Trusting the Spark of Intuition: How One Image Inspired Winter Zero

 

As a writer, I’ve always been a plotter. I thrive on structure—knowing where my story is going before I dive into the prose. Outlines are my roadmap, and my characters don’t take a single step without me knowing where they’ll end up. But every once in a while, something unexpected happens: a single image, a visual spark, stops me dead in my tracks. And in that instant, I know—this isn’t just inspiration; it’s a story waiting to be told. It’s not planned, it’s not part of my current series, and it might not even be a genre I’m comfortable with, but I feel it so deeply that I can’t ignore it. That’s when I set aside my carefully plotted plans and let intuition take the wheel.

That’s exactly how Winter Zero began.

I remember the moment vividly. It was early April 2022, and I was scrolling through a site full of pre-made book covers, as I often do when I need a little inspiration. Most of the time, I browse for hours, rejecting hundreds—sometimes thousands—of covers because they don’t quite fit my vision or my genre. But then I saw her. She was standing in a tunnel, her leather jacket torn and frayed, a lace collar peeking out—a strange but striking contrast. Her green hair fell messily around her face, which was covered in cybernetic plates revealing intricate digital circuitry beneath. The tunnel walls were cracked and damaged, hinting at a world that had seen better days. I instantly knew that her name was going to be Snow Southbridge.  That intuition was very strong.

She wasn’t just a striking image; she was a character. A story. Someone who had survived something, someone caught between worlds—human and machine, corporate and rebel, past and present. And in that moment, I knew. This wasn’t just a cover. It was her story, and I was going to tell it.

I could feel the weight of her journey even before I had a plot. Who was she? Why was she in that tunnel? Was she trapped in some underground corporate facility? What was her mission? Her torn jacket and the damaged tunnel screamed of a world far removed from the sleek, neon-lit cyberpunk settings I’d seen before. It wasn’t just cyberpunk; it was post-apocalyptic too. A cross-genre story. Something grittier, harsher. I didn’t have all the answers yet, but the questions were alive in my mind.

The title came quickly—Winter Zero. It felt perfect: a blend of cyberpunk grit and the cold, relentless emptiness of a post-apocalyptic world. I didn’t know if “winter” referred to a nuclear winter, the fallout of climate collapse, or something more symbolic, but I liked the ambiguity. And “Zero” had that sharp, edgy cyberpunk flavor I love. It was a title that left room for the story to grow.

Within a few days, I reached out to the artist, Juan J. Padrón, who runs jcovers.com Not only did he deliver that stunning cover, but he also offered me two additional covers in the same trade dress, creating a cohesive look for an entire trilogy. I bought all three on the spot, knowing that this wasn’t just a one-off story—it was a world waiting to be explored.

But even with the covers in hand, the story itself took time. A lot of time. It’s been 2 years and 7 months since I saw that cover for the first time, and now Winter Zero is finally in its first draft, moving into edits. There were entire seasons where I didn’t write a single word on it. Not because I didn’t love the idea, but because I couldn’t quite pin it down. The protagonist wasn’t just a tool of corporate power or a rogue cyborg; she was a survivor with a mission of her own. The world wasn’t just a backdrop—it was a character in itself, shaped by climate collapse, technological decay, and humanity’s mistakes. These ideas took time to take shape, and I had to be patient.

Sometimes, I think stories need to simmer. They wait for the right moment, for the right pieces to click into place. That’s how it was with Winter Zero. Eventually, I found the connections that made the story work—the balance between her cybernetic nature and her humanity, the blend of cyberpunk aesthetic with post-apocalyptic grit, and the deeply personal stakes driving her journey. And once those pieces clicked, the story began to flow. It wasn’t just about her escape; it was about her fight to reclaim herself and her world.

Now, as I work through the edits, I look back on this journey with a sense of awe. It’s incredible to think how far the story has come—from a single image to a living, breathing narrative. Writing it has reminded me how much of my process, even as a plotter, relies on trusting my intuition. That spark of inspiration is rare and precious, and when it strikes, I’ve learned to listen. Even when the path forward isn’t clear, even when it takes years, I’ve learned to trust that the story will find its way.

