The Stories Between the Stars

When we think of Space Opera, it’s easy to focus on the obvious: the grand battles, the sprawling empires, the alien civilizations brimming with intrigue and danger. But for me, one of the most evocative parts of writing in this genre isn’t found in the heart of bustling metropolises or aboard warships—it’s in the silence. It’s in the vastness of space, the empty void between the stars, where nothing happens, and yet everything is possible.

Space is often perceived as a backdrop, the connective tissue between the exciting moments that unfold on planets or stations. But to me, it’s far more than that. That expanse is alive with its own energy, its own stories, even if those stories are quiet, unspoken, or left unfinished.

Think about it: humanity has always looked at the sky and filled it with stories. The constellations are proof of that, ancient humans projecting myths and legends onto the stars, creating meaning from the void. Writing Space Opera feels like a natural extension of that age-old impulse. Except instead of gazing at the sky from Earth, I get to imagine what it’s like to stand on the bridge of a starship, looking out into the black and wondering what might be out there, hidden between the pinpricks of light.

For the characters I create, the void is more than just emptiness. It’s a place of transformation. A trader crossing the light-years between systems isn’t just moving goods—they’re navigating the isolation, the long stretches of time where there’s nothing to do but think, reflect, or let your imagination run wild. A bounty hunter waiting in the depths of an asteroid field isn’t just lying in wait—they’re reckoning with the weight of their decisions.

This is the magic of the void: it gives you space—pun intended—to explore the inner lives of your characters. When there’s no one around, no distractions, no battles to fight or planets to save, what’s left? The person behind the heroics. The person grappling with their past, their flaws, their dreams.

And then there’s the question of what might be lurking out there. We tend to think of space as sterile, but I like to imagine it teeming with the unknown. Unseen civilizations hiding in the dark, derelict ships floating silently, strange phenomena that defy explanation. Maybe it’s a massive ancient structure orbiting a dead star, or a signal that’s been traveling through space for centuries, waiting to be picked up. These aren’t just the building blocks of mystery—they’re the sparks that set a story aflame.

When I write about space, I try to capture that duality: its emptiness and its potential. For me, the best stories don’t just take place in space—they are shaped by it. The way the stars stretch into infinity reminds us how small we are, how fleeting, how fragile. But it also reminds us of something else: possibility.

And maybe that’s the real story hiding between the stars. Not the battles, not the empires, not the heroes and villains. But the idea that, no matter how vast and empty the void may seem, it is never truly silent. It hums with potential, waiting for us to look closer and listen.

That’s where the stories come from. The quiet places. The infinite possibilities. The spaces between the stars.

What inspires your imagination when you think of the void? Let’s talk about it in the comments—I’d love to hear how you fill the gaps between the stars.

The Power of Small Steps in Writing

 

Writing is often seen as this monumental task—a journey of epic proportions where inspiration strikes like lightning and entire novels flow effortlessly onto the page. A dizzying burst of speed everyday for months. Isaac Asimov banged out stories like that. But I'm not him. Everyone's process is different. Let me tell you a truth I’ve learned through experience: for me, writing isn’t about grand leaps; it’s about small, deliberate steps. I try to do 2,000 to 3000 words every day. But some days I don't do anything. On those days I just prepare my social media posts and work on a map or a character or a diagram or a sketch of some alien plant or animal that no one has ever seen before.  

The stories I write, like Merchant of Vision, weren’t built in a single moment of brilliance. They emerged slowly, piece by piece, through countless small moments of effort. Sometimes, it was just writing a sentence or jotting down a character idea during a busy day. Other times, it was about working on a single paragraph for hours, trying to find the right words to make it sing. Progress isn’t always dramatic—it’s incremental. And that’s okay.

I often think about how galaxies are formed. Massive and sprawling, yes—but built from tiny particles of dust, gas, and elements generated in supernova explosions, or jets from black holes over millions of years. In the same way, every word, every scene, every bit of dialogue is a particle contributing to the greater whole. Writing is a long process, and it’s easy to feel overwhelmed when you look at the scope of what you’re trying to create. But the beauty of it lies in the realization that every small effort counts, every step forward brings you closer to your goal.

On some days, inspiration comes easily. On others, it feels like dragging yourself through a swamp. But no matter how hard it gets, I remind myself that even the smallest bit of progress—one word, one sentence, one idea—is still progress. I’ve written entire chapters on the back of single sparks of creativity, small breakthroughs that carried me through moments of doubt.

Writing is a craft that rewards consistency over intensity. It’s not about waiting for a perfect idea or a burst of energy. It’s about showing up, even when it’s hard, even when the words won’t come, even when you doubt yourself. And here’s the thing: those small, consistent efforts build momentum. They add up. Over time, they become something far greater than you imagined.

I’ve come to see writing as a kind of quiet rebellion against doubt and fear. The act of putting words on a page, no matter how imperfect, is a declaration that your voice matters, that your stories are worth telling. Some days, it feels like trudging through darkness with nothing but a flickering light to guide you. But every small step you take illuminates more of the path ahead.

For me, this journey is deeply personal. Every story I write, every world I build, every character I bring to life is a testament to the power of persistence. My life has been filled with challenges, like yours, and there were plenty of moments when giving up felt easier. But I held on. Not because I had some unshakable faith in myself, but because I believed in the stories. And little by little, word by word, I brought them to life.

So if you’re a writer—or even if you’re pursuing any dream at all—my advice is this: focus on the small steps. Don’t get lost in the enormity of the task ahead. Start with one idea, one sentence, one moment. Keep building. Keep going. Even when it’s hard, even when the progress feels invisible, trust that it’s there.

The small steps may not feel like much in the moment, but when you look back, you’ll see how far you’ve come. And that’s the magic of it all—the way tiny efforts create something monumental, something uniquely yours.

Writing isn’t easy. But it’s worth it. Every word you write is a victory, every idea a spark. Keep walking your path, one step at a time. Your story is waiting, and the world is waiting to hear it.

When the Characters Take a new path: Writing Unexpected Plot Twists

Writing a novel is a journey into the unknown, even for the author. While I may map out intricate plotlines, draft meticulous character arcs, and build sprawling worlds teeming with small details, there's always a moment—sometimes quiet, sometimes seismic—when the characters take control. They seize the reins of the story, tugging it in directions I hadn’t anticipated, crafting twists and turns that even I didn’t see coming.

At first, this can be unsettling. After all, I’m the creator, right? Aren’t I supposed to know where the story is going? But I’ve learned to lean into these moments bubbling up from my subconscious, because often, they lead to some of the most authentic and exciting developments in my work.

The Characters Know Best

One of the first times this happened was early in my writing journey. I had carefully plotted a scene in which a protagonist would walk away from a relationship, choosing to spare themselves the agony of goodbye, and regroup for another day. But as I wrote, something strange happened. The character refused to go off without warning. It was as if they stood up in my mind and said, “No. This is where I make my stand.”

I was reluctant at first—after all, that wasn’t the plan! But the doubt was there, as I asked myself okay, what's going to happen now? But as the words emerged on the page, it became clear that this was exactly the choice the character would make. It felt right in a way I hadn’t expected, and it reshaped not only the scene but the entire trajectory of the story. That’s when I realized: sometimes, the characters (and my inner intuition) know best.

When Backstories Speak Louder

In Merchant of Vision, one of the characters surprised me with their depth and nuance. Originally, they were meant to be a secondary figure, a quiet supporter who stayed in the background. But as I wrote, their backstory began to emerge—a painful, complicated history of betrayal and redemption that demanded attention.

Before I knew it, they had carved out a larger role in the narrative, stepping into the spotlight and adding layers to the plot I hadn’t planned. It wasn’t easy to accommodate these changes—some scenes had to be rewritten, and other characters’ arcs adjusted—but the story grew richer for it.

