The story behind the story of my publishing venture isn't what most people expect - or maybe it is.

Tobin Holden

September 11, 2025

From Pencil Struggles to Publishing Dreams

My relationship with writing started on rocky ground. Back in primary school, I absolutely dreaded anything that required holding a pencil for extended periods. Fine-motor activities were my nemesis – whether it was handwriting practice, art projects, or craft time, I found myself struggling and frankly hating every minute of it. My teachers probably wondered if I'd ever develop the coordination needed for basic tasks. Unfortunately, I was a bit unruly when young and my folks were asked to move me to another school quite often (3 nursery schools and 4 primary schools). Fortunately, when we moved to Lewiston, ID the teachers accepted me and said I was just an over-active boy. Unfortunately, and ironically I suppose, this active boy probably spent more time in the hallway writing lines of, "I will not......." than actually getting out to recess, further cementing my angst at the thought of writing.

What strikes me as beautifully ironic is how this challenge never passed down to my daughters. They both inherited writing talents that I could only dream of possessing at their age. Watching them flourish where I once floundered became one of those parenting moments that shifts your entire perspective. Their natural ability with words, their comfort with storytelling, and their genuine enthusiasm for creative writing made me realize something important: maybe my role wasn't to be the writer in the family, but to help amplify their voices.

This revelation planted the first seeds of what would eventually become Restless Rogue Press. I started exploring the publishing world not necessarily because I had stories burning inside me to tell, but because I wanted to understand how to help talented writers – especially my daughters – share their work with the world. I'll admit upfront that this blog carries a proud father's bias, but I believe you'll understand why once you see what sparked this entire journey. Nevertheless, please read with a generous eye. My daughters' stories which follow are submissions to contests or assignments and are not polished or refined. I’m posting them so you can sense their promise and see how their talent lit a spark in their father.

The Moment Everything Clicked

My awakening to Dee's true storytelling gift happened during our first annual writing competition at our international school in Yantai, China. My daughter, Dee, was in eleventh grade then, and I remember feeling both excited and nervous about this new event we were hosting.

Ms. Evans, our former high school English teacher, brought an energy to that Saturday morning that I hadn't experienced since my own school days. She worked with middle and high school students in a morning session that had everyone buzzing with creative energy. After the workshop and a quick break, reality set in – it was competition time.

The setup was intentionally challenging. Students spread across several rooms, each working under strict testing conditions. They received five pages of lined paper, basic writing tools, and exactly two hours to craft a complete short story. No extensions, no tech, no resources, no exceptions. The visual prompts came from three Soularium® cards – three different images and one of them had to somehow feature in their stories (no pre-canned stories).

The supervisors told me that Dee studied the three options carefully before settling on what seemed like the most challenging choice: a lonely tree standing atop a barren hill. While other students grabbed more obvious prompts with clear narrative possibilities, she chose the abstract, the minimal, the image that required the most imagination to bring to life. This is her winning entry:

Dihzinlik Holden, Yantai 1st Annual Creative Writing Competition, 2021

It was the evening after his master’s funeral.

Well, according to the son it was. To him, days had passed already. Weeks. Months.

He was not particularly fond of all the people milling in and out of the old manor. When his master was still alive, there was practically no one. But change came with more change, and this one was too harsh. Too painful.

“Father, father, father… what am I supposed to do?”

The older male glanced at the master’s son. He hadn’t been in the manor long enough himself, but still long enough to know that his master and the youth were not on good terms.

The youth now sat at his father’s desk.

Dark chestnut hair and gray eyes, a frown that never seemed to leave him, and tall enough to look down on the old master. This was Henry Grymwood, only living child of master Silas Grymwood, and last of the bloodline.

Wait, no—he did see Henry smile once.

It was many days ago, but he and the old master were taking a walk. He could sense that Master Silas had been becoming frailer, so it was only natural for him to stay closer than usual. When they had returned from the garden, he’d sensed something unusual. Confusing. His master was completely cold, and angry enough to make even himself uneasy. There were men in the house, strangers he didn’t recognize but Henry knew. He was laughing with them, after all.

He knew the master was uncomfortable. Silas hated the strangers in his house, but… why wasn’t he doing anything? Wasn’t he going to chase them out? Perhaps the master wanted him to do so. He hardly knew, but he gave a wheezing sort of warning to them. The people Silas Grymwood didn’t like. They’d paused for a bit, and Henry stopped smiling when he saw his father, but nothing happened. They carried on as usual, ignoring the master.

And himself? Confused. Helpless. All he could do was look from Silas to Henry and back again. He knew from then that the order had shifted. Master Silas was no longer in charge.

Henry now sighed, frustrated as he dropped the papers on the old wood, and rubbed his face. “What am I going to do with the property, father?”