Not every spark turns into a book. Some ideas fade or lead me down dead ends, and that’s okay. But when I see something and feel that deep pull, that knowing that I need to tell this story, I listen. Because sometimes, the stories that choose you are the ones that end up meaning the most.

If you’ve ever had a moment like this—whether you’re a writer, artist, or creator—I’d love to hear about it. What inspires you?

How do you know when a story, a painting, or a project is yours, despite conventional wisdom? 

Let’s talk about the sparks that keep us creating.

From Neuromancer to Virtual Haven: The Journey Behind Winter Zero

Back in the early days of PC gaming—before the internet was a big deal—I stumbled across a game called Neuromancer. At the time, I had no idea it was based on William Gibson’s iconic cyberpunk novel. I was just a kid playing a game about hacking and shady corporations, drawn into its futuristic aesthetic and the thrill of navigating a digital dystopia. I didn’t realize it at the time, but that was my first real introduction to the cyberpunk genre.

Fast forward a few years, and along came Mike Pondsmith’s Cyberpunk role-playing game. That was my first dive into tabletop cyberpunk, and it was pretty cool. But truthfully, I didn’t latch onto the genre with the same fervor I had for the sci-fi RPG Traveller. Traveller had always been my go-to for sprawling space adventures and interstellar politics, and cyberpunk was more of a sideline interest. Then Cyberpunk 2020 hit the shelves, and everything changed.

With Cyberpunk 2020, the world of cyberpunk started to make sense to me. The loss of humanity in the face of rising technology, the erosion of individual agency under the shadow of mega-corporations, and the bleak beauty of a dystopian world—it all clicked. The sheer depth of content Pondsmith’s team and third-party publishers released, from modules to setting guides, allowed me to see the genre’s narrative potential. Cyberpunk wasn’t just neon lights and chrome; it was a warning.

And now, here we are. It’s 2024, and we don’t yet live in the full dystopia of Cyberpunk 2020—no mega-corporations running everything, not quite—but I feel like we’re edging closer. Cell phones, laptops, and the internet dominate daily life. Cybernetic medicine, which seemed like pure sci-fi decades ago, is a reality. Corporations pour billions into elections, shaping policies to their benefit, and oligarchic structures feel more present than ever. As I look at the world today, it feels like the cyberpunk warnings of the ‘80s and ‘90s weren’t so far off.

A few years ago, I was running Cyberpunk Red, another RPG in Pondsmith’s iconic series, online on roll20 (my normal online RPG gaming platform), when I stumbled across Cities: Skylines. I had been a big fan of SimCity 4 back in the day, so I instantly bought it and then decided to use the Skylines city simulator to design my own cyberpunk setting. I called it Virtual Haven, and what’s so fascinating about that process is how intimately I know the city. I didn’t just imagine it—I built it. Its districts grew and shifted organically, and its sprawl and decay felt natural because I watched it evolve piece by piece. That hands-on creation gave Virtual Haven a level of depth I don’t think I could’ve achieved otherwise. It became a character in itself.

Somewhere along this journey, I discovered an incredible artist named Juan José Villar Padrón. One day, I saw a cover he’d created: a green-haired cyborg young woman in what looked like an industrial maintenance tunnel, wires and neon surrounding her. The facility was damaged, and so was she—scarred, battered, and somehow resilient. That image stuck with me. I had no story in mind at first, but I couldn’t let her go. I bought the cover, and when Juan offered me a three-cover promotion, I jumped on it. That was the moment Winter Zero started taking shape.

Late last night, I typed End of Book One on the last page of the draft of Winter Zero. 

It’s been a long journey to get here, but I’m proud of how far the story has come. The novel’s cyberpunk/post-apocalypse setting feels more alive than I could’ve hoped for, and the themes—humanity versus technology, resilience amid despair, and the power of hope—are ones I think resonate deeply today. There’s still work to do—revisions, beta readers, and advance review copies—but I’m excited to push for a release in a few months.

