, the gawkers returned their gaze to his onyx hair, flared cargo pants adorned with neon zippers, and his leather face mask upon which he’d meticulously stitched the kanji for hero before his flight to Tokyo. He self-consciously told his normie roommates in Wisconsin that it meant adventure. He dressed to fit in, but proved most unique — aside from the girl.

He decided to follow her, hoping she’d lead him somewhere that would make his pilgrimage worthwhile. After all, her parasol bore a dragon design. Which was something.

His echoing footfalls betrayed his pursuit, drawing her attention. She folded the accessory and with a coquettish smile, batted her outlandish lashes at him. She then bent low and crawled through a door sized more for a large pet than a human.

Aidan dashed forward and ran his fingers along an etched signboard. His Japanese was basic, but he recognized the character for dream and another for Tanuki, reminding him of Tom Nook, the shopkeeper in the video game Animal Crossing. “Probably more cutesy crap.” Bracing for disappointment, he shrugged then dropped to his knees to enter.

The door swung upward, revealing a dimly lit floor smothered in cedar shavings. Aidan brushed the swarf from his pants then bumped his head on the low ceiling as he stood, drawing a titter from the shadows. Nearby, two girls sat flanking the one he’d followed, each in similar Lolita fashion with Victorian curls and parasols depicting a galloping Pegasus and a mermaid. Identical sweets lay before them.

A sudden drumming snared the girls’ attention, and on cue, they simultaneously bit their assigned snack. Within seconds they slumped into their chairs, lifeless save for an occasional twitch, like a dog enjoying a dream.

All the while, the drumming continued as Aidan watched curiously.

Minutes later, the beat ceased, and the girls abruptly rose. Two applauded, their shoulders raised tight in a giddy posture, as the other brought her fingertips together in a heart shape. A squat man entered and flicked on the lights. The girls bowed repeatedly and thanked him in sing-song ecstasy. “Arigato gozaimashita,” they repeated as they disappeared through the doggie-door.

The proprietor wore monk’s robes and a raccoon-like mask. Just like the Tanuki statues, Aidan thought.

He handed Aidan a laminated sheet titled SYSTEM, detailing instructions in fractured English and stick figure illustrations. The steps were simple — select a costume and food item and eat when the drumming begins — but the experience cost nearly a hundred dollars, and results were random.

“Magic dreams,” Tanuki said, then, squinting, he pointed at Aidan’s face mask. “Yuusha.” Aidan felt himself blush at the generous translation: not just a hero, but the chosen one. Tanuki parted a curtain, revealing an array of costumes and props, then smiled and said, “Adventure for you.”

Aidan placed a 10,000 yen note in the tray, unsure what he was getting into, and approached the racks of costumes. Frilly dresses, tie-dyed shirts, and fluorescent wigs held little interest, so he opted for a weapon. A lifelong anime fan, he searched for a massive katana, at least six-foot long, but found only a red-striped wizard staff amongst plush toys and backpacks.

Shouldering the staff, Aidan approached the display of food, where each was accompanied by a placard containing an emoji ranging from a cherub to a menacing barbarian. Aidan tapped the latter, noticing it alone came with two snacks.

Tanuki dimmed the lights and set the food before Aidan, now seated. Beside a peculiar cookie laid a waxy mushroom resembling a rooster’s comb. Tanuki pointed at the mushroom then arranged his arms like crossbones. “No eat. Only smell. Very special.” He then knelt in the shavings and commenced drumming his palms against his belly.

Aidan sniffed the mushroom, detecting no fragrance, then bit the cookie.

At once, he was in another land, dressed in rags, pushing a wooden cart straining under the weight of apples and turnips. His chosen staff served as a post, supporting a bell that jangled as the cart bounced along a cobblestone road. Drowning out the bell and the distant drumming, a hair-raising screech shattered the calm. Aiden turned in time to see a dragon swoop overhead, barely evading a volley of arrows and fireballs. Lining the rooftops stood an army of archers, knights, and mages. Heroes.

Shortly after, Aidan jolted awake, furious, as the rhythmic drumming ceased. “A merchant? I didn’t pay a hundred bucks to sell apples. I’m supposed to be the hero!”

Tanuki shrugged and tapped the instruction sheet where it explained that results were random.

“You ripped me off. I’m going again.”

“Iie!” Tanuki shouted. “Ichi.” He raised a single finger, but Aidan swiftly snatched the morsels before Tanuki could remove them. Believing he’d been scammed, Aidan hurried to sneak a second go at the magical dreams. Only this time, he was determined to get his money’s worth. He bit down on the cookie, then chomped the scarlet mushroom too.

