Steffan Berg | Blog

Why I Write

Steffan Berg — Sun, 24 Aug 2025 00:00:00 GMT

I write because I love the story: putting the pieces together of what could be, parsing memories and little tidbits of truth, then sharing them.

As a kid I used to ride my bike to the local hardware store and spend my money on parts to build things. Things I learned about in library books. My most checked-out books in elementary school were on practical witchcraft, physics experiments, and hardware mechanisms. When I was seven, I designed an assistive suit that could help paraplegics walk and lift with superhuman strength. I drew the joints, listed the mechanisms, and filled pages with use cases: from easing hard, dangerous jobs to helping someone stand and move again. I don’t remember my first story, but I remember that invention. Words and sketches stitched together as a promise that imagination could touch the real world.

I keep writing because it’s the best way I know to turn talk into truth. I love conversations: the small confessions, the bright phrases, the stubborn contradictions. I can’t write the full history of everyone I’ve met, so I distill it with an essence here, an anecdote there. Characters are what remains after all that refining. When they face a problem, nine times out of ten I can hear a voice I’ve heard in life, and the scene sharpens.

The work costs something. It takes time: at least an hour a day, sometimes four or five. It asks me to plot in careful detail, then throw away half that plan once the draft starts breathing. The trade is worth it: the moment a paragraph clicks and a reader feels something interesting and new.

Here’s how I show up for it. I wake at 4 a.m., no alarm. Before the world can interrupt me, I make coffee, ignore my phone and email, skip the never-ending to-do list, and start. Fresh mind, blank page, no noise.

I want you to have fun, to feel things, to bump into a new idea and leave with a slightly different angle on the world. If you carry only one sentence away, let it be the one that opens a window. I’ll keep meeting the page in the dark hours, cutting what doesn’t serve, and chasing the truest version of the story. If you meet me there as a reader, I’ll do my best to make it worth your time.

How a Dollar Bill Sent Me Down a Rabbit Hole

Steffan Berg — Fri, 04 Oct 2024 00:00:00 GMT

How a Childhood Fascination Shaped My First Book

Ever held a dollar bill and wondered why an ancient pyramid with a glowing, all-seeing eye stares back at you? That symbol has sparked theories of shadowy organizations and hidden agendas for decades.

As a kid, that symbol hooked me. Why would our money have such mysterious, almost sinister imagery? When I asked someone who spoke Latin, they translated the phrases underneath: Providence has favored our undertakings and A New Order of the Ages. The phrase new order made my imagination run wild. What did it mean?

Growing up without internet at home, I had to wait for opportunities to explore these questions. My mother, an alum of a local college, let us use their computers. One day, bored with the usual chatrooms, I remembered that odd symbol on the dollar bill and decided to look it up. Typing “eye over pyramid” into the search bar opened a rabbit hole of conspiracy theories. What started as idle curiosity quickly turned into a dive into the hidden world of secret organizations and global plots.

That’s when I stumbled on stories about Nazi bases on the moon, Tesla’s death ray, and, of course, the Illuminati. Every page seemed to unravel another layer of wild speculation. And while most of it felt like fiction, it was hard not to wonder—what if? What if one of these conspiracy theories was real?

My mother’s advice was simple: “People love their stories. Enjoy them, but don’t believe everything you read.” I didn’t take any of it too seriously, but I couldn’t help being fascinated by the creativity of these theories. I never stopped reading about them—each one bigger, bolder, and more bizarre than the last.

So, when I started writing The Vanishing of Jessica Muir, I couldn’t resist the idea of a world where the conspiracy theories turn out to be true. My protagonist, like me, gets pulled into these theories and starts questioning everything he knows about reality. Unlike most of us, he finds out some of those ideas are real.

While building this world, I drew inspiration from some of the most infamous conspiracy theories out there. Here are a few that had a direct influence on the story:

HAARP — a research project studying the ionosphere, but theorists believe it can control the weather, or even minds.
ECHELON — a global surveillance program that allegedly monitors all communications.
Project Paperclip — the U.S. secretly recruited Nazi scientists after WWII. If that one's real, what else is?

These theories are fascinating on their own, but they get stranger when you start connecting them. In The Vanishing of Jessica Muir, my protagonist stumbles into exactly that kind of thinking—one theory leads to another, and before long, the ground under his feet doesn't feel so solid.

That all-seeing eye on the dollar bill started something for me when I was a kid. What if some of the conspiracies we laugh off were real? That question never really went away. It just found its way into a book.