Ironically, as dark as the coming dystopia may seem, it’s what many people are voting for. Whether we realize it or not, the decisions we make today could lead us closer to the corporate oligarchies and societal divides cyberpunk has warned about for decades. I hope the world I’ve envisioned in Winter Zero doesn’t come to pass, but writing it has reminded me of the importance of staying vigilant—and the strength we can find in the stories we tell.

The Paradox of Imagination in Writing

One of the most fascinating aspects of being a writer is living with the tension between what I envision and what my readers will see in their minds. When I create a scene—a sleek spaceship hiding in the shadow of a swirling gas giant—it’s a vivid, cinematic moment in my head. I can see the colors, feel the tension, and sense every subtle detail of the environment. I use words to translate this vision, carefully choosing each description to guide the reader toward what I see. But here’s the irony: no matter how precise my language is, every reader’s experience will be different.

Each person brings their own imagination, their own memories, and their own filters to the story. My gas giant might have shades of green and blue, vast and menacing, but a reader might picture it with shades of violet or swirling reds—equally majestic, yet different from what I envisioned. And that’s the strange beauty of it: the reader’s mind fills in the gaps, making the story a shared experience, yet one that is uniquely theirs.

In a way, every reader rewrites the story in their mind, adapting it based on their perceptions. I provide the skeleton of the world, the bare bones of the scene, and the reader’s imagination breathes life into it. It’s the art of writing—knowing that my vision is just one version of the story, while countless others exist in the minds of those who read it.

And then there’s the challenge of visualizing something as grand as a gas giant, with its impossible scale and shifting colors. Words can paint a picture, but there’s an ineffable quality to such a sight that even language struggles to capture. An image, like the ones I create or commission, can add another layer—it’s more information-dense, able to convey the intricate swirls and shadows of the planet in an instant. But even then, it’s just one interpretation, one version of the place I imagined. The irony is that the more vivid the picture I try to create, the more it diverges from what each reader will see in their own mind.

Maybe that’s the beauty of it. The story isn’t mine alone; it’s a collaboration between writer and reader, a shared dream shaped by both our imaginations. My vision is the spark, but the reader’s mind is the flame.

The Quiet Mourning of an Ideal

I’ve been struggling with something lately, and I think it’s time I try to put it into words. It’s not quite sadness; it’s not anger either. It’s more like a hollow acceptance. I’m writing this from my home in Thailand, far from the country I was born into, the country I served in the Navy with pride, and the country where my family wore uniforms, as police officers and military personnel, to protect something we all once believed in: the ideals of America. The Constitution, The Bill of Rights. The Rule of Law.

But lately, I’ve realized those ideals feel shattered, like shards of a glass too fine to ever piece back together. There’s no real sense of mourning left in me anymore, because how do you mourn something that no longer exists in any recognizable form? How do you grieve when you’re not even sure what has died?

I see what’s happening now, and it feels like watching an old friend fade away—not in a sudden, tragic accident, but in the slow, inevitable decline of someone who lost their way years ago. The America I once knew, the one I was willing to fight for, is just... gone. I remember the pride I felt for the country that stood for something beyond power, beyond politics. A country that valued integrity and the rule of law, a country that honored the service of its people because it was founded on shared principles and mutual respect.

But today, it feels like those principles have been traded for blind allegiance to the whims of a convicted felon who now returns in a few months as President. He isn’t there to serve the people; he’s there to be served, and the only loyalty that matters is the loyalty shown to him. It feels as though the core of the nation—the soul of it, if you will—has been hollowed out, leaving behind only a shell where real leaders once stood.

And maybe that’s why I feel numb, rather than sad. I’ve come to accept that the America I once believed in... isn’t coming back. It was not perfect, but it was someone I could work with. Mostly trust to do the right thing, most of the time.

But now? It’s like the loss of a fellow service member, someone you once shared a machinegun mount with. Someone you saw every day at morning muster, and trusted, literally with your life. and you KNEW, if you went down, your buddies would try to get you to a medic, covering you, bringing you clear of harm. and now that person, that you knew as a brother, or a sister, is gone, wasted, ticket punched, whose absence you feel in your bones long before you ever hear the official word ferom higher higher. 