Tanuki’s eyes went wide and he trembled while sputtering a litany of Japanese. Nonetheless, he quickly launched a furious drumroll against his stomach, returning Aidan to the medieval dreamscape.

Miraculously, Aidan emerged near the same cobblestone street, and could see the red-striped staff. He heard a magical spell recited in an otherworldly tongue, summoning a fireball from the staff’s knurled knob.

Only the staff wasn’t in his grasp – and the fireball was aimed directly at his scaly wings.

And the drumming never stopped.

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Books By Doug Walsh Now 60% Off for Nook

This week only, from 8/12 to 8/16, both of Doug Walsh's 2019 releases are available for Nook e-readers at 60% off.

Use discount code "BNPSNOKE60" at checkout.


Tailwinds Past Florence is a time travel romance set against the backdrop of an around-the-world bicycle adventure.




The Walkthrough is a memoir about the author's 18 years spent writing official video game strategy guides for BradyGames and Prima Games.

Alaskan Cruise with the In-Laws

As a child of the eighties, I grew up in an era rife with jokes about in-laws. Mother-in-laws, in particular. The complaint went that they were overbearing, impossible to please, and a constant strain on one’s marriage. Wikipedia suggests mother-in-law jokes date back to Roman times. We don’t hear them much anymore. Whether because of political correctness (nah) or because younger generations finally recognized how lazy the jokes were (yep), you’re unlikely to encounter one these days unless you stumble upon some old Jeff Foxworthy clips on YouTube. Or a rerun of Everybody Loves Raymond.

Though I didn’t always see eye-to-eye with my father-in-law (we agreed I wasn’t good enough for his daughter – I joke, sort of – and little else), I get along with my wife’s mother wonderfully. And always have. We’ll talk on the phone, go out to lunch when she comes to visit, and spend hours in discussion – most often about topics we share little common ground. Books, politics, religion, etc.

In short, I love her. I do. Enough to even join her and the rest of the family on a 7-day Alaskan cruise.

Now, I know what you’re thinking: A cruise to Alaska doesn’t sound like much of a sacrifice. And you’re right, especially since she was paying — thanks, Ruth — but you have to understand my wife and me. We’re not cruise people.

Allow me to explain.

The Ruby Princess docked in Skagway, AK.

Our Cruising Past

Last week’s cruise through the Inside Passage from Seattle to Alaska was our sixth time cruising. This includes a trip aboard a Norwegian Cruise Lines ship to Cozumel and Key West for our honeymoon many years ago, a Viking river cruise along the Danube with my wife’s grandmother, and several shorter jaunts on various lines. Of them all, the only one we hope to repeat was our 2014 trip aboard the Queen Mary 2.

We absolutely loved our trans-Atlantic crossing aboard the QM2, but that’s an entirely different beast than an Alaskan cruise. For starters, Cunard runs the ship as an “ocean liner” and not a “cruise ship.” And they aim to differentiate their crossings from cruises. Importantly, there were no ports of call, just a final destination. It’s also British, which largely exempts it from America’s ceaseless race to lower the quality of an experience (see also: airlines).

I woke most mornings at 4 a.m. and headed to the ship’s cafe, where I enjoyed the quiet and got some writing done.

Tastes being personal, I’ll allow the numbers to speak for themselves. Pretending that everything else is equal, the Ruby Princess, which we took to Alaska, packs up to 400 more passengers on board, despite having fewer crew (the ship is nearly 200 feet shorter in length, but several decks taller than the QM2). With an average of 25% more passengers per crew member than aboard the QM2, service suffered. Especially in the dining rooms, in which the wait staff ran around as frantically as servers at a TGI Fridays on a Saturday night – and with all the etiquette, to boot.

No offense to the servers in the weeds. I’ve been there.

Perhaps if fewer crew were assigned to running the hallway-clogging “sidewalk sales” and more to the kitchen and dining staff, the difference wouldn’t have been so stark. Another passenger, upon seeing the barrage of tasteless, infomercial lectures listed on the ship’s daily schedule, joked that she expected the next announcement to be prefaced with, “Attention Wal-Mart Cruisers.” An apt observation. Of course, Cunard and Princess generally attract different clientele with varying standards. And that’s great. There should be options at every price point, but Princess was far from cheap. My eyes bulged like a Looney Tunes character when I saw the ticket price.