Henry was a sorry sight now, though he wondered if even the strangers would make the young man smile again. He sighed quietly, letting his head lower. It would have been good to help him with the running of the manor, as he did for the father, but he was just too old. His bones were too tired.

“Do you think I’ll be able to do it, Arthur?” Henry asked suddenly. Perhaps his movement reminded the young man that he was also in the late master’s study.

He gave another sigh in response, turning to the crackling fireplace. Not much he could say anyways. He was settled in the spot that he usually retired to this time at night. The master usually spoke of things on his mind: of art and poetry, and other things he didn’t understand. It was alright, though. For a mute needn’t say much, and he was used to being silent.

He heard Henry stand, and though he wasn’t able to see him properly, he thought he sat across from Master Silas’s chair. “Good old Arthur Berwyn,” he said quietly. “I’m glad Father took you in, even if you both knew each other for only a few years. At least there was someone to comfort him, when… mother died.”

Berwyn raised his eyes towards Henry. Grief shrouded the young man as he looked into the fireplace, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to do much to help.

He did appreciate his name being spoken, though. Only the late master had used it, so he hadn’t been called upon since he’d died.

Names were interesting, weren’t they? When Master Silas had met him, he didn’t have one. He was so old he forgot his own name. It wasn’t as if there was anyone to speak it anyways. Arthur Berwyn was what Master Silas gave him when he agreed to stay at the manor. Keeping things in order. Being a kindred spirit.

Arthur Berwyn wasn’t his first name, but it was the only one that mattered.

“He liked hunting, you know,” Henry reminisced. Berwyn blinked, mind stirring gently at the words. “You would have made a fine hunting companion in your youth.”

Well, it wasn’t false. Berwyn was a capable hunter when he was younger, with keen eyes and a strong build. Now his hair was unkept, muscles stringy and joints tight. He could hardly know why stalking was exciting anymore.

A knock at the door brought them both back to the present.

“Come in,” Henry ordered.

The handle turned and a maid’s uniform entered. “Charles Merwick is here to see you, sir. Shall I send him in?”

“Yes, yes. Please do so.”

The door shut once more, and Henry stood, staring up at the ceiling. “You’d better be happy, Father,” he muttered. He seemed to be pulled towards a far cabinet, opening it to take out a bottle and glass.

A knock rapped at the door again.

“Enter.”

Berwyn looked towards the man. It was one of the strangers from that day.

“Henry,” the man grinned. His suit was bright in color, and the voice almost too sweet. “I’m more than happy to close the deal today but- “

“Do you know what my father told me, when he asked me to come discuss the will?” Henry was not smiling.

“Well, uh… that the manor would be in your possession.”

“Correct. Do you know what he said, when I told him I was going to look into prospective buyers? That I was going to sell the land?”

“…I think- “

“He told me,” Henry turned around, hand in pocket, glass in hand. But his eyes were cold. “He told me quietly that he trusted my decision.”

“And I think you’ve made a mighty fine- “

“That if I were to sell it, he requested it be done after he died.”

The man hesitated. “I’m not quite sure I’m quite following here, Henry.”

Henry just held his stare for a moment, then looked down at the glass. The thick liquid swirled around as he simmered in his thoughts, but soon brought it to his lips and drank it all. “I’m keeping the manor.”

The man’s eyes bulged, and he tried to scramble for words, but Henry cut him off again. “This isn’t negotiable, Merwick. Sit down and have a glass. There are other matters to discuss.”

Berwyn felt uncomfortable as the stranger came closer, so he heaved himself up to his feet, lungs and legs protesting.

“That’s old Silas’s dog, right?” The stranger said suddenly. “He’s mangier than I remember.”

“He’s just old, Merwick. Leave him be.” Henry gave him a glass as well, and Berwyn started towards the door.

“What’s its name?”

“…Arthur Berwyn.”

“’Arthur Berwyn’?” He echoed. “Why the two?”

“Ask the deceased.”

“Right,” the man tapped his head, chest, and shoulders. “Sorry.”

Berwyn nosed the door open, seeing it partially ajar, but looked back again at Henry. He sat in Master Silas’s chair now.

Truly, perhaps Berwyn should have been there longer, just for him, but it was time. His master was calling.

He made his way out of the door and through the halls, past the paintings and things that could not be touched. He made his way past the garden, where his master had talked and called and was happy. He made it past the stables and up the hill where a single willow waited, softly swaying its leaves. Greeting. Beckoning.

His chest was heaving by the time he sat down by the grave. It was hard to do much else.

It was not very large, for he wasn’t a tall man, and there weren’t any flowers because everyone knew he hated them. It was simple, with a deep black tombstone set into the earth, and enough grass to be comfortable. Yes, Master Silas would have liked this spot.

Berwyn let out a wide yawn, as much as his body would allow, and settled by the foot of the grave. He laid his head down on his paws, large body letting his weight rest. And Arthur Berwyn sighed for the last time, following his master’s voice to return to his side.