There’s no rage in this acceptance, only a deep, unspoken sigh and a quiet, unremarkable sort of grief. I keep trying to explain this to my wife, but it’s hard to find the words. It’s not a sadness for the loss of what I understood America to be itself—it’s more like a resigned acknowledgment. An acceptance that the country I once knew and loved, the country my family fought to protect, is no more...and it is likely not to endure. and the irony is, like Hitler's Germany, nearly a century ago... people voted for the man, who harnessed the hate,who promised them everyrthing, that he alone could solve it... that he would exterminate the vermin, the undesireables, and lead the thousand-year Reich...and years later his country lay in ruins.

Living here in Thailand, there’s no joyous escape from that realization. I’m not overjoyed to have left in the first few days of 2016.; I didn’t leave because I wanted to abandon my homeland. I left because the place I would have lived in was going to be at that time, life under Trump. And then, for a few years, breathing room.  But now? 80 million have voted to remove democracy, and install a self-proclaimed dictator who is working as a foreign agent for our enemies. The country My family wanted to see for the stories I told of my childhood, the country that I would have gone back to... doesn’t exist anymore. It’s not the country I remember, not the place where the ideals of democracy and freedom held sway, not the country where service was a noble calling.

And so, I find myself living with this odd numbness. It’s not that I feel nothing; it’s that what I feel is muted, dull, like a knife that’s lost its edge. I still hold on to my own ideals—I still believe in truth, in justice, in the value of serving something greater than yourself. But I no longer believe that these ideals have a home in the country I once proudly called mine.

Maybe someday, that country will find its way back. Maybe someday, those shards of broken glass will be swept up and forged into something new, something different, but worthy of the same pride and loyalty that I once felt. Until then, all I can do is accept what’s lost, mourn quietly in my own way, and keep moving forward.

Because that’s what we do, isn’t it? When the battle’s over and the dust settles, we bury the fallen and press on. We learn to live with the ache of what’s missing, and we make peace with the silence that follows.

I guess that’s all I can do now.

Navigating the Hero’s Journey: The Story Behind the Story

 

In every great story, the hero faces a moment of doubt—a point where the obstacles seem insurmountable and the path forward feels like it’s crumbling beneath their feet. It’s the moment where they question everything, wondering if they have the strength to continue. I’ve been thinking a lot about that moment lately because, in many ways, I’m living it.

I’m in the middle of launching my second book, Merchant of Fortune, in a month and a half, while still putting the finishing touches on the final edits for Merchant of Vision. It’s a whirlwind, to say the least. On top of that, I’m in the middle of a move into a new house, which (as anyone who’s moved before knows) is a chaotic process in itself. There are boxes everywhere, we are working to close out the old house, and the kids are upset that we're leaving our old home that they lived in virtually since being born, and the high-speed internet still isn't connected yet. It feels like I’m trying to finish a marathon while juggling flaming swords.

But here’s the thing: heroes aren’t defined by how smooth their journey is. They’re defined by their willingness to keep going, no matter what. That’s a lesson I’ve learned both from writing these stories and from living them.

The Real-Life Hero’s Journey

When I write characters like Kars Vandor, I’m inspired by the challenges we all face in real life. Kars isn’t a hero because everything comes easily to him. He’s a hero because he makes the choice, every single day, to push forward despite the odds. Whether he’s navigating the dangers of deep space or dealing with the complex politics of a crumbling empire, he keeps going because he believes in something bigger than himself.

And right now, I feel like I’m standing in Kars’s boots. There are days when the editing feels endless, when the move feels overwhelming, and when I wonder if I’ve bitten off more than I can chew by launching a second book before the first is even fully polished. But I also know that this is part of the process—the messy, unpredictable, exhilarating part of the journey where you have to trust that all the pieces will fall into place. I made the schedule and I've missed it many times in the early days but now I'm actively releasing and I need to maintain that schedule because of... to be truthful... because of the algorithm.

Writing Through the Chaos

Moving house is a bit like writing a novel. It’s chaotic, there are moments where you can’t see the floor for the mess, and it often feels like you’re taking two steps back for every step forward. But bit by bit, you start to see the shape of what you’re creating. The boxes get unpacked, the plot threads start to weave together, and suddenly you realize you’re not as far from the finish line as you thought.