We hired guides through Above & Beyond Alaska for a 6+ hour canoe and glacier trek trip to Mendenhall Glacier, definitely the highlight of our time in Alaska. The same tour, offered through the cruise ship, included a 30% markup. Always book directly — and local!

A Digression into Authenticity

Our main complaint about cruises, however, concerns how they alter the ports they call upon. In my opinion, they ruin them. Setting aside the crime of dumping plastic into the ocean, commercial tour operators like Carnival (owner of Princess Cruise Lines) and the other giants completely disrupt the nature of the ports their passengers wish to visit. Not only does it force existing small businesses to bend to the will of commercial tourism – more t-shirt shops, anyone? – but, in the case of Skagway and Ketchikan specifically, the cruise lines even own many of the retail shops they deposit their passengers at. And the ones they don’t own are forced to pay exorbitant fees to be listed in the shopping guides the cruise lines hand out. That’s right, you just flew to the Pacific Northwest to take a cruise to Alaska, all so you can visit one of the myriad jewelry stores in Skagway owned by the very same cruise line you just rode in on. With no deals to be had.

Hit the trails in Skagway and leave the crowds behind. A splendid 6.5 mile hike (round-trip) to Upper Reid Falls offers plenty of solitude and is easy to follow.

But it’s not just about the shops. The cruises are vinegar dumped into the local flavor. We saw this first-hand in Barbados years ago. After a week of traveling throughout the island, being treated wonderfully by the locals, we finally made our way to Bridgetown, a popular port of call for passing cruise ships. At once, the behavior of the locals changed. We were white, comparatively affluent Americans everywhere we went on the island, but there, near the port, we were treated like bags of money, like suckers. No more camaraderie. No more island spirit. How anybody could have enjoyed their time ashore without getting as far from the port as possible is beyond me. And the same goes for Bar Harbor, in Maine, home of Acadia National Park. Up to three cruise ships a day park in the once-quaint town, choking the streets with pedestrians, driving up prices, and making life a nightmare for the locals. Yes, a few shop owners benefit, but at what cost to community? After an hour in Bar Harbor’s downtown during our bike tour, I was left wondering why anyone would ever choose to return.

This is the world of commercial tourism. And it’s not just the cruise lines though. Bus tour companies include mandatory shopping stops at specific stores, not because the goods are, well, good or because the prices are fair, but because those store owners lined the tour guide’s pockets. And tourists blindly go along, merrily letting themselves be taken for a ride.

I know some will say that the cruise ships benefit the local economy, and they do to an extent, but the local economy best benefits when passengers make an effort to ignore the obvious attractions and seek out the locally owned shops and restaurants, not highlighted by the cruise company. When everyone overpays for crab legs and salmon at the restaurants the cruise director points them to, they’re only benefiting the cruise line – and cheating themselves of a more authentic experience.

Cruising to a glacier provides some surreal juxtapositions.

So How Was It?

Despite everything I just said, we had a good time. Because we did our homework.

Any vacation is what you make of it and we did our best to travel independently within the structure of the ship’s itinerary – and my mother-in-law’s requests. This meant taking self-guided hikes, seeking out smaller craft breweries like Devil’s Club in Juneau and Klondike Brewing in Skagway, and hiring outfitters externally from the cruise ship for small group forays into the backcountry.

On board the ship, the family did an incredible job of balancing the desire to hang out as a group with the need to be flexible. As the only ones without children, my wife and I were the night owls of the group and also the only ones dressing formal and eating on a less rigid schedule. We partook in a couple of the premium dining options on board the ship, if for no other reason than for the better service, and tried to make the most of the ship’s lackluster entertainment options.

A clan house at Totem Bight State Park, outside of Ketchikan.

Most importantly, everyone got along. The kids (aged 3 to 7) had a great time, and we got to hang out with family we typically only see once a year. It was a real treat!

I was asked on Facebook if the trip was something I would recommend. While it’s easy for me to say I wouldn’t, the answer is meaningless unless you feel the same about travel as I do. For many people, an Alaskan cruise is the perfect vacation. They don’t want to see the backcountry, they don’t want the hassle or hard work of planning an independent trip, renting an RV, and hiring guides and outfitters. Not to mention being bearanoid. For most of the people in my social circle, extended jaunts off the beaten path, far away from port towns, is the only way to visit Alaska. Or anywhere, for that matter.

We took the cable car out of Juneau to get some hiking in on Mt. Roberts before hiking to Devil’s Club Brewery.

A cruise is the antithesis of that. Fortunately, a balance can be struck.