MASTER’S CALL

One Year Later, After Discovering Dee Could Write...

Mr. Bailey was a terrific English teacher

Mr. Bailey brought something special to our sixth-grade classroom that year. He had this knack for making English accessible to middle schoolers, turning grammar lessons into detective games, and somehow convincing reluctant readers that books could actually be exciting. His enthusiasm was infectious – you could see it in the way students' faces lit up during class discussions about character motivations or plot twists. He never talked down to the kids, treating their ideas and interpretations with genuine respect. When a student offered an unconventional reading of a poem, Mr. Bailey would lean in with real curiosity, asking follow-up questions that made the student feel like a literary scholar. I was grateful to be able to observe his class, knowing my daughter was in capable hands.

Unfortunately, he had to return to the United States to receive cancer treatment

The news hit our small international school community hard. Mr. Bailey's departure mid-year wasn't just losing a teacher – it felt like losing a cornerstone of our academic program. Cancer doesn't care about lesson plans or semester schedules, and watching such a vibrant educator face this battle was heartbreaking for everyone who knew him. His colleagues rallied around him, offering support and hoping for his recovery, while simultaneously scrambling to figure out how to maintain the high standards he'd set for his English classes. The timing couldn't have been worse from an educational standpoint, but of course, his health had to come first.

Doubly unfortunately, I had to be the emergency substitute teacher for the rest of the semester. Luckily for the students, it was mid-way through the third quarter.

Stepping into Mr. Bailey's shoes felt like trying to fill an ocean with a teacup. My background was in administration, mathematics and physical education, not English literature, and suddenly I found myself responsible for teaching grammar, creative writing, and novel analysis to a room full of sixth graders who were still processing their beloved teacher's absence. The silver lining was that this happened during the second semester – by then, Mr. Bailey had already established classroom routines, covered foundational concepts, and built strong relationships with the students. They knew what was expected of them, and I could lean on the groundwork he'd already laid. Still, transitioning from handling schedules and budgets to discussing metaphors and character development was quite the learning curve.

One day I was annoyed with my students because none of them had submitted entries for the Creative Writing magazine

The deadline for submissions to our school's annual literary magazine was approaching fast, and Ms. Evan's inbox remained stubbornly empty of sixth grade submissions. This wasn't just any publication – our high school seniors put tremendous effort into curating and producing this magazine each year, and they depended on contributions from all grade levels. The sixth graders seemed completely uninterested, despite my repeated announcements and encouragements.

That particular year, the seniors had chosen "If" as the magazine's title, which opened up endless possibilities for creative exploration. My frustration was building – here was a real opportunity for these students to see their work in print, to be part of something bigger than their classroom assignments, and they were letting it slip by. Something needed to change, and it needed to change quickly. Therefore, with twenty minutes remaining in class, I assigned all the students to write either a poem or short story with "If" in the title. Considering it was only a twenty minute free writing exercise I was pleasantly surprised with some of the submissions and some of the pieces were actually accepted by the magazine.

My youngest daughter was in that English class and her twenty minute free write knocked my socks off

Reading through the submissions that day, I came across my daughter's piece and had to do a double take. Her story wove together imagination, pacing, and emotion in ways that seemed far beyond her years. The voice was authentic, the imagery vivid, and the narrative had this natural flow that kept me engaged from the first sentence to the last. As her parent, I knew she devoured books like other kids consumed video games, and yes, she could talk your ear off with elaborate stories about everything from playground drama to her latest reading adventure. But seeing her thoughts organized on paper, effortlessly handing the grammar of dialog and building tension – that was something else entirely. Maybe I should have seen this coming, given her love for storytelling, but there's something magical about discovering your child's talents in an unexpected moment like this.

The streets were bustling today. Shouting echoed around the big market. Colors pop in front of me: red, yellow, green, purple, and pastels. “No”, I thought to myself, shaking my head, “that’s not what I’m here for.” While shaking my head to wave off the distraction, a kid bumped into me, and I snapped into focus.

I observed the kid for moment: yellow t-shirt and blue ripped jeans. Then I realized something; the kid realized it, too. My eyes scanned the kid’s face and we made eye-contact for a split second. My hand shot out, but I was too slow. The kid was gone. He glanced back at me as he ran past everyone in the crowded market. I ran after him as I tightly gripped my walkie-talkie, “I found him!”

I swept past the fruit and vegetable hawkers, colors blinding my eyes. “Fourth avenue market!” I shouted, my eyes never leaving the fleeing kid. He ran and flew over the pavement as I pursued him. The chimes in a shop rang loudly. “You sure it’s him?” a deep voice returned from the walkie-talkie. “Yes!” I hissed under my panting breath. “It’s got to be him.”

