Writing

I’m an Ann Arbor freelance writer available for hire. For years I’ve been fascinated by the written word. Finding the perfect way to phrase something has a profound effect on the reader.

Copywriting, editing, websites and much more. If you need a writer or editor, email me at mike@mikewaltonchronicles.com.

Price: $25 per hour (contact me for an estimate)

My writing has been published in Fishladder, Marco Polo Arts Mag, and the Rapidian. I also helped write a 2013 grant that received $5,080 for Recycle-A-Bicycle, a nonprofit program in Traverse City.

Story Cafe builds community through storytelling – Rapidian Article

Billy and Marcia Angel’s love of storytelling has followed them across oceans and continents. The couple has been hosting an evening called Story Rounds in the houses where they’ve lived in London, Whales and Florida. They would invite friends and community members to their living room to perform for one another. And now they’ve brought that invitation to participate in community storytelling experiences to Grand Rapids- at their coffeehouse, Story Cafe (444 Leonard Street NW).

Recycle-A-Bicycle grant

Recycle-A-Bicycle evolved from Don’s hobby to an important nonprofit initiative that provides free refurbished bicycles to clients referred by partner organizations such as Goodwill, the Women’s Resource Center and the 86th District Court. The increased mobility provides people in need the means to obtain and maintain regular employment that might otherwise be unavailable to them. R-A-B provides a productive complement to local transit authorities in the Grand Vision to Grand Action six-county region, expanding the transportation options available to citizens in rural communities.

Headshot – Short story appearing in Fishladder

My alarm clock buzzes, and I rush to shut it off before it wakes up Claire.
I exhale. Horror wallows in my skin under a cold sweat. In some indefinable time, maybe three minutes or maybe ten seconds, the realization sets in that I’m awake. I’m relieved, but of what I don’t know. My memory contains only brief images and scents of something red and jagged, wet and cruel. Whatever I dreamed must have been intense, because after more than a decade of being a paramedic I don’t scare easily.
Claire is still sleeping. There’s a rush of subtle and tangible terror that is somehow less oppressive than the dream terror. I kneel by her. She breathes tiny, measured breaths, and I listen for a while, watching the rise and fall of her chest before I’m satisfied.