There’s a certain thrill in pushing forward through the chaos, much like a protagonist finding their footing in the second act of a story. It’s where the stakes are highest, where the character is most vulnerable, but also where the most growth happens. It’s the crucible of transformation, and right now, I’m feeling the heat.

Trusting the Process and Moving Forward

If I’ve learned anything from writing Space Opera, it’s that the universe is full of unexpected twists and turns. You can’t always see what’s ahead, but you have to trust the journey. The same goes for writing and life. I chose this path—both the creative career and the decision to move halfway across the world to Thailand—because I believed it would be worth it. And even on the hardest days, that belief hasn’t wavered.

So here I am, sitting in my new workspace, surrounded by boxes, taking a deep breath before diving back into edits. I’m tired, I’m overwhelmed, but I’m also excited. Because I know that the best stories are born in moments like this—when the outcome isn’t guaranteed, but you press forward anyway, trusting that the effort will pay off.

If you’re reading this and feeling a bit like you’re stuck in the middle of your own hero’s journey, just remember: it’s okay to be tired. It’s okay to need a break. But don’t give up on your story. Keep moving forward, one page, one step, one decision at a time. The ending may not be clear yet, but that’s what makes the journey worthwhile.

Thank you for following along on this adventure with me. Here’s to the next chapter, both in the book and in life.

When Inspiration Runs Dry: Finding Creativity in the Quiet Moments

Lately, I’ve been feeling burnt out. It’s not the glamorous, movie-style image of a writer typing furiously into the night. It’s the exhaustion that comes from juggling a thousand tasks, pushing through edits, managing social media, and trying to find that last spark of creativity when all you want to do is take a nap.

I’ve talked a lot about Traveller and the influences that have shaped my universe, but today I want to be honest about something: inspiration doesn’t always come from epic moments or grand ideas. Sometimes, the best stories are born from the quiet, mundane moments. I’ve found that when I’m too tired to push any further, that’s often when the most unexpected ideas show up.

It’s in the simple act of stepping away—taking a walk outside, sitting with a cup of coffee, or watching the sunset over the mountains here in Northern Thailand. In those quiet moments, when I stop forcing the story to come, it often does. It’s not about chasing inspiration; it’s about letting it find me.

This post isn’t full of writing tips or deep lore from Merchant of Vision. It’s just a reminder to myself and anyone reading this: it’s okay to be tired. It’s okay to need a break. And sometimes, the best thing you can do for your story is to step away and let your mind wander, to let the story breathe.

Maybe that’s the real secret to creativity—not always pushing harder, but knowing when to rest and let your subconscious do the work. So here’s to those quiet, unplanned moments of inspiration that surprise us when we need them the most.

Writing Under the Thai Sun: A Journey Through Time and Culture

There’s a certain romance to the idea of a Western author tucked away in a tropical corner of Southeast Asia, pounding out stories on an old typewriter, ceiling fan whirring lazily overhead, the oppressive heat softened only by the shade of palm trees. It’s an image straight out of a Graham Greene novel—an expat writer living the Hemingway-esque dream, far from the grey hustle of the West, finding inspiration in the vibrant, chaotic streets of Thailand.

For me, this wasn’t just a fantasy. It was an epiphany I had decades ago as a young man in the U.S. Navy. 

Our ship didn’t dock at Phuket; it anchored offshore, and we took a small boat, called a "liberty launch" into port. My first experience of Thailand wasn’t in the bustling city but on a winding bus ride over the island’s hills, sitting behind a local woman in somewhat traditional dress, who was calmly transporting cages of live, squawking chickens to market. It was surreal. I kept thinking okay, no way this is going to happen in America. The bus careened around tight corners, well over the posted speed limit, and there were no guardrails along the sides of the road where there was just a steep cliff...while the sailors gripped the overhead handrails for dear life. 

