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In his own words: Bill Minugh

NOTE from Pleasant Valley Press: Publication of Bill's book has been delayed because of some personal issues he's working through just now. We hope to make the ebook version available as soon as possible, with a print version to follow.

Here's what Bill has to say about his storytelling:

I have been known as a story teller for as far back as I can remember. I don't mean fairy tales or kids’ stuff. I mean creepy, scary stories like The Cave, one of my favorites.

It started when my dad quit his job with PG&E to become a traveling evangelist. We moved to Spokane, Washington to be near my twin sisters, who had dropped off the evangelistic band wagon to get married in Cut Bank, Montana. It was colder in Montana than the proverbial miner’s wallet. In 1949, there was still snow on the ground in early June. It was one of the coldest years in recorded history in that part of the country. My parents elected to live in Washington instead.

I hated it there. We lived in a thirteen-room Victorian house. Since my parents were no longer in the business of saving souls, they became landlords and rented out rooms in the giant house. The people they rented to is a story in itself. So there I was, hating the house, hating the snow, hating my school, and yes, hating just about everything except a little park just a block down the street. 

I really can't say how it all came to be, but where it came from is easy: Hearthstone Of The Death Squad, I Love A Mystery, The Whistler, Inner Sanctum. These were the cornerstones of my stories. I took pieces and parts from them, glued them together, and added some touches of my own to make it all work out. The first time I tried it, I sat on a picnic table and asked a couple of kids if they wanted to hear a story. They did and, before long, more kids joined the audience. Soon I had a dozen or more listeners. After that, it was always the same: I went to the park, sat on a picnic table and then, from all over the place the word would spread. “It's the story teller. Hurry!” they yelped. “Come on, hurry up.” They flocked to my feet and sat in a large semicircle, staring up at me. Their eyes were full of expectation and excitement.

“What story do you have for us today, Story Teller? Where will you take us? What adventurous tale can you spin today? Take us away, take us to above the clouds and let us fly with the birds. Let us soar high and swoop low. Let us float on the wind. Take us to the secret place, the place that's private and guarded from all but children. It's a fine place you’re taking us to, and we trust you to get us there. Hurry now, hurry. Let's not linger here any longer.” And then each of us slipped into our imaginations and drifted away.

I was only nine then, but I knew I wanted to tell stories again. As is too often the case, the realities of everyday life required that I put my dream, my passion on hold until a better time. The time has come to pull my dream out of the far recesses of my mind, where it has waited so patiently for so long, and once again become The Story Teller.