Plot Twists That Wrote Themselves

Then there are the moments when characters create plot twists that are as surprising to me as they are to readers. One memorable example involved a key character that alliance that shattered unexpectedly. I had intended for two characters to work together, united by a shared goal, but their personalities clashed so dramatically that their partnership became untenable. Their betrayal of one another wasn’t part of the original outline—it came purely from their interactions on the page.

That twist added an emotional depth and complexity to the story that I could never have planned. It reminded me that, no matter how much I prepare, the story isn’t just mine. It belongs to the characters, too.

Embracing the Chaos

These surprises are what make writing so exhilarating. Sure, it’s frustrating to see your carefully laid plans tossed aside. But it’s also a gift. When characters act in ways that feel natural and true, it breathes life into the story. It makes the world more dynamic and the plot more compelling.

These moments of unexpected growth and action remind me why I write in the first place: to explore the unknown, to uncover the truth of these fictional lives, and to share those discoveries with readers.

So, when the characters take control, I let them. I follow where they lead, even if it means rewriting a scene or rethinking an arc. Because in the end, those surprises are what make the story come alive.

Do your characters ever surprise you when you’re reading or writing? I’d love to hear about your experiences in the comments. Let’s celebrate those unexpected moments together.

Navigating the Storms: Pressing On When the Clouds Gather

 

There are days when the sky feels impossibly heavy—like a storm looming on the horizon, rumbling with a weight that presses against you. Some storms are personal, others professional, but the clouds are always there. Whether it’s doubts creeping in, unexpected life hurdles, or just the noise of the world making you question everything, it can feel like the universe itself is pushing back. But I’ve learned that if you keep your eyes on the goal, keep moving forward, and—most importantly—keep showing up, even the darkest storms will eventually break.

This isn’t about blind optimism. It’s not about pretending everything is perfect when it clearly isn’t. It’s about choosing to work through the noise, the fears, and the setbacks because the story—your story—is worth telling. I know this because I’ve been there, and in many ways, I still am.

The Weight of the Clouds

The past few months have been… a lot. Moving houses, wrangling with the final edits of Merchant of Vision, laying the groundwork for Merchant of Fortune, and managing family life have stretched my limits. Add to that the usual struggles—those storm clouds that hover in every life—and it’s easy to feel buried under the pressure.

And yet, here I am. Still writing. Still building. Still dreaming.

It doesn’t mean the clouds are gone. Far from it. Sometimes they’ve felt darker than ever. But I’ve discovered that when the storm hits, the real key to success is not waiting for the skies to clear—it’s finding a way to work within the storm.

Every day, I sit down and put in the work, even when it feels like I’m climbing uphill in the rain. Some days it’s 2,000 words. Other days it’s two sentences and a lot of staring out the window. But I show up. I keep my eyes on the vision that’s been guiding me for years, and I remind myself why I started.

Keeping Your Compass Steady

When I was a young man, I dreamed of this life: writing stories, creating entire universes, and sharing them with the world. I didn’t know the journey would take decades. I didn’t know there’d be times when I’d feel like giving up. But I held onto that vision, like a compass guiding me through rough seas.

Writing—like life—requires daily discipline. It’s about showing up, even when you don’t want to. It’s about sitting at the desk when inspiration feels like a distant memory and forcing yourself to start. The magic often comes not at the beginning, but somewhere in the middle, after you’ve powered through the initial resistance.

There’s a quote I’ve always loved:

“A professional writer is an amateur who didn’t quit.”

For me, that’s what it all comes down to. Not quitting. Not giving up on the dream, even when the odds seem stacked against you. It’s about accepting that storms will come, but they don’t have to stop you from moving forward.

Making the Time

I’m no stranger to a busy schedule. Like so many of you, I’m juggling work, family, and personal responsibilities, and it’s easy to tell yourself you’ll “find time later.” But here’s the truth I’ve learned the hard way: you don’t find time—you make time.

You carve it out, protect it fiercely, and remind yourself that your dreams deserve priority, even when life pulls you in a dozen other directions.

For me, it means squeezing in writing hours after the kids are asleep or waking up early before the chaos of the day begins. It means setting boundaries, saying no to distractions, and reminding myself that every sentence written, every map sketched, every edit made, is a step closer to the goal.

Some days, it feels like I’m trudging through molasses. But even slow progress is still progress.

Eyes on the Horizon

The storm clouds are still there. Some are heavy and hard to shake. But I’ve learned to stop fighting them. Instead, I work through them, keeping my eyes on the horizon and the dream that’s carried me this far.

I’ve come to believe that perseverance is a kind of quiet magic. It doesn’t shout or demand attention—it just keeps going, step by step, day by day. And one day, you look up and realize you’re further along than you ever thought possible.

So, wherever you are on your own journey—whether it’s writing, art, a career, or a personal goal—keep moving forward. Even if it’s slow. Even if it feels impossible.

Your story, your dream, is worth it.

The storms will pass. But your progress, no matter how small, will remain.

And for me? I’ll keep showing up at the desk. I’ll keep working through the edits and building new worlds for my readers to explore. Because this is what I was meant to do.

And storm or no storm, I’m not giving up.

Final Thought:

If you’re facing your own storm right now, let this be a reminder: you’re not alone. Keep going. Keep showing up. The sun is still out there, even if you can’t see it yet.

Stay strong, friends.

Light and Shadow: Reflections on Life, Writing, and the Imperfection of Stories

This morning, as I drove my kids into the city through Chiang Mai’s winding traffic, we were a little late. The kind of late where you know you’re pushing it—checking the clock, muttering to yourself as the streets fill with motorbikes zipping in every direction like a school of startled fish. The weather has been strange lately for the winter dry season here in Northern Thailand. Rain has swept through in fits and starts, and today the clouds hung low and heavy, tinged a sulfur yellow with the weight of it. The sky felt off, a reminder that even seasons can be unpredictable.

But then, we turned north from Chiang Mai Gate, and everything changed.

The sun, breaking through a corner of the clouds, slanted sharply across the city. The faces of buildings, coated in light, stood out like something alive—angular edges picked out by bright warmth while their opposite sides fell into deep, sharp shadows. The light was so clear, the contrast so stark, that for a moment the chaos of traffic faded away. I told my older son, who studies architecture, “You know, this would make a perfect drawing challenge—just look at the light and shadow. The way it cuts and highlights, the depth it gives to everything.”

He agreed, though his acknowledgment was laced with the distracted tone of a teenager thinking about his own to-do list. Still, for me, that sight lingered—a fleeting moment of stillness and beauty amidst the daily noise.

By the time I dropped the kids off, I couldn’t shake it. That interplay of light and shadow wasn’t just something for architects and artists. It spoke to something deeper, something that felt profound even if I couldn’t quite articulate it yet.

The Balance of Light and Darkness

Years ago, in college, I studied religion. One class, in particular, stayed with me: Taoism, taught by my Zen studies professor, Dr. Carmine Anastasio. Taoism, with its elegant simplicity and timeless wisdom, offered ideas that still hum quietly at the back of my mind whenever I sit to write or reflect on life.

The central concept of Taoism is balance. Yin and Yang. Light and darkness. You can’t have one without the other because they aren’t opposites—they are two sides of the same whole. Light exists because of darkness, and within darkness, there is always a sliver of light.

This truth applies to life as much as it does to art. To relationships as much as it does to storytelling.

The Light and Shadow in Writing

As a writer, I’m constantly aware of the balance between light and darkness in my stories. The most compelling characters are flawed, carrying their own shadows while striving for moments of light. No hero is perfect, no villain is without depth. Without that balance, a story becomes flat—unrealistic, uninspired.