Our first stop was at a nondescript red building that, judging by the number of scantily clad women waving and calling, “Hello, you!” seemed like some sort of brothel. A few wide-eyed young sailors, their intentions obvious, disembarked in a boisterous pack, literally running to get cold beer from a nearby stand—it wasn’t much more than a lemonade stand. I couldn’t help but wonder, how are they going to get back? Where will they stay? 

This was going to be my world class rest and relaxation after serving the better part of a year in the Persian Gulf. I wanted the best hotel to be had... with the best room, and fancied myself as an international traveler in the class of James Bond... In Thailand.  Act as if.

The bus driver put the vehicle in gear with a grind but then slammed on the brakes as a late arrival appeared. A teenage Thai girl got on with a dog wearing a cone, looking for a seat. Three sailors immediately stood up to offer theirs. She sat, the dog at her feet, and off we went again. I was struck by how nonchalant the locals were—this was just another morning for them. For me, it was a wild, exhilarating introduction to a land that would become my second home.

I knew then, as we swayed and rocked through the jungle-covered hills, that I would be back. This place was just so different and beyond my imagining. What an adventure those 3 days were as a young sailor with a pocket full of money, who hadn't stepped onto land in nearly two months. The bus finally came to a stop near the Hilton hotel, I persuaded the staff to let me rent the presidential suite. At first they said no but then I politely hinted that there wasn't going to be any presidential detail arriving for the next 3 days because if they were security would already be here. They relented, and I found myself in a vast hotel room complete with a sunken tub and a great view of Phuket Town and the ocean. Feeling generous I tipped the bellboy $20 even though I carried my own go-bag. He was astounded, and took really good care over the length of the stay for two days. And later, running low on money but not wanting to go back to the ship lest I get roped into a working party with the onboard duty section, I decided to go cheaper and rent a Hut on the beach. 

The next morning, standing on a beach just outside the little hut that I had rented for a few dollars, the door closed not with a lock but with a criss cross of hemp rope on the door handle to keep it from blowing open in the wind at night, near a single two lane road winding towards the town, I watched the sun rise and it was perfectly quiet except for a lone college-age Thai girl riding past on a Honda motorbike, blue jean shorts and a white frilly shirt waving in the breeze. She rode relaxed, not a care in the world, honking her high pitched Honda motorbike horn and waving at me... And then she was gone, on her way to wherever, probably the morning Market.

 I was stunned at the realization that I really needed to be here. In contrast to the chaos and regimentation and rules and regulations of living on a warship, risking my life, I wanted peace. I wanted quiet. It was a moment of absolute clarity, an epiphany that I held onto through all the years that followed: I would survive everything life threw at me, and one day, I would return here as an old man, writing science fiction stories, living in Northern Thailand, near the mountains. I saw these as prescient images in my mind.

Now, nearly nine years into living that dream, as an American expat writer living in Northern Thailand, I can say it’s been a journey filled with joys and challenges that have shaped both my life and my writing.

The Allure of the Old-School Expat Life

Thailand has long been a haven for Western writers, a place where they could find inspiration in the vibrant culture, the friendliness of the people, the mountains, the clear skies (except during the rice burning season), and the slower pace of life. It’s impossible not to think of the greats who came before me. Joseph Conrad, the author of Heart of Darkness, sailed through these waters and once stayed at the Oriental Hotel in Bangkok. Marco Polo, one of the earliest travel writers, chronicled his journey through the region in the 1200s, calling the land "Lokak." And in 1923, W. Somerset Maugham arrived from Ceylon, embarking on a journey through the Shan States, crossing the Salween River, and eventually making his way from Chiang Mai to Bangkok. These writers were captivated by the charm of rural Siam, its natural beauty, and the exotic allure that has drawn travelers here for centuries.

It’s a different world now, of course—modernized and connected in ways that Conrad and Maugham couldn’t have imagined. Yet, in many ways, the essence of Thailand remains unchanged. There’s still that sense of timeless charm, the lush landscapes, and the feeling that life moves just a little slower here. It’s this blend of old and new that I find so compelling.