The Art of Editing TVJM

Steffan Berg — Fri, 27 Sep 2024 00:00:00 GMT

The Importance of Revision

“I'm done!”
(Me, First draft completion, 18 months ago.)

When I typed the last sentence of the first draft of The Vanishing of Jessica Muir, I felt like I was on top of the world. I had finished! But, as many writers know, that’s only the beginning. After setting the manuscript aside for a few weeks and revisiting it with fresh eyes—armed with my trusty red pen—I found countless errors. Misspellings, name swaps (yes, I called my main character by the wrong name a few times), and a few plot holes that seemed small at first but quickly multiplied.

It became clear that editing was going to take a while. I tossed aside the red pen and broke out the black, revising character sheets, fleshing out outlines, and tackling my notes. After a thorough round of self-editing, I was feeling good.

Enter: The Developmental Editor

Feeling confident, I sent my manuscript off to a developmental editor, thinking the hard part was over. I was wrong. The editor returned over 2000 comments. Two thousand. I wasn’t devastated—okay, maybe a little—but mostly, I was ready to learn. There were major lessons to absorb, particularly about point of view and the mechanics of storytelling on the page.

Incorporating the editor’s feedback took months. Most of it wasn’t about fixing sentences — it was about understanding why they didn’t work in the first place. When I finally finished that phase, the manuscript was noticeably better.

The Beta Reader Feedback Loop

Next step: Beta readers. These early readers offer fresh eyes and unfiltered feedback, and I trusted mine to be brutally honest. And honest they were! Six readers returned the manuscript to me, and it was swathed in red ink. The plot was solid, the tension high, but my prose? Well, that was a different story. I had stripped it down to be as minimalistic as possible, hoping to keep readers focused on the conspiracy and mystery.

What I learned from my Beta readers was this: asking people to engage with such minimalistic prose was like inviting them to a dinner party in a house without furniture. They couldn’t enjoy the meal (the plot) because they didn’t have anywhere to sit (the context, the prose, the depth).

Don’t get me wrong—people enjoyed the story. One reader even said, “I would read 11-14 more of these,” which was incredibly encouraging! But I knew I had to make the story more readable, more immersive. The prose needed to be a smoother ride so readers could focus on the plot without getting tripped up.

Less Minimal, More Impactful

With the Beta feedback in hand, I went back to the manuscript, this time focusing on enriching the prose. I fleshed out descriptions, motivations, and dialogue. My goal was to allow readers to focus on the right questions—What’s really happening with this conspiracy? How is everything connected?—instead of struggling to fill in gaps in the narrative.

When I sent the revised manuscript back to the Beta readers, their reactions were overwhelmingly positive. “I couldn’t put it down,” one said. A couple told me they read it in two or three sittings, which was exactly what I hoped for. Finally, the story wasn’t just gripping—it was enjoyable, too.

From 80K to 63K to 75K Words

Through all the edits, my word count shifted wildly. The first draft clocked in at 80K words, but after trimming the fat and tightening the plot, it dropped to 63K. Then, after enriching the prose, it bounced back up to 75K. My supporting notes—character sheets, outlines, background research—ballooned from 30K to 50K words. In fact, some of these notes were so detailed they made their way into the story, like the Safety Data Sheets (SDS) that became a key plot point.

Every round of revision made the story stronger. I cut what slowed it down, added what was missing, and tried to get out of the reader’s way.

Knowing When to Say “It’s Done”

Through it all, the hardest part wasn’t the editing itself — it was knowing when to stop. Every time I looked at the manuscript, I saw something I could improve. But at some point, you have to step back and say, “It’s done.” You could polish forever. The trick is learning the difference between making it better and just making it different.

Legends of the Pacific Northwest

Steffan Berg — Fri, 20 Sep 2024 00:00:00 GMT

I first moved to the Pacific Northwest at twenty-five, and the landscape immediately grabbed me. Vast, ancient forests, countless waterfalls—so numerous they weren't even named. Coming from the East Coast, where a waterfall was a rare, multi-day trek-worthy event, this was a shock to the system.

One of my first backpacking trips took a friend and me above the snowline on a mountain plateau. The silence and sheer dramatic beauty of standing on the edge, looking thousands of feet down, were unforgettable. Standing on the mountain's plateau felt like standing on the edge of the world. The air was thin and crisp, the snow crunching beneath my boots, and all around was a silence so thick you could almost hear your own thoughts. Below, the world stretched out endlessly, treetops like a sea of green and brown, dotted with the occasional river cutting through the landscape. It felt timeless, like the landscape hadn't changed for thousands of years. As we descended through the woods on a long, winding switchback, something strange happened: we stumbled upon a set of massive footprints. Much larger than mine, and I wear a size sixteen shoe! The prints had compacted the snow all the way to the ground, as though something incredibly heavy had walked there.