The same applies to world-building. When crafting alien worlds, civilizations, or intricate histories, I can’t simply fill them with utopia or endless despair. Life—real or imagined—comes with its dualities. A prosperous empire might carry the weight of exploitation. A backwater frontier world might be full of hardship but also brimming with freedom and opportunity. Even in the ruins of fallen civilizations, I often write in details of rebirth—life sprouting from the cracks of decay, hope emerging from desolation.

This balance gives stories their power. Readers connect to characters who struggle, who live in shades of grey, because we live there too.

The Light and Shadow in Relationships

The Taoist philosophy of balance has always resonated with me, not just in my writing but in life. Every relationship has its share of light and darkness. People are imperfect—ourselves included. There are moments when relationships feel like those slanted rays of light, warm and golden, cutting through the noise of the world. And there are times when shadows creep in—misunderstandings, flaws, disappointments.

But the truth, I’ve learned, is that you can’t have one without the other. The light is brighter because of the shadow it falls against. The most meaningful relationships are not those without imperfection but those in which we choose to accept the balance, to see the good even within the bad, and to remember that even in the darkest moments, light exists if you know where to look.

A Personal Journey

This morning, that fleeting contrast between light and shadow wasn’t just a visual marvel; it felt like a reminder. Writing, relationships, life itself—they all require balance. There are days when writing feels like the light—ideas flow effortlessly, and the story comes alive on the page. Then there are days of shadow, when words won’t come, and self-doubt settles in like a fog.

But if I’ve learned anything from both my writing and my life, it’s this: you keep going. You keep looking for the light even when it’s hidden. You accept the darkness not as a failure but as part of the process, a counterbalance that makes the light all the more meaningful.

As I sat down to write this post, I realized that’s what I’ve been doing for years. Finding light in small moments—whether it’s the beauty of sunlight on a crowded street in Chiang Mai or the thrill of creating a new alien world—and sharing it with others. Maybe that’s why I write at all: to give others a glimpse of that light, even when shadows fall heavy.

An Invitation to Reflection

Where do you find light in your life? Maybe it’s in a quiet morning, a conversation with someone you love, or a story that reminds you of hope. Maybe, like me, you see it in the oddest places—yellow clouds over traffic, or sunlight cutting across the faces of old buildings.

Whatever it is, hold onto it. Because even in the chaos, the uncertainty, the darker days, there’s always light if we choose to see it.

And in the words of the Tao, even within the light, a shadow keeps it real.

The Worlds I Build: A Love Letter to Exploration

There’s a certain quiet sadness in realizing that I was born in a time where interstellar travel exists only in the imagination. My early childhood dreams—of boarding a starship, donning an explorer’s uniform, handheld scanner in hand and weapon on my hip, and stepping foot on alien worlds—were formed in the early 70s, at the tail end of an era when humanity still seemed destined for the stars. Yet here we are. The space shuttle program is gone, and with it, the feeling that we were just at the edge of something greater—on the brink of joining the interstellar neighborhood.

But dreams have their own way of surviving.

The love I have for uncharted alien worlds—the strange landscapes, mysterious civilizations, the quiet beauty of a sun or multiple stars setting over an unfamiliar horizon—burns brighter than ever. And while video games like No Man’s Sky and Elite Dangerous (I play and enjoy both) give us glimpses of this future, procedurally generated worlds only scratch the surface of what exploration can feel like. They offer stunning vistas, but the depth? The story? The life waiting on those worlds is, by necessity, limited. A random crash site, with random loot, a pre-programmed alien character handing out quests, or trading at a base—there’s no true discovery, no breathless realization that you’ve stumbled across something only you can see.

That’s where writing—and role-playing—steps in.

When I sit down at my desk, alone with a blank notebook or the blinking cursor of my ASUS Laptop, I’m not bound by algorithms. I can create anything. My alien worlds aren’t confined to code or texture maps; they grow from questions, “What if?” What if a distant planet had lakes made of liquid crystal? What if its people used light as language? What if a long-dead civilization left behind machines that no one could turn off? And then I take it further—what would it feel like to stand there? To inhale the strange air, to feel the crunch of alien soil underfoot, to hear the hum of something impossibly ancient reverberating through the landscape?

I don’t just build worlds—I visit them.

I admit, sometimes it gets a little personal. I’ve played more than a few solo role-playing games where I become the explorer myself, creating detailed lists of the tools I’d need to survive, the maps I’d use to navigate, the dangers I’d encounter. I even have logs of these Adventures, which are mix of recording the results of random generation as well as my own imagination. When I imagine myself traveling to these worlds, I don’t just fill in the blanks—I fill in the layers. What political tensions exist in this place? What trade goods would a merchant like Kars Vandor bargain for? What rumors would the starport bar's patrons whisper about the ruins beyond the mountains? Who lives there, and what stories do they tell?

A procedurally generated game can’t ask these questions. But I can.

I think that’s why I keep creating. It’s not just escapism—though it’s that, too. It’s hope. Hope that someday, humanity will solve its problems, grow beyond its divisions, and finally venture out there. It’s hope that we’ll become the explorers we’ve always dreamed of being. Because I do believe there’s a neighborhood waiting for us—stars scattered across the dark canvas, planets teeming with life, mysteries so profound they’d make us humble again.

We’re not there yet.

But in my imagination, we’re already on our way.

So I keep dreaming. I keep building worlds with words and sketches and maps. I create uncharted places where humanity hasn’t yet planted its flag, and I walk across those landscapes in my mind. I hope one day we’ll all get to do the same—not just in books or games, but in real life. Until then, I’ll keep telling these stories. Because somewhere, out there, I still believe there’s a place waiting for us.

And we’ll get there, one way or another.

The Journey of Building a Legacy

There’s a question that often nags at writers, quietly whispering from the corners of our minds during late-night writing sessions or moments of doubt: Why do we do this? Why pour so much time, effort, and soul into something that might never be widely read or recognized?

For me, the answer is legacy.

I’ve often thought about the idea of leaving something behind—not for fame or glory, but because storytelling feels like an imprint of who I am. Words are timeless. Long after we’re gone, they have the power to echo, to inspire, and to connect. That idea gives me both comfort and purpose, especially on the days when the journey feels overwhelming.

Writing as a Gift to the Future

When I was a younger man in the Navy, working long, grueling shifts, I would think about the books I wanted to write someday. I imagined future readers—maybe decades or centuries from now—opening one of my novels and stepping into a universe I created. I pictured someone sitting in a quiet room, losing themselves in the adventures of my characters, maybe finding comfort or escape during a difficult time in their own life. That vision became my north star.

I’ve carried that image with me through the years. It’s why I keep going, even when writing feels like shouting into the void. I think about the countless authors whose works have shaped my life—some of whom never lived to see their impact. They couldn’t have known, back then, that their stories would reach me, years and miles away, yet they persisted. They wrote because they had something to say, something to share, and in doing so, they built their legacies.

The Weight and Joy of Creation

Building a legacy isn’t easy. It requires faith, discipline, and more than a little stubbornness. There are days when I look at the blank page and feel paralyzed by the weight of the task ahead. Will the story resonate? Will anyone care? But then I remember: every word I write, every character I develop, every world I map out is a brick in the foundation of something bigger than myself.

At the same time, there’s a profound joy in creation. I get to build universes—entire star systems, cultures, and histories—layer by layer. I get to breathe life into characters and see them grow, struggle, and triumph. And I get to share those worlds and people with readers, connecting with them in a way that transcends time and space.

