The Stomp Roams Navigation Map.
An introduction and a guide.
I’m so glad you’re here to share in this wilderness of weird. Welcome.
The above ship’s wheel compass emblem is a tattoo worn by many Shepherds throughout North America. These are the people who serve your meals and fix your cars (Fight Club vibes, right?). Behind the curtain, they are the silent protectors of the Fantastical population that lives on our fringes: the ‘squatches, the fairies, the musky bull bridge trolls brewing kombucha in the drainage culverts.
These are the creatures hunted and feared for their magic. To navigate their world, you might want a guide.
From this page, you can access my essays, interviews, and the sprawling Stomp Roams tapestry that lives across 280 years of magic on the North American continent.
Thank you for being here. Should your wanders bring you to a smoldering camp amidst the hemlocks with tufts of shed fur and chomped pie crusts in the mud, you can run…
Or you can follow the crumbs.
The Stomp Roams Anthology Stories.
From Manhattan in 1931 to Boston in 1774, Stomp roams to feel something. You can access all of Stomp’s heists, hopes, and bumbles through American history right here.
These are short stories to melt into with a coffee, or a beer. In a warm hibernated den in deep January or out under a tarp in a spry summer rain in July. On the subway car. Wherever you need an escape or a friend who is constantly trying to grow through his hurt.
Essays.
I have always pondered why it’s felt like such a need to write.
I once thought I was defective, because of depression that was always there, because I had to battle my mental and emotional makeup to function, because of the wildly fluctuating sense that I didn’t know how to navigate humans. I recognize now, after about a decade of learning, that I am not. All of the pieces I struggle with also inform how I create.
I’ve always wanted to make people laugh and cry. Writing makes me feel alive. I feel seen. Verbal communication is like stabbing myself in the groin with a pitchfork, and writing feels as easy as watching a marshmallow turn brown in the campfire.
Building my own worlds has always been a place of safety. It is a way to insulate myself, but also a way to connect. I hope to reach others navigating their own pain, and maybe make you smile with a well-timed sasquatch poop joke.
You can find all of my analysis and ramblings on fiction, life, and whatever else strikes my fancy right here.
Irreverently Vulnerable Interviews.
Once a month, I get into a goofy but heartfelt interview with a creator who I appreciate. We explore fears, joys, embarassments.
In these interviews, I do everything I can to pry. I want to know what wounds a person, what drives them to create, how they create, and what makes them feel a little rush of endorphins. I also want to know things like whether they would be okay robbing a koala bear family of their eucalyptus stash in exchange for a boost in creative talent.
You can find all the Irreverently Vulnerable interviews right here.
The Fantastical News Courier and other orphaned stories.
This “being a full-time creator” deal has involved a lot of trial and error. Some of it means I’ve written a bunch of one-off articles and series that I love but don’t always have the energy to do consistently. I have to be picky.
These lovable orphan stories - my flotsam - include The Fantastical News Courier, which is a totally real newspaper with headlines about bridge trolls stealing catalytic converters and he-squatches robbing candy trucks.
I also absolutely love food. So, sometimes I’ll go into a restaurant for breakfast and people-watch, and then write about it. I call these “Wildlife Watching in a Crowded Restaurant.”
All of these pieces of me that now drift around like pieces of a wooden ship in 1724 after a cannon blow, can be found right here.
I appreciate each of you who read Stomp Roams each week. You help make this wonderful.
When things feel desolate and your world crumbles, remember that you’re not alone in the experience. Somewhere out there right now there’s a hungry sasquatch on a field edge, burying its poop in a hedgerow, trying to make sense of the world.
And when everything fails and you don’t even want to relate to a hungry loinclothed sasquatch straddling a bush in a hedgerow, well…
There’s always a good story.
If you’d like to support Stomp Roams, you can share this post or tap that little “subscribe” button. Learn more about the author at www.jonathandelp.com.