As I turned the corner, the boy threw a rock at me in panic. I dodged and yelled into the mic, “Go downtown to 6th street!” With ragged breathing and tightened chest, I gritted my teeth in annoyance and fury. I needed to corner him.

He tore down an alleyway and then realized it was a dead end. He looked back and forth until he saw me advancing. I slowed down and continued towards him uneasily. With legs shaking with exhaustion, I told him as calmly as I could, “Put the syringe down and we can talk about this.”

He smirked and looked straight at me. “Too late, officer.” he said slowly. He jabbed the needle into his neck and hissed at the pain.

Electric green eyes bulged, and tentacles dripping black poison sprang out of his back. I froze in terror as it screamed in pain or rage.

“An alien” I gasped in panic. “I guess we didn’t exterminate them all in 2030,” I thought to myself. He nodded in reply as his back arched and blood oozed out of his open skull. His deadly green eyes stared directly at me as he whispered, “It’s your turn now, friend.”

5th Annual Creative Writing Contest, Spring 2025

Zoe moved up to the high-school division of the creative-writing contest this year, and—yet again—she blew me away with her imagination and depth, all while under the pressure of competition. She picked a cartoon prompt showing a hand either slipping a black envelope into a mailbox or yanking it out; the envelope sported a pair of furious eyes glaring at the box. As in past years, the students had just two hours to choose their image and craft a story. What follows is her prize-winning entry.

Fast forward three years and Zoe is still full of surprises...

If It Weren’t for Drugs

Zauzian "Zoe" Holden, Spring 2022

Caroline did not remember many things. Days fogged over like the wispy clouds that would hide the sun. Every minute of her day was like an eternal loop. Her skin sagged over years of life, and her wrinkles cut through her skin like rivers etched in the ground, ebbing life. Though, she remembered one thing. A child named Mark Jones.

She could scarcely recall the memory of his smile, much less remember what his eyes looked like. Through her buzzing mind, she could barely make out a chestnut lock of hair, and a big grin.

She remembered his giggles and the quiet pattering of feet, like a clumsy puppy. She remembered the small fingers gripping onto her skirt, as he would babble in excitement as he saw her. How his little cries of delight would bubble laughter from hers as he giggled. His small hands would cling onto her when she held him, as he fondled her jewelry, fascinated. How the small fingertips and the windows would sway, leaving his prints behind. Caroline remembered sighing, as she wiped the once dirty windowpanes, and how her back would ache as she bent down to clean his toys. Her baby, her child.

As he grew taller, so did his connection with his mother.

Too quickly, the chatter about nothing came to cease, and the little conversations about school dissipated. Soon after, he signed up to fight in the war. Caroline could remember the terror seeping in, slowly checking her.

Like a bad dream she recalled conversations between her boy and his father, and his father proudly patting him on the back. Caroline could feel herself break.

Caroline would walk into her church, praying desperately for her darling child to come back safely, till her knees ached from the marble floor, and she shook from the violence of her prayers.

Slowly but silently, she felt herself grow hopeful as her husband spoke of the war getting better. However, the ache in her heart wouldn't leave. Writing letters to her boy, her grip would continue to tighten around her cross necklace.

Caroline remembered the day. It was a slightly sunny day--one that hadn't happened in a long time. Her once-fitting clothes felt hollow. They sagged from her body. She wore a long simple dress and was in the kitchen when she received the mail. It was an odd black envelope, a bit rough to touch. She peered curiously at the letter before opening it.

Caroline felt time stop, as the dull ringing in her ears grew louder and louder. She couldn't feel anything as her hands trembled, and as her husband snatched the letter to read it. Time seemed to blur and blot. There was a muffled silence in that aching home. The house felt too big, too empty, as if something had removed its soul.

Caroline did not cry. She didn't sob as the days ebbed by, she didn't scream when she went to the funeral, staring emptily at the vacant casket. No urn was placed, and no remembrance of her child was here.

The cross that she would squeeze with anguish and hope was thrown, dry blood caked within its creases. Her faith was gone, replaced with terrible anger. If there was a god, he would have to beg for her forgiveness.

Caroline walked around her house aimlessly, before noticing something brightly colored in the spare room. She pushed the door open weakly, before kneeling down. It was a toy. A small, brightly colored wind-up toy. As she twisted it and placed it on the ground, the room was filled with the childish song. As the toy hopped about the room, she stared for a long time, the tune seemed so far away.

She remembered buying it for Mark, and how he begged her for it. Slowly, small droplets hit the toy before touching the ground. Slowly, the tune was drowned out by her tears. Her voice echoed around the room as she slowly started sobbing, her wails a testimony of her loss. That day Caroline Jones mourned the loss of her child.

Child of War

Zauzian "Zoe" Holden, Spring 2025, 5th Annual Creative Writing Contest

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