Family, Inspiration, and the Personal Stakes

Legacy isn’t just about writing for strangers in the future; it’s also about the people closest to me. My family has been a constant source of inspiration and support. They’ve seen the late nights, the endless cups of coffee, and the moments of frustration when a plot just won’t come together. They’ve been patient when I’ve stolen hours away from them to write, understanding that this dream is as much a part of me as they are.

I think about my kids, about the lessons I want to leave them. Pursue your passions. Believe in yourself, even when it’s hard. Don’t give up, even when the road seems impossibly long. Writing is my way of embodying those lessons.

What Legacy Means to Me

When I think about legacy, it’s not about having my name remembered; it’s about the stories themselves. It’s about the idea that someone, somewhere, might find meaning, joy, or solace in my work. Maybe they’ll see a bit of themselves in my characters or find hope in the themes of my stories. That’s enough for me.

Legacy, to me, is about creating something that lasts, something that contributes to the tapestry of human experience. Stories have a unique power to do that. They can transport us, challenge us, and remind us of what it means to be human—even in the context of alien worlds and futuristic technologies.

A Journey Without an End

Building a legacy through writing isn’t something you ever finish. It’s a journey, one word, one story, one book at a time. There are moments of doubt and exhaustion, but there are also moments of triumph—like when a reader reaches out to say your story touched them or when you finish a draft and feel, for a fleeting moment, that you’ve created something truly special.

I may never know the full impact of my stories, and that’s okay. What matters is that I tried, that I kept going, that I gave everything I had to the craft of storytelling. And who knows? Maybe, long after I’m gone, someone will pick up one of my books and find a spark of inspiration that carries them forward.

For me, that’s the true measure of success. That’s what legacy means. And that’s why I write.

Writing on the Edge of Science and Fiction

Space Opera exists at the thrilling intersection of hard science and boundless imagination. It’s a genre where we can explore the stars, build civilizations on distant planets, and craft narratives that transcend human limitations. But for me, the real joy lies in walking the tightrope between scientific plausibility and unrestrained creativity—building worlds that feel real but are still vibrant with wonder.

The Tug-of-War Between Science and Imagination

One of the first challenges I faced as a Space Opera author was deciding how much science to include in my stories. Too much technical detail risks bogging down the narrative; too little, and the world might feel flimsy or unbelievable. Over the years, I’ve learned that the key isn’t just getting the science “right,” but grounding the story in enough realism to make the fantastical elements shine.

Take faster-than-light travel (FTL), for example. It’s the backbone of nearly every Space Opera universe, and yet, it’s scientifically impossible—at least as we understand physics today. For Merchant of Vision, I spent weeks reading articles on hypothetical FTL methods, from wormholes to Alcubierre drives. While none of these concepts are feasible right now, they provided a foundation for my fictional drive systems. By grounding my FTL mechanics in real scientific theories, I could build a universe that felt plausible, even if the technology itself was a leap of imagination.

Research: A Gateway to Creativity

Researching science has been one of the most rewarding parts of my writing process. It’s incredible how often real-world discoveries spark ideas that shape my stories. Did you know that scientists recently discovered exoplanets with atmospheres containing water vapor and even complex chemicals? Details like this inspire the worlds in my books—planets with unique weather systems, biomes, and ecosystems that feel alive because they’re rooted in real science.

But science also presents limitations. For instance, the harsh realities of space travel—radiation exposure, bone loss in low gravity, the sheer distances between stars—can sometimes feel like obstacles to storytelling. Yet, I’ve found that these constraints often lead to more interesting solutions. How does a long-haul space traveler deal with the psychological toll of isolation? What kind of economy develops around resource-rich asteroids in a system where transporting materials is costly? The answers to these questions have added depth to my universe.

Alien Biology: Where Science Meets Art

Creating alien species is another area where science and fiction collide. Biology tells us that life evolves based on environmental pressures, so I start by imagining the conditions on an alien world—gravity, atmosphere, temperature, available resources—and then design creatures that could realistically thrive there.

For example, one species in Merchant of Vision comes from a high-gravity world with dense vegetation. This led me to design a species with short, muscular builds and limb adaptations for climbing. But beyond the physical traits, I also consider culture and psychology. How would an intelligent species from a high-gravity world think, communicate, or view the universe? Science gives me the framework, but imagination fills in the blanks.

The Artistic License to Dream

Despite all this research, there are moments when I let go of realism and lean fully into the fantastical. Sometimes, a narrative simply demands it. If the story is richer or more exciting because of a gravity-defying spaceship maneuver or a species with inexplicable abilities, I embrace the fiction. After all, Space Opera is about capturing the awe and wonder of the universe, and sometimes that means breaking the rules.

Lessons Learned

Writing on the edge of science and fiction has taught me that it’s not about choosing one over the other but blending them in ways that enhance the story. Science provides the scaffolding—the rules and limitations that make a universe feel coherent. Fiction adds the color, the soul, and the sense of infinite possibility.

As I continue to explore the universe of Merchant of Vision and beyond, I find myself constantly inspired by this delicate balance. It’s a reminder that, while the stars may seem out of reach, the human imagination knows no bounds.

So here’s to the perfect fusion of science and fiction—where the impossible feels just within grasp, and every story is a new frontier waiting to be discovered.

Layering History: How the Past Shapes the Present in My Stories

 Every world, every character, and every conflict in Merchant of Vision is rooted in the past. As a writer, I’ve always believed that a rich history is what makes a fictional universe feel alive. It’s not just about the present-day events or the characters navigating their challenges—it's about the layers of history that inform their actions, shape their decisions, and create a tapestry of legacy and consequence.

When I set out to create the universe of Merchant of Vision, I knew I wanted it to feel vast, lived-in, and complex. History, both personal and political, became my foundation. I asked myself: what events shaped the galaxy my characters inhabit? What wars, alliances, discoveries, and betrayals led to this moment in time? By answering those questions, I created a universe that feels grounded in its own reality.

The Weight of Legacy: The Fall of the Terran Empire

One of the central historical events in Merchant of Vision is the fall of the Terran Empire—a galactic monarchy that once united countless worlds under its banner. This isn’t just a backdrop; it’s a shadow that looms over every aspect of the story.

A thousand years before the events of the novel, the Terran Empire collapsed in the wake of the Prophet's War, a devastating conflict fueled by religious fervor, political ambition, and the crumbling foundations of an overstretched empire. The once-mighty imperial fleets were scattered, their starships reduced to relics. The core worlds, once thriving centers of trade and culture, were abandoned, leaving behind a vacuum of power that spawned countless independent factions and warlords.

This collapse didn’t just create chaos; it reshaped the galaxy. The duchies and sectors that remain cling to fragments of the empire's traditions, struggling to maintain order in a universe that has grown increasingly fragmented. Characters like Duchess Zhōu Yuèguāng embody this tension—she's a leader trying to uphold the ideals of a long-dead empire, even as she faces the harsh realities of survival in a fractured galaxy.

Personal Histories: Kars Vandor’s Struggle Against the Past

While galactic history forms the backdrop, personal history drives the heart of the story. Kars Vandor, the protagonist, carries the weight of his own legacy. Born on the mining colony of Obarwinko, he grew up hearing stories of his mother Yasmin’s sacrifices—stories of survival, defiance, and the courage to escape an oppressive life.

Kars’s personal history is a microcosm of the larger themes in the novel. Just as the galaxy struggles to move forward while grappling with the remnants of the empire, Kars struggles to forge his own destiny while carrying the burdens of his upbringing. His drive to succeed is fueled by a desire to rise above his circumstances, but he can’t escape the influence of the past—his mother’s resilience, his father’s absence, and the mining colony that shaped his identity.