At the risk of writing the most obvious sentence ever, Alaska is an enormous place. An Alaskan cruise is a tease, a tiny morsel of an appetizer, in which visitors “see” Alaska no more than someone can claim to have “read” War & Peace by scanning the cover blurb.

But nobody should base their decision to go on my words alone. Deep down, most people probably already know how they like to travel. If they like to travel. If they prefer a resort-style vacation.

In our case, this time, the only thing that mattered was that my mother-in-law had a great time. And she did. She even got to see some orcas.

Don’t believe me? Check out that smile.

My wife (left) with her mother, sister, and niece.

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You Made Me Call the Cops

If only the Starbucks had been open after Indie Author Night, we would have been delayed.

If only I didn’t have to stop for a restroom. Or didn’t go to the convenience store for drinks. Or had one more — or fewer — reader stop by to chat about my book, ask a question, request a signing.

If only the Universe didn’t put me in front of you at that red light, I would have never been in the position I was in. If my timing had been off by even a few seconds, you might have hurt somebody.

Or worse.

Something was off with the way you let me merge. And how you kept inching forward despite the red light. My wife, beside me in the car, was mid-sentence, telling me about a young employee she’s mentoring at work. Then a shunt. A slight crunch.

What the hell? I didn’t say “hell.”  I look up, the stoplight flicks from red to green. A row of cars stretch to the intersection somewhere in front of me. Nobody has begun to move.

I hit the hazards and get out, blocking the stationary traffic. My arms are wide, palms up. Again, what the hell? You offer me a dismissive shrug through the windshield of your Beamer. I think quickly and take a photo of your license plate, I can see my paint on your bumper. I point to the Whole Foods next to us and hope you follow me in.

You do. In a peculiar manner. Something’s not right.

Accidents Happen

Just three years ago I rear-ended a fellow attendee leaving the PNWA Writer’s Conference. It was my fault. I owned it. Apologized. My insurance went up. It was quite awkward seeing her getting coffee the next morning. A year later, back at the conference, I offered a friendly, “We really need to stop running into one another like this” at the bagel bar.

Who among us hasn’t had their foot slip off the brake pedal? Or saw traffic move, a green turn arrow perhaps, and jumped the gun?

You get out. Petite, flouncy blouse, stylish pants. Business fashionable. Eyes are glazed.

I ask for your insurance card. “Yeah, sure, sure,” you say, inspecting the paint smear on your front bumper. I take a photo. “It’s a pretty pink,” you say. I think of the red stripe that trims my otherwise pearl-painted car and I groan.

We walk to my car. You look, head cocked to the side. The bumper is scraped and dimpled, the fender flare has popped out. A panel juts from the tail lights like a protruding jaw. “It’s no big deal,” you offer.

I agree the damage isn’t serious and state the customary observation that nobody has gotten hurt, but it’s going to be costly. You repeat yourself. I try to keep the car looking new. I want it looking the way it did ten minutes prior. “It’s a Juke.” Whether you were observing or ridiculing, I can’t tell. I don’t mention that the Nismo RS Juke is the most expensive car we’ve ever owned, but I’m thinking it. I point out that you have a pretty nice BMW, surely you want to keep it looking good. “It’s no big deal.”

“Either way, why don’t you get your insurance card so we can go.” You shrug and go back to your car.

Forced Hands

You fumble around in your car for a minute, reminding me of a child thumbing through a Trapper Keeper looking for the homework they never did. I’m leaning against my car. You approach, lean next to me. Puppy dog eyes. Are you flirting? My wife is standing a few steps away. Shoots me a look and shakes her head.

“Where’s your insurance card?”

“I’ll get it,” you say, this time close enough for me notice the stench of alcohol on your breath. Hard liquor.

Damn it.

“You reek of booze,” I say.

Your eyes go wide. You return to your car and get in.

“I’m calling the police,” my wife says. “She’s going to leave.”

We didn’t need to get the police involved. It was a minor accident. But you stink of alcohol. You look clearly out of it.

I hear my wife reporting an accident, but it sounds so minor. The cops aren’t going to come. I didn’t want to do this, but I had to. “Tell them she’s drunk,” I say. “She stinks of booze.”

That changes the conversation with dispatch. Cops are on the way. I sigh.

Sorry, Not Sorry

Most of us, if we’re being honest, have probably driven once or twice when we shouldn’t have. I personally was put through a field sobriety test once, on vacation many years ago, with my sister. Why I was pulled over is, to this day, a mystery, but the cops let me go because we were fifty yards from the hotel parking lot and because I have a natural talent for standing on one leg while counting Mississippis. When I asked, out of curiosity, what I blew on the breathalyzer. The sergeant said if she told me, she’d have to arrest me. She said there was no way she, a rather petite woman, could have had the same BAC and did the tests as well as me.