The further we walked, the more spaced-out the footprints became, as though whatever had made them had broken into a run. My first thought was some odd snowmelt pattern, maybe caused by the sun and the trees. But then, as we rounded a switchback, the footprints followed the curve. My friend casually asked, "Do you think it's Bigfoot?" I laughed and said, "Nah, maybe it's the Wendigo." But when she quickened her pace, I realized she was scared. The steps disappeared back into the treeline, but the mystery stuck with me.

The strange part wasn't just the size of the prints—it was how they tugged at something primal. Suddenly, the vast forest that had once felt like a peaceful escape now felt unknown, like it was holding its breath, waiting. In that moment, I realized how little we know about the wild places we wander into.

At the time, I knew as much about Bigfoot as anyone else—a giant, hairy ape living in the woods. But later, I learned we were hiking near Ape Canyon, a spot notorious for Bigfoot sightings. The Bigfoot legend is everywhere in the Pacific Northwest, as much a part of the forest as the trees. For some, it's a joke—a local mascot. For others, it's dead serious. I've met people who would swear they saw something huge and shadowy moving through the trees, who speak of strange howls that echo through the valleys late at night.

Years later, after returning to rural Washington, I heard logging legends—stories of creatures that could devour men, water dragons tormenting loggers, and more. Everywhere I go, I love hearing stories, especially the eerie ones. Ask someone about their job, and they might groan. Ask about their grandfather's work, and they'll talk your ear off. Ask about childhood ghost stories, and they light up.

Along the way, I attended a few Native gatherings and was captivated by totem poles. The legends and spirits represented in those poles—cannibalistic giants, Bigfoot, the thunderbird—some of them found their way into The Vanishing of Jessica Muir.

Dzunukwa AKA Tsonoqua
Photo by Leoboudv

Native Totem
Photo by Brigitte Werner

Another beautiful Totem
Photo by PublicDomainPictures

Totem poles are storytellers. Each carved figure represents a spirit or legend—the cannibalistic giants known as Tsonoqua, the Thunderbird, said to cause thunder with the flapping of its wings. These figures are lessons passed down through generations, carved by people who lived close to the land and took its dangers seriously. Seeing them in person changed how I thought about the forests I'd been hiking through.

Later, I realized that moment on the mountain had planted a seed. What if the creatures we've always whispered about aren't myths at all? That idea eventually became The Vanishing of Jessica Muir.

The Soundtrack Behind TVJM

Steffan Berg — Fri, 13 Sep 2024 00:00:00 GMT

The Playlist

I wrote most of The Vanishing of Jessica Muir with music on. One song was playing the night the idea first took hold. Others showed up during late-night editing sessions when I was chasing a specific feeling — tension, loss, a fight scene, a quiet drive through the woods.

This soundtrack covers everything from a character’s state of mind, to backstory, to the action of a chapter, to feel. But what is what? I’ll leave that as an exercise to the ~~reader~~ listener.

View embedded content on embed.music.apple.com

View embedded content on open.spotify.com

Since private services can add or remove songs unpredictably, here's a list for reference. The irony of saying that while linking to YouTube isn’t lost on me—but it’s about as close as humanity has gotten to an open cultural archive.

Artist	Song
Majical Cloudz	Disappeared
Autre Ne Veut	Age of Transparency
Guy Clark	Dublin Blues
Benjamin Tod	Goodnight Destin
Luke Bell	Sometimes
Colter Wall (feat. Belle Plaine)	Caroline
casper allen	Carving Creases
Charles Wesley Godwin	All Again
Steven Drozd	Rocket Man
Radiohead	All I Need
Mary Gauthier	I Drink
Sage Francis	The Buzz Kill
Puscifer	Grand Canyon
Mick Gordon	BFG Division
Tom Waits	Everything You Can Think
Marilyn Manson	Tainted Love
Benjamin Tod	Who I Am Ain't Who I've Been
Old Crow Medicine Show	The Warden
Jose Larralde	Quimey Neuquen
C.W. Stoneking	The Love Me or Die
Drayton Farley	Pitchin' Fits
Colby Acuff	If I Were the Devil
Portishead	Sour Times
CeeLo Green	No One's Gonna Love You
The O'Jays	Sunshine
Nine Inch Nails	And All That Could Have Been
The Strumbellas	Spirits
POLICA	Wandering Star
Rage Against the Machine	Hadda Be Playing On the Jukebox (Live at Milan Dragway)