Creating Historical Depth: The Process

Building a layered history for a fictional universe is an iterative process. Here’s how I approach it:

1. Start with Major Events: I outline the broad strokes of galactic history—key wars, technological breakthroughs, and political shifts. For Merchant of Vision, the fall of the Terran Empire and the Prophet's War were the cornerstone events.

2. Drill Down to Regional Histories: Once the broad history is in place, I focus on specific regions, factions, and cultures. For example, the Felis race has its own rich history, shaped by their relationship with the Dravini and their eventual rise as a dominant galactic power.

3. Personalize the Impact: History isn’t just about dates and events—it’s about how those events shape people’s lives. I explore how historical events influence characters’ motivations, beliefs, and conflicts. This step is critical for grounding the grand scale of the story in personal stakes.

4. Leave Room for Mystery: Not every question needs an answer. Some elements of history are deliberately left vague, allowing room for exploration in future stories. The Dravini, for instance, remain an enigmatic presence in the galaxy, their disappearance a mystery that casts a long shadow.

Why History Matters

The history of a fictional universe isn’t just a backdrop—it’s a character in its own right. It shapes the setting, defines the stakes, and gives weight to the story. When readers encounter a world with a rich history, they feel the depth of the narrative. They can sense the untold stories lurking beneath the surface, waiting to be uncovered.

In Merchant of Vision, history is everywhere. It’s in the crumbling ruins of abandoned imperial starports. It’s in the ancient treaties that still hold sway over interstellar trade routes. It’s in the whispered legends of the Prophet’s War and the haunting artifacts of the Dravini.

For me, history is what makes a story feel real. It’s what turns a collection of characters and events into a living, breathing universe. And as I continue to expand the world of Merchant of Vision, I’m constantly reminded of the power of history to inspire, to challenge, and to connect us to something greater than ourselves.

What’s Next?

As I work on the sequel, Merchant of Fortune, I’m delving even deeper into the history of the galaxy. New factions, ancient secrets, and forgotten battles are waiting to be uncovered. The challenge is always to balance the weight of history with the immediacy of the story—to use the past to enrich the present without overwhelming it

For now, I’ll leave you with a question: If you lived in a universe shaped by the collapse of an empire, how would you navigate the weight of history? Would you cling to the old ways, or would you forge a new path?

Let me know your thoughts—I’d love to hear how history inspires you, both in fiction and in life.

The Role of Trade in the Merchant of Vision Universe

One of the foundational aspects of the Merchant of Vision universe is trade—the economic lifeblood that ties together the myriad worlds, cultures, and factions scattered across the stars. As I developed this setting, I kept returning to one central question: What would drive interstellar civilization forward once the glow of exploration faded? The answer, as it so often is in real life, was trade.

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The Foundation of the Universe

From the earliest drafts of Merchant of Vision, trade was always meant to be more than a backdrop. It’s a narrative thread that ties together characters, conflicts, and entire systems. Kars Vandor isn’t just a protagonist—he’s a merchant navigating a galaxy of opportunities and dangers, with his livelihood dependent on the ability to connect worlds in meaningful ways.

As I designed the setting, I found inspiration in the Silk Road, the spice trade, and the maritime empires of Earth’s history. These were vast networks that connected disparate cultures, sparked innovation, and sometimes created conflict. Trade isn’t just about the exchange of goods—it’s about the exchange of ideas, values, and even philosophies. I wanted that same sense of interconnectedness in my universe.

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Building the Economic System

When creating the Merchant Galaxy, I started with questions like:

• What resources would be valuable in a spacefaring civilization?
• How would different planets specialize based on their natural environments?
• How would trade routes be influenced by geography, technology, and politics?

The answers weren’t always straightforward, but that’s what made the process so exciting. Resource-rich worlds like Obarwinko might export raw materials, while high-tech worlds like Anorag Del manufacture advanced goods. Some planets are known for their unique cultural exports—art, cuisine, or even psionic artifacts—while others thrive on being trade hubs, facilitating the flow of goods across vast distances.

But trade isn’t just about abundance; scarcity plays an equally important role. A desert world like Port Saya might depend entirely on imported food and water, making it vulnerable to price fluctuations or blockades. These dynamics add tension and stakes to the story, forcing characters to navigate not just physical dangers but also economic challenges.

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Trade Routes: The Arteries of the Galaxy

The trade routes themselves became a focus of world-building. In a galaxy where faster-than-light travel is possible but not instantaneous, I imagined corridors of commerce stretching across the stars, influenced by the locations of jump gates, planets with suitable Hydrogen fuel in the system, stable wormholes, and navigable space lanes relatively free of pirates.. These routes aren’t static—they shift with political alliances, technological advances, planetary resources, and industry, and the rise and fall of civilizations.

One of my favorite aspects of this was designing "choke points"—key systems where multiple routes converge, giving immense power to whoever controls them. Think of them as the Panama Canals or Straits of Malacca of the galaxy. These locations often become hotbeds of intrigue, conflict, and opportunity for characters like Kars.

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Conflict Born of Commerce

Trade isn’t just a driver of prosperity—it’s also a source of conflict. Smugglers, pirates, and corrupt officials thrive in the shadow of legitimate commerce. In the Merchant of Vision universe, some factions view trade as a means of uniting the galaxy, while others see it as a tool for exploitation and control. The Scorpio Concordat, for instance, sees trade as a weapon, using economic pressure to bring weaker systems to heel.

These conflicts add depth to the narrative. Kars might start out simply trying to make a living, but he quickly finds himself caught between competing factions, forced to choose between profit and principles.

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A Personal Connection

For me, crafting this economic tapestry has been one of the most rewarding parts of writing Merchant of Vision. It’s not just about creating a backdrop for action—it’s about exploring how people adapt and thrive in a universe where survival often depends on the ability to trade and connect.

In some ways, I think my fascination with trade stems from my own experiences. As a Navy veteran, I’ve seen firsthand how interconnected the world is, how the flow of goods and ideas shapes nations and lives. As a writer, I get to take that understanding and expand it to a galactic scale, imagining the ripple effects of a single trade deal—or a single betrayal.

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The Human Element

At its core, the trade networks of the Merchant of Vision universe aren’t just about goods—they’re about people. The merchants, smugglers, dockworkers, and traders who keep the galaxy running are the true heart of the story. Their struggles, ambitions, and choices bring the universe to life, making the economic systems feel real and impactful.

When I sit down to write, I often think about the unsung heroes of trade—the people who risk everything to keep the wheels turning. In a way, their resilience and resourcefulness mirror my own journey as a writer. Like them, I’m navigating uncertain terrain, driven by a dream and the hope that my work will connect with others.

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So, the next time you read a story set in the Merchant of Vision universe, I hope you’ll see the trade routes not just as a backdrop, but as a living, breathing part of the narrative. After all, in both fiction and reality, trade is what binds us together—it’s what makes the stars feel just a little closer.

Jaded Among the Stars: The Weight of Endless Exploration

 

For most of us, the idea of stepping onto an alien world, breathing its air, touching its soil, and staring up at an unfamiliar sky would be nothing short of a miracle. It’s the stuff of dreams—an experience so far removed from our 21st-century reality that even imagining it fills us with wonder.

But what happens when that dream becomes a job? When the vast unknown shrinks down to a series of routine checklists, filled with atmospheric scans, mineral samplings, and geological surveys? What happens when even the most awe-inspiring landscapes—ringed gas giants, twin suns, crystalline caverns—become nothing more than another tick on a report?

This is where Nisa Jax finds herself. A scout for over two decades, she’s explored more worlds than most people could imagine in ten lifetimes. She’s landed on countless alien planets, walked under every color of sky imaginable, and stood on shores that have never known life. For her, exploring the stars was once a dream, but now it’s a routine—familiar to the point of banality.

