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Twenty Years Behind the Curtain
Rope Burn follows the operations manager for a wrestling operation juggling a less-than-promising IT career, his own loneliness, and the non-stop chaos of the wrestling ring. What was the inspiration for the setup of your story?
I spent over twenty years behind the curtain, watching all kinds of people come and go through the weird, bizarre world of pro wrestling. What got me was the found-family part — how a bunch of oddballs who couldn’t be more different end up with a camaraderie that’s hard to match. Honestly, you find a version of it in any world like that: theatre, retail, food service — anywhere people share experiences that “normal” folks don’t quite understand. I could have written a memoir about my time in the business, but the truth is, if I told the real stories I saw, nobody would believe them.
Why did you choose Luke Anderson—a behind-the-scenes operations manager—rather than a wrestler as the primary narrator?
At first, this was going to be a book about two trainees — one with natural gifts and unlimited potential, the other hardworking and earnest. Some of that stayed. But as I started writing, the most interesting character that emerged wasn’t a wrestler at all. I understand why wrestlers do it: the glory, the applause, the recognition. But why does Luke do it? That’s less obvious — and a lot more interesting to explore.
And what pulled me toward Luke specifically was that his role is singular — no one else does what he does, and that makes him the loneliest man in the building (or close to it). That ache is what I wanted to write about.
The novel asks difficult questions about who gets protected in entertainment industries. Was that theme intentional from the beginning?
I think of myself primarily as a storyteller, so no — I didn’t set out to write about who gets protected. And honestly, that word stopped me when I first heard the question, because in wrestling, “protecting” someone is a good thing. You protect your opponent in the ring so nobody gets hurt. You protect a guy’s booking so he stays believable. It’s a form of care. It’s how you keep people safe.
So it took me a second to realize the question meant the other kind — where the people with money and charisma get shielded from the consequences of who they are, and the people they hurt get managed and dismissed. Same word, opposite meaning. I didn’t plan to put that in the book. But if you tell the truth about this world, it’s already there. The contradiction was living inside the vocabulary the whole time.
When readers finish the novel, what feeling do you hope lingers longest: nostalgia, hope, heartbreak, or something else entirely?
I hope people feel seen. Especially if you’ve ever loved something so much you can’t explain why you keep at it — even when family, friends, and plain common sense are telling you to quit. Wrestling is one of those things: once it’s in your blood, it’s hard to stop. People seldom fully retire from it. It has a hold on you that’s hard to explain — and I don’t think the book even tries to. Instead, I hope it just lets you feel it, alongside Luke and the rest of them.
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Luke Anderson has spent fifteen years behind the curtain – designing flyers, managing egos, cleaning blood off concrete floors, and holding together a small-time Indiana wrestling operation that its owner keeps trying to burn down.
He’s not a wrestler. He doesn’t take bumps. But he’s the one who makes sure the show goes on – even when the champion can’t stand up, the new kid can’t be trusted, and a rich outsider with deep pockets is circling.
Every Friday night at the Elmwood Armory, a few hundred fans pay to believe in something they know isn’t real. Behind the curtain, a handful of wrestlers – a scarred veteran who doesn’t know who he is without the business, a 400-pound gentle giant who’s never once complained, a woman fighting for respect in a world that wasn’t built for her, and a hungry kid who listens – put their bodies on the line for fifty bucks and a hot dog.
Luke keeps it all running. What he can’t explain is why he’s sacrificed every relationship, every career opportunity, and every Friday night for fifteen years to prop up someone else’s dream.
Some passions leave marks that never fade.
Rope Burn
Kirk Sheppard’s Rope Burn is a funny and surprisingly tender novel about independent professional wrestling and the people who keep showing up long after common sense says they should quit. The story follows Luke Anderson, the operations manager for Stan Weizenschmidt Promotions, as he juggles a shaky IT career, a lonely personal life, and the nonstop chaos of a small wrestling company where every crisis becomes part of the show. Early on, the book gives you one of its cleanest mission statements: “Some passions leave marks that never fade.” That idea runs through every chapter, from busted bodies and bad paydays to the strange thrill of hearing a crowd buy into the moment.
What makes the book work so well is how authentic the wrestling world feels. The armories, folding chairs, bad lighting, cheap payouts, post-show wings, and backstage arguments all have the texture of real experience. Sheppard doesn’t treat indie wrestling like a punchline or a fantasyland. He shows it as a messy ecosystem filled with dreamers, veterans, manipulators, lifers, and fans who want to believe. Luke’s narration is sharp and dry, but there’s affection underneath it. Even when he’s annoyed, exhausted, or fully aware that Stan is using him, he understands why the whole thing matters.
The cast gives the novel its heart. Joey’s rise from eager trainee to unexpected champion is genuinely easy to root for, especially because he listens, works hard, and cares about the craft. Stew brings warmth and humor without ever becoming a caricature. Amber’s scenes add needed weight, especially when the book looks at how women have to navigate the same broken system with added danger and dismissal. Trent, meanwhile, is the kind of toxic talent everyone recognizes too late, and his storyline gives the book some of its sharpest commentary on who gets protected when money and charisma are involved.
Luke’s personal arc sneaks up on you. At first, he seems like the guy behind the curtain who knows how everything works, but the deeper the novel goes, the clearer it becomes that he’s as trapped by the business as any wrestler taking bumps for gas money. His job at Silvertech, his strained relationship with his mother, his hesitant connection with Rachel, and his loyalty to Stan all circle the same question: what do you owe to something that keeps taking from you? That tension gives the book more emotional depth than a simple backstage wrestling story would have.
Rope Burn knows the business can be exploitative, ridiculous, moving, addictive, and magical, sometimes all in the same night. One late line captures the title’s meaning beautifully: “It hurts until it doesn’t.” I feel like that’s the novel in miniature. Sheppard has written a book about calluses, loyalty, performance, and the strange communities people build around shared pain. It’s conversational, funny, and full of bruised sincerity, with a final stretch that understands exactly why someone might walk away and why they might turn right back around.
Pages: 288 | ASIN : B0GMLMSNVV