The Beer Bars and the Old Guard

The expat scene in Thailand has evolved, but traces of the old guard remain. Walk into any of the beer bars on a quiet afternoon, and you’ll likely find a few long-time residents who have been here forever, nursing a cold Singha, swapping stories of the good old days. They’re often retired U.S. Navy veterans like myself, or old Marines and Army vets from the Vietnam era. You’ll see them in their ball caps, embroidered with unit patches, or wearing blue jean vests lined with wool fleece, adorned with flags from countries they’ve visited. It’s a kind of camaraderie that feels like a throwback to a different era.

Whenever I stop by one of these places, it’s not long before the conversation with the local (usually female) staff turns to the usual questions: "Are you married?" "Do you have a Thai girlfriend?" "How long have you lived here?" The locals are often surprised by how well I speak Thai for a foreigner, a skill honed over years of living here and making an effort to integrate into the culture. It’s a small thing, but it’s moments like these that make me feel at home, like I’ve earned my place here in some small way.

A Country in Transition, Much Like Myself

Thailand is a country straddling the line between tradition and modernity. On one hand, you have the sleek, air-conditioned co-working spaces filled with digital nomads tapping away on their laptops, launching e-books and startups. On the other, there are the familiar sights of massage spas, elephant pants sold in tourist shops, beer bars, and street vendors selling spicy som tam and grilled meat skewers. Cannabis cafes are springing up alongside elephant camps and jungle treks, catering to a new generation of travelers while the old expat haunts remain steadfast.

I see this transition mirrored in my own life. I’ve traded the typewriter for a laptop, the stacks of handwritten notes for PDFs and digital files. But the essence of what I’m doing—writing stories, exploring new worlds in my mind—hasn’t changed. I’m still the young sailor who stepped off that liberty launch, and walked into the jungle, to discover a bus sitting on an asphalt road, waiting for sailors to board all those years ago, wide-eyed and ready for adventure, but now with a bit more experience and a lot more stories to tell.

The Daily Grind: Finding Focus in the Chaos

Every morning, I wake up early to the sound of roosters and the roar of the Chiang Mai international airport a few kilometers away. My kids need to be dropped off at school, which means braving the chaotic commute through the Chiang Mai Gate. 

It’s a mix of pedal bikes, food carts, tourists, and motorcycles weaving in and out of traffic like a swarm of bees. It feels like I’m risking my life just getting through it, but it’s become a part of my daily routine, a reminder of the vibrant energy that pulses through this city. An area of contrasts: there is a modern Tesco Lotus mini Mart, selling fresh fruit, prepackaged soup, and cat food, right across the street from an 800-year-old guard Tower remnant from the old ramparts of the ancient city that once guarded Chiang Mai from the predations of the Burmese Army... But now the walls and tower gates are simply a target for tourists and their cameras.

By the time I return home, I’m more than ready to retreat into the quiet of my work room. I have a little red cup of Nescafé coffee from the local 7-Eleven and sit down at my online gamers PC desk, with a giant gaming mouse pad, surrounded by shelves of my notebooks, science reference books, and maps of fictional binary and trinary star systems, as well as my trusty 30-year-old Texas instruments graphing calculator from my astrophysics classes in college to do orbital mechanics calculations. It’s in these quiet moments, that I dive into the worlds I’ve created, crafting the next chapter of Merchant of Vision.

The Timeless Inspiration of Thailand

There’s a simplicity and beauty to life here that I find endlessly inspiring. The food, the landscape, the rice and cow farms predominant, the people—it all contributes to a sense of place that seeps into my writing. I often think of those old-school writers who found their muse here, sitting under the same sun, feeling the same humid air, listening to the same cicadas. They wrote about the simplicity of rural Siam, about the charm of a land that felt timeless even as the world around it changed.

As I continue my journey as a writer, I’m grateful to be part of this tradition, even in the modern age of WiFi and digital publishing. Thailand remains a place of inspiration, a home away from home, and the realization of a dream that started with a bus ride on a winding hill in Phuket. It’s a place that’s shaped me as a writer and as a person, and for that, I’ll always be thankful.

If you’ve ever thought about visiting or making your home here, I can’t recommend it enough. It’s not always easy, the traffic is certainly a sometimes lethal challenge, but it’s an adventure unlike any other. And for a writer, what could be better than that?