When the Extraordinary Becomes Mundane

For Nisa, her days are filled with the familiar hum of the scout ship’s engines, the glow of diagnostic panels, and the endless monotony of planetary surveys. It always begins the same way:

1. Land the ship.

2. Sample the air.

3. Scan the water for elemental composition.

4. Analyze the soil for rare minerals.

The patterns are predictable, the results often repetitive. Oxygen, nitrogen, silicon, water—it’s always the same building blocks rearranged in slightly different ways. Another rock. Another ocean. Another report to file.

She still remembers the excitement of her first few landings, the thrill of stepping onto a planet untouched by sentient life. Back then, every horizon was a mystery, every scan a potential breakthrough. But over the years, the edges of that excitement have dulled.

Nisa knows the universe is vast, but she’s seen so much of it that the vastness has started to blur. It’s not that she doesn’t love exploring—she does. It’s just that the novelty has worn off. What once felt like magic now feels like routine.

The Hunt for the Unseen

And yet, it’s not all sameness. Every so often, Nisa stumbles across something that reignites the spark:

An impossibly delicate network of crystalline veins stretching across a canyon wall.

A species of bioluminescent plant that glows with colors she’s never seen before.

A lone, abandoned structure in the middle of a desolate plain, hinting at a civilization long forgotten.

It’s these moments—rare and fleeting—that keep her going. They remind her that the universe, for all its predictability, still has surprises. The trick, she’s learned, isn’t just in looking but in seeing. It’s about finding the extraordinary hidden within the mundane.

What It Means to Be Jaded

I think about Nisa a lot when I sit down to write her stories. Because in some ways, I envy her. I envy the fact that she’s seen so much of the universe that it’s made her jaded. What I wouldn’t give to walk in her boots, to visit even a fraction of the worlds she’s surveyed.

But maybe that’s the point. Maybe we’re not meant to stay in awe forever. Maybe the things that once filled us with wonder are supposed to become familiar over time. That doesn’t make them less valuable—it just means we’ve grown.

The Explorer’s Soul

I’ve often wondered why stories of exploration resonate so deeply with me. Why I love games like No Man’s Sky or Elite Dangerous. Why I can spend hours in a procedurally generated galaxy, visiting planets that no one else has ever seen, even if they’re just pixels on a screen.

Maybe it’s because I feel like an explorer trapped in the wrong era. My soul longs for the stars, for the freedom to wander and discover. And so, I write stories about characters like Nisa Jax—characters who get to live the life I can only imagine.

But Nisa’s story is more than just wish fulfillment. It’s also a reminder that even the most extraordinary life can become routine. And that’s okay. Because within that routine lies the possibility of finding something truly extraordinary.

Dreaming of the Stars

So here I am, sitting at my desk on Earth, imagining alien landscapes and starship adventures. My surroundings are ordinary, my life far removed from the stories I create. But that’s the beauty of writing—it lets me go to places I’ll never reach, lets me live lives I’ll never have.

And maybe, just maybe, one day someone will read Nisa’s story and feel the same spark of wonder I felt the first time I dreamed of the stars.

Because in the end, it’s not about whether the stars make us jaded. It’s about the journey we take to get there—and the stories we tell along the way.

Back to the Stars: Finding My Way After the Move

 

The last few weeks have been a blur of boxes, tape, and chaos as we packed up our lives and moved into a new house. Moving, as anyone who’s done it knows, is exhausting—mentally, physically, and emotionally. By the time we finished, I felt like I’d been through hyperspace turbulence.

But now, as I sit surrounded by my notebooks, maps, and reference books, I’m reminded of why it’s all worth it. The new house is not just a place to live—it’s a launchpad for my next creative journey. My workroom is still coming together, but I’ve unpacked enough to see the pieces of my old life blending with this fresh start. And while I’m still physically drained, my excitement to dive back into writing and world-building is reigniting my energy.

A Fresh Space for Big Ideas

One of the things I love most about this new house is the space. My new workroom feels like it was designed for creativity. The desk is cleared (for now), and my shelves are stacked with the tools of the trade: notebooks filled with scrawled notes, plastic binders holding planetary stats, sector maps with carefully drawn hexes, and thematic sketches that bring the merchant galaxy to life.

I brought everything from the old house—every piece of paper, every binder, every tiny scrap of an idea—because this move felt like an opportunity to revisit and expand on what I’ve already built. I’m eager to spread out these fragments of imagination and weave them into something cohesive and new.

The Galaxy Beckons

The galaxy I’ve been building for years now feels more alive than ever. Moving gave me a chance to step back and look at the bigger picture. Now, I’m ready to zoom in, sector by sector, and really dig into the details.

Trade routes. Pirate havens. Fledgling colonies and dying empires. Every hex on the map is a story waiting to be told, a connection waiting to be drawn. And with my trusty notebooks and maps at my side, I feel like an explorer charting the unknown.

Creating these trade routes, designing the political intricacies of merchant factions, and imagining the lives of the people who inhabit this galaxy is where I find my joy. It’s the kind of work that doesn’t feel like work—it feels like discovery.

The Power of Starting Fresh

There’s something symbolic about this move. It feels like more than just a change of scenery—it feels like a reset. A chance to reassess, reorganize, and refocus. I’ve carried the lessons of the old house with me, but I’m leaving behind the clutter (literal and metaphorical) that no longer serves me.

And now, with a bigger space and a clearer head, I’m ready to tackle the final edits of Merchant of Vision and dive into the draft of Merchant of Fortune. But I’m also giving myself permission to take the time to explore, to create new maps, and to let the world-building process take me wherever it wants to go.

Looking Ahead

The last few weeks have been chaotic, but I can see the horizon now. I can see the maps I’m going to draw, the stories I’m going to tell, and the worlds I’m going to build.

To everyone who’s followed this journey, thank you for your patience as I’ve navigated this transition. I’m excited to share what comes next—trade routes, political intrigue, daring adventures, and the little details that make the merchant galaxy feel real.

For now, though, I’m going to take a deep breath, open a notebook, and let the stars guide me. Because no matter how exhausting the journey, the destination is always worth it.

Here’s to fresh starts, endless possibilities, and the infinite expanse of imagination. Let’s see where it takes us.

A New Chapter: Moving House, Making Space, and Looking Ahead

This past month has been a whirlwind of packing, sorting, and reflecting as we transitioned from the house that had been our home for years to a new, larger space closer to the city. Moving is one of those life events that forces you to take stock—not just of your belongings, but of your memories, your goals, and where you see yourself in the future.

Our old house wasn’t just a place; it was the backdrop to so many moments of joy, struggle, and growth. It was where my kids took their first steps, where we celebrated birthdays and milestones, and where I wrote countless pages of Merchant of Vision. The walls held the echoes of laughter and the quiet resolve of late nights working toward my dreams. Leaving it behind felt bittersweet, like closing the cover on a beloved book.

Now, we’re in a house that feels like it was built for the next chapter. It’s bigger, brighter, and so much closer to the city. The teakwood floors gleam in the sunlight that filters through the windows, and I finally have a proper office space—something I’ve dreamed about for years. There’s room to spread out, to breathe, to create. It feels like a fresh start in every sense of the word.

Making Room for What Matters

Moving also meant letting go. I got rid of half of my stuff—notebooks I’d outgrown, clothes I hadn’t worn in years, and old files that no longer held relevance. But there were some things I couldn’t part with, no matter how ruthless I tried to be.