The Origins of TVJM

Steffan Berg — Fri, 06 Sep 2024 00:00:00 GMT

The day started like any other. I woke up before dawn, the sky still clinging to the last threads of night, to feed my pigs and begin the daily grind. Moving to any small, insular community comes with a permanent outsider status—in rural Washington state, it can take decades to become a local. But the more you immerse yourself, the more you begin to blend in, like water finding its way through rock. My afternoons were often spent getting to know the locals better, slowly chipping away at that "newcomer" barrier.

One particular afternoon, I found myself helping an older man cut firewood for the winter. He had spent most of his life as a logger in Washington, and our conversation naturally drifted into stories of his time in the woods. As we worked, I asked if there was any folklore tied to logging or these woods. You can’t work in the wilderness without creating a few legends, right?

Without missing a beat, he brought up Bigfoot—naturally. But I pushed a little further. "What about logging-specific folklore?" I asked. Old professions, especially ones that take people deep into untamed places, often come with their own set of tales, strange creatures, and unexplained happenings.

That’s when he mentioned a creature—a terrifying thing that looked like nothing more than a fur pelt, but it could devour a man whole. It was one of those creepy legends passed around with the whiskey bottle late at night in the logging camps. His story sent me down a rabbit hole of logging-specific folklore from across the country—strange creatures, larger-than-life characters, the kind of stories that only come from people who work alone in dark woods.

Later that evening, after the firewood was stacked and the work was done, I retreated to my garage woodshop. I couldn’t shake the image of the creature he described, the fur pelt that could devour a man. I poured myself a bourbon, put on a Tom Waits track, and decided to do some digging. I tried to find more about the creature, and after a bit of searching, I stumbled upon Rumptifusel—whether it was real folklore or some obscure, forgotten bit of myth didn’t matter. What mattered was the spark it ignited in my mind.

As I sat there, the bourbon warming my thoughts, I began to wonder: what if all the folklore, the conspiracy theories, the campfire stories—what if it was all true? What if the creatures from every culture's myths were out there, lurking in the shadows, just beyond the edge of what we know? And how would the world function if that were the case?

To me, it seemed like it would have to be one massive conspiracy, bigger than anything we’ve ever conceived—something buried so deep in how the world works that even the most diligent investigators would only catch fleeting glimpses. That idea took hold of me and wouldn’t let go.

That was the seed of The Vanishing of Jessica Muir.

I started outlining, filling in the details of a world where folklore is fact, where the impossible is true but kept hidden behind a curtain of secrecy so thick that we, the average people, could live our lives blissfully unaware. The more I wrote, the more I became obsessed with this idea. How does the world stay normal when it's full of the abnormal? Who’s pulling the strings? And what happens when those strings start to unravel?

In just one month, I wrote the first 30,000 words of the novel, thanks to NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month). That challenge of writing 50,000 words in 30 days was the push I needed to turn an evening of bourbon-fueled curiosity into a real manuscript.

But after NaNoWriMo ended, I hit a wall. I realized the original structure of my novel wasn’t going to work. I needed to do a lot of rewriting, and at the time, I didn’t fully grasp that “writing is rewriting.” So I put the novel down for a few years. The idea, however, stayed with me. Then, I came across an article that said half-finished projects clutter your mind and leave no room for fresh ideas. It was simple: either finish them or throw them out. I threw out a lot of old projects, but not Jessica Muir. This one needed to be finished.

Beneath all the folklore and mystery, The Vanishing of Jessica Muir is also a story about grief. Jessica’s disappearance leaves a hole that the other characters can’t stop circling—unanswered questions, no closure, just absence. I wanted to write about how people cope with loss when there’s nothing to resolve. Grief works a lot like the hidden creatures in the story: always there, just out of sight, shaping everything whether you acknowledge it or not.

Looking back, it’s funny how a casual conversation about logging camp legends turned into years of work. A question asked on a whim, and suddenly I was building a world. Ideas form like that sometimes—a seed you can’t stop thinking about until it becomes the thing you have to finish.

I think we love conspiracy theories and ghost stories because we want to believe the world is stranger than it looks. The Vanishing of Jessica Muir starts with one woman going missing. It ends somewhere much weirder than that.