I’m not perfect. I can sympathize.

You approach, hear the conversation my wife is having on the phone. “You called the police?” Your voice is incredulous.

I don’t blame you. “You left us no choice,” I say, shaking my head.

You return to your car. Make a phone call. A guy arrives a few minutes later. Introduces himself as a coworker. He’s calm. Professional. A mentor, perhaps.

He inspects the damage on my car and shakes his head, but suggests it’s not that bad. I agree. It isn’t. “But she reeks of alcohol, man. We had to call the police.”

He sinks before my eyes.

Eventually, the police come, after you’ve gone into Whole Foods. To pee? For mints? I don’t know.

An unmarked car first, then a marked SUV. Redmond’s finest.

The friend presents himself as the driver of the car behind yours during the accident, a third-party witness. I clarify that you called him. The police thank him for coming, but tell him to leave. He doesn’t. He wants to help.

The police smell alcohol on him too. Tell him to get an Uber and go home. Later, they admit they probably could have arrested him for DUI too.

You owe him.

Later, while filling out paperwork in a light drizzle, I hear the handcuffs cinching on your wrists. I hear you begin to cry. You blame it on your braces hurting, but I know it’s got to be scary. It’s probably the first time you were arrested. I only hope you are at least 21. Are you? The officer sounds compassionate as he guides you into the backseat of the SUV.

You never found your insurance or registration. The officer tells us you were too drunk to locate the papers. One finds them himself, later.

Both officers thank us repeatedly for calling them. I know it was the right thing to do. But I didn’t enjoy it. I’m human. You’re human. We make mistakes. Nobody got hurt.

This time.

Let’s hope there’s not a next time.

Enjoy this post? Read more of Doug’s writing in his road-tripping novel, Tailwinds Past Florence or check out his video game memoir, The Walkthrough: Insider Tales From a Life in Strategy Guides. And, as always, mailing list subscribers get a free digital copy of the travelogue One Lousy Pirate.

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Surfing the Euro Airwaves with PAL Keys

Though I never did learn why Daryl Baxter titled this episode of PAL Keys “Two Hearts Rapid,” I had a great time chatting with him about strategy guides and video games.

He flattered me by saying he had read The Walkthrough twice and I was equally excited to do my first (but not last) podcast for an overseas audience. For those curious about the title for his podcast, PAL refers to the European video standard of long ago. North Americans had NTSC and much of the Europe, Oceania, and Asia used PAL.Listen In

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Hitting the Books with Engadget.com

Engadget’s Andrew Tarantola is on a quest to find “the most interesting, thought provoking books on science and technology.”

His goal is to make it easier for Americans to find worthwhile books to read for fun. I was honored to have him select my memoir, The Walkthrough, for his June 2019 feature. This short feature includes Andrew’s thoughts on the book along with an excerpt from the book’s chapter involving my work on the official Diablo III strategy guide.Read the Article

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Now Appearing on the So … Videogames Podcast

I sat down with GameCritics writers, Brad Gallaway and Corey Motley to discuss – what else? – video game strategy guides!

I first met Brad nearly two decades earlier, on the GameCritics message boards and he was one of my first friends when I moved to the Seattle area in 2002. We fell out of touch over the years, but it was great catching up to discuss the rise and fall of strategy guides, the process behind their creation, and the state of the gaming industry as discussed in my book The Walkthrough .Listen In

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“The Walkthrough” has Launched!

I never imagined launching a second book so soon after Tailwinds Past Florence went live, but here we are!

When I received word in November that PRH was shutting down my longtime imprint, I knew the time had come to FINALLY write the memoir I’d been noodling on for years. The Walkthrough: Insider Tales From a Life in Strategy Guides is equal parts memoir and industry tell-all. It aims to be entertaining, insightful, and nostalgic. It’s a love letter to a job I loved, and the people I worked alongside, many of whom poured everything they had into creating the best guidebooks they could.

But this book isn’t only for gamers. I honestly believe it will prove enjoyable to anyone with an interest in obscure jobs, the entertainment industry, or even just me. And the reason I say that is because wherever I went over the years, no matter who I was speaking to, the conversation always drifted to my oddball career — and the questions never stopped coming.

Now, at long last, the answers are all in one place. And that place is right here.

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