Stacks of 70 GSM paper for sketching and notes, my sheet protectors, and my beloved three-ring notebooks for planetary notes—they all made the cut. So did my plastic folders, paint brushes, and art supplies. While I do most of my cartography digitally these days, there’s something deeply satisfying about drawing a map by hand. There’s a kind of magic in using a quality Sakura ink pen to outline continents and rivers, then watching the colors come alive as I add watercolor washes. It’s tactile, meditative, and reminds me why I fell in love with creating worlds in the first place.

Having a dedicated space for all of this—a room where I can immerse myself in maps, notes, and art—is a gift. It’s as though the house is inviting me to dream bigger, to push further, to make the most of this creative journey.

Looking Ahead

This move feels symbolic, like a shift not just in physical space but in mindset. For years, I’ve been working toward the release of Merchant of Vision, building worlds and stories that I hope will resonate with readers. Now, as we head into a new year, I’m filled with hope and determination.

There’s something about a fresh start that invites possibility. I look around this new house—at the space we’ve carved out for family dinners, the corners where the kids play, the office that already feels like a sanctuary—and I feel a renewed sense of purpose.

I’ve set ambitious goals for the coming year. Not just for my writing, but for my life. I want to be more present for my family, more intentional in my work, and more open to the unexpected opportunities that come my way.

Gratitude and Growth

As I sit here, surrounded by stacks of notebooks and the hum of planes taking off from the nearby airport, I’m reminded of how far we’ve come. Life is a constant state of transition, and while it’s not always easy, it’s always worth it.

This new house is more than just a place to live—it’s a symbol of growth, change, and possibility. It’s where I’ll write the next chapters of my books, and the next chapters of our lives.

To those of you who have been following this journey—thank you. Your support means more than you know. And if you’re in a season of change yourself, know this: it’s okay to let go of what no longer serves you. It’s okay to start fresh. The best is yet to come.

Here’s to new beginnings, to dreaming big, and to creating something extraordinary in the year ahead.

The Evolution of a Starship Design: Behind the Scenes

 

Starships are at the heart of any good Space Opera, and for me, designing them has always been a process filled with experimentation, inspiration, and a touch of trial and error. Looking back on my journey as a writer and storyteller, my fascination with starship design began long ago when I was an 11-year-old Traveller referee, armed with the iconic Traveller box set and a wild imagination.

The Starting Point: Traveller and the Basics of Starship Design

At 11 years old, I didn’t have a deep understanding of physics, engineering, or even how starships worked. But I didn’t need to. The Traveller box set provided me with Book 2: Starships, a guide that laid out the basics in a way that even a kid could understand. It was simple but effective:

Specify the Size: You started by choosing the displacement tons of the ship.

Weapons and Hardpoints: Each 100 tons of hull gave you one hardpoint for a weapon mount... This might have one, two, or three weapons on a single turret.

Essential Systems: Fit a power plant, jump drive, and maneuver drive.

Fuel and Cargo: Allocate space for fuel tanks, state rooms, or cargo holds. The amount of fuel you needed was determined by a relatively simple formula.

It was all modular, and while the rules didn’t dive into the fine details of aerodynamics or advanced engineering, they provided enough structure to bring a setting to life. I spent hours experimenting with wild designs, scribbling them down in my notebook, and imagining how they’d operate in the game. Some were sleek and efficient; others were impractically massive or bizarrely shaped, but that didn’t matter. I was laying the foundation for something much bigger.

Influence from Other Systems

As I grew older, my interest in starship design didn’t wane—it evolved. I branched out into other role-playing games, each with its own take on designing ships. Systems like Star Frontiers (with the strategic battle map), Battletech/Aerotech, GURPS Space, and Star Wars D6 RPG, as well as Star Trek role-playing games in the various editions, added layers of complexity and creativity to my understanding of what a starship could be.

Each system brought something new to the table. Some emphasized practicality, like how fuel consumption or life support systems worked, while others leaned into aesthetics and narrative impact. I took inspiration from them all, blending their best elements into my own approach. Ship designers from across the science fiction and gaming spectrum left their mark on my imagination, from the utilitarian designs of 2001: A Space Odyssey to the grandeur of ships in Star Wars and even the iconic Vipers and Battlestars of Battlestar Galactica.

From Sketch to Reality: The Process

These days, my starship design process has become more structured but no less imaginative. It usually starts with an idea or a sketch. Sometimes I draw it out myself—rough lines that suggest the silhouette and layout of the ship. Other times, I let the story dictate the design. What kind of ship would this character or faction use? What purpose does it serve?

Once I have the look and concept nailed down, I begin codifying the ship. Instead of building the stats first and fitting the appearance later (as I did when I was younger), I reverse the process. The ship’s design comes first, its stats second. This way, I can ensure it looks exactly the way I imagine it, and then I figure out how it works.

For example:

A sleek scout ship might emphasize speed, maneuverability, and long-range sensors.

A heavy freighter would need bulkier engines, extensive cargo space, and only minimal weaponry for defense.

A warship would bristle with hardpoints, heavily armored hulls, and a bridge designed for tactical command.

Adapting to Races and Cultures

When it comes to designing ships for different alien races or factions, I let their philosophy and background guide the process. Not every faction builds ships with the same priorities or aesthetics:

A militaristic faction might favor angular, intimidating designs.

A race that values elegance and beauty might create ships that are sleek, curved, and almost organic.

Practical, utilitarian factions might design ships that look more like industrial machines than works of art.

That said, I don’t have a rigid design philosophy for each race or faction. Instead, I let the story and the setting inspire me. Sometimes a ship just needs to look cool and fit the tone of the narrative.

Experimenting with Starship Geomorphs

In addition to external design, I also love working on the internal layouts of ships. Over the years, I’ve experimented with geomorphic designs from various role-playing game tile sets—modular pieces that can be arranged to create cockpits, corridors, and cargo bays. These are great for visualizing the ship’s interior and how it would function.

Sometimes, I create layouts entirely by hand, sketching out blueprints that show where the bridge, engineering bay, and crew quarters are located. I even photocopy some of these designs to use during gameplay, giving players a tangible map of their starship.

Lessons Learned: Form Follows Function

One of the most important lessons I’ve learned is that starship design is about balance. It’s not just about looking cool—it’s about creating something that feels real within the context of the story. A good starship design should:

1. Reflect the Story: The ship should serve the narrative, whether it’s a rundown smuggler’s freighter or a cutting-edge exploration vessel.

2. Be Functional: Even in a fictional universe, the design should make sense. Where’s the engine? How does the crew get from the bridge to engineering?

3. Inspire Imagination: The best ships are the ones that capture the reader’s imagination and make them want to climb aboard.

The Joy of Creation

Looking back, I realize how much starship design has shaped not just my stories, but my approach to writing as a whole. It’s a process that combines creativity with logic, aesthetics with practicality. Every starship is a character in its own right, with its own story to tell.

From those early days with the Traveller box set to the intricate ships in Merchant of Vision and Merchant of Fortune, the journey of designing starships has been as exciting as the stories they help tell. And the best part? There’s always another ship to design, another adventure waiting to take flight.

What’s your favorite starship design from a book, movie, or game? Let’s chat in the comments—I’d love to hear what inspires you!

Lessons Learned from Writing Multiple Books

 

As I sit here, deep into the process of finishing my third book, Merchant of Fortune, I can’t help but reflect on how far I’ve come since the first keystrokes of Merchant of Vision. It’s been a journey of persistence, evolution, and countless lessons—some hard-earned, others unexpected. Writing one book is a monumental effort, but writing a third while polishing the first, and editing the second is a completely different beast.

When I started Merchant of Vision, I was brimming with ideas, excitement, and ambition. I had a sprawling story free and  loose in my mind, characters I wanted to bring to life, and a universe I couldn’t wait to explore. But like any grand project, the reality of writing hit me hard: drafts that didn’t work, storylines that wandered, seems that could have gone six different ways and all of them seemed valid at the time, and the challenge of balancing a vast, ambitious setting, and detailing the narrative with coherent, engaging storytelling. I thought finishing that first book would be the hardest part. But it took so long to get there, almost 10 years of studying "how to" books by famous published authors.

And then came book two. I had to go into a different genre. Because working on straight Space Opera was like a soup covered in fog.

That's when I started Winter Zero, based on an image from an artist that I saw on "cover browsing" day.

Perseverance: Writing Through the Rough Days

If writing Merchant of Vision was about figuring out what kind of story I wanted to tell, writing my third book, Merchant of Fortune has been about testing my ability to stick with it. Sequels come with their own challenges. How do you expand the universe without losing the focus and charm of the original? How do you raise the stakes without falling into clichés? How do you stay motivated when the doubts creep in and the process feels endless?

The answer, I’ve learned, is simple but not easy: you just keep going.

Perseverance isn’t glamorous, but it’s what separates finished books from abandoned drafts. There were days when the words flowed effortlessly, and there were days when writing felt like pulling teeth. But every time I sat down, whether for 20 minutes or four hours, I reminded myself of why I’m doing this—because these stories matter to me, and I believe they’ll matter to others too.

Editing: The Real Work Begins

When I finished the first draft of Merchant of Vision, I thought the hard part was over. Little did I know, the real work was just beginning. Editing taught me to see my story through new eyes—those of my readers. It’s not just about tightening sentences or catching typos (though that’s important); it’s about asking hard questions.

Does this scene move the story forward?

Is this character’s motivation clear?

Have I earned this emotional moment?

Editing forces you to let go of your ego. I’ve had to cut scenes I loved because they didn’t serve the story. I’ve rewritten chapters that felt fine at first glance but needed deeper emotional stakes. And I’ve learned to embrace feedback—from editors, beta readers, and even my own instincts when something didn’t feel right. That's what spurred the rewrite of the ending of Merchant of Vision.

With Merchant of Fortune, I’ve carried these lessons forward. I’m approaching the draft with more clarity, knowing that everything doesn’t have to be perfect on the first try. But I also know more about what is needed and how to do it.  What matters is getting the ideas down, building the framework, and trusting the process to refine it later.

Growth: Becoming a Better Writer

Looking back, I can see how much I’ve grown as a writer. With Merchant of Vision, I was finding my footing, learning how to navigate the complexities of world-building, character arcs, and pacing. With Merchant of Fortune, I feel more confident. I know my characters better. I understand the rhythm of storytelling. I’m not as afraid of making mistakes because I’ve seen how they can lead to breakthroughs.

But growth isn’t just about technical skills—it’s about trusting myself. Writing two books has taught me to listen to my intuition, to take risks, and to lean into the stories I want to tell, even if they don’t fit neatly into a genre box. It’s also taught me to have patience—with the process, with my work, and with myself.

The Joy of Creation

At the heart of it all, what keeps me going is the joy of creation. There’s something magical about watching a story take shape, about breathing life into characters and worlds that once existed only in your imagination. Every book is a journey, not just for the characters but for the writer. And every journey changes you.

Merchant of Vision challenged me to step into the role of an author. Merchant of Fortune is teaching me how to build on that foundation, to grow and evolve while staying true to the heart of the story.

Looking Ahead

As I move forward, I know there will be more challenges, more lessons, and more moments of doubt. But there will also be triumphs—small victories like nailing a scene or finding the perfect line of dialogue, and big ones like holding a finished book in my hands.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that writing isn’t a sprint—it’s a marathon. And while the finish line may feel far away, every step is worth it.

To anyone reading this who’s chasing their own creative dreams: keep going. Trust yourself, embrace the process, and remember why you started. The journey is hard, but it’s also beauiTful. And in the end, it’s what makes the story worth telling.

When the Rules Change: Reflections on UFOs, Truth, and the Unknown

There are moments in life that shatter the foundation of what you think you know. Moments that pull the rug out from under your carefully constructed understanding of the world and leave you questioning everything. For me, two such moments stand out, and with the U.S. government finally opening the doors for testimony about UFOs—alien craft in our oceans, skies, and perhaps beyond—I find myself reflecting on these experiences and the chaos they stirred in my mind and soul.

A Bright Light Over Pittsburgh

I was 16, living in Pittsburgh, and headed down the steep incline of Maytide Street on my way to a friend’s house. We were planning to play a Napoleonic hex-and-counter war game by SPI—a kind of immersive, tactile strategy game that felt like stepping into history. My mind was focused on the battlefields of Europe, on strategy and simulation, on dice rolls and unit placements.

And then I saw it.

It looked like a planet at first, a bright, steady light in the sky, unremarkable in its stillness. But then it moved—zigzagging sharply across the sky, stopping, and then turning in an entirely new direction. It wasn’t a plane, it wasn’t a meteor, and it certainly wasn’t anything I could explain.

In that moment, I felt my perception shift. It was as if my mind suddenly sped up, processing the world faster, trying to make sense of something that defied explanation. I didn’t feel afraid; I felt... expanded. Like I was seeing a crack in the surface of reality, a glimpse of something bigger than the human experience.

I kept walking, eventually reaching my friend’s house, but the event stayed with me. I’d gone out that day expecting to reenact the strategies of Napoleonic generals, but instead, I found myself grappling with the edges of human understanding. That was the first moment that my perception of the world truly change.

Aboard the Ship: The Second Event

Years later, I was deployed in the Navy, serving aboard a U.S. warship. By this point, I’d seen my share of strange things, but nothing could have prepared me for what happened that night.

We were out on the open ocean, nothing but water and stars stretching endlessly in every direction. And then it happened—an object, unidentifiable, moving with a precision and speed that didn’t just challenge the laws of physics; it outright defied them.

It zigzagged through the night sky, stopped on a dime, reversed direction, and accelerated faster than anything I’d ever seen. There was no sound, no exhaust plume, no sense that it adhered to the rules that govern everything else in the known universe. It moved like it was playing in a different game entirely, one where inertia, momentum, and the very fabric of reality didn’t apply.

This wasn’t some fleeting moment, either. It was a repeatable, observable event. I wasn’t the only one who saw it, though we were all bound by silence. We weren’t supposed to talk about it, and for years I didn’t—not in detail.

But here’s the thing: once you’ve seen something like that, you can’t unsee it. It stays with you. It changes you.

The World Without Rules

Now, as the U.S. government begins to pull back the veil of secrecy, allowing military members and researchers to testify openly about these phenomena, I feel a strange sense of validation—and unease.

What does it mean for the world when the rules are no longer rules? When everything we thought was settled—gravity, inertia, the very laws of physics—is suddenly open to question?

For some, it’s terrifying. The idea that we are not alone, that there are forces and intelligences far beyond our understanding, shakes the core of human arrogance. For others, it’s exhilarating—a door flung open to a universe of possibilities, to discoveries that could redefine existence itself.

For me, it’s both. I’m a writer, a storyteller, someone who thrives on the idea of exploring the unknown. But I’m also a human being, grounded (however tenuously) in the structures of reality. To see those structures crack and shift is both thrilling and disorienting.

From Stories to Truth

Those two experiences—the light over Pittsburgh and the encounter aboard the ship—have stayed with me all these years. They inspired my short story, Pretty Lady Is My Friend, and are now shaping my upcoming novel, I Don’t Want to Remember. Writing these stories has been my way of grappling with the unexplainable, of turning chaos into narrative.

But more than that, it’s my way of sharing the questions that haunt me. What happens when the world isn’t what we thought it was? When the rules we lived by no longer apply?

And perhaps most importantly: how do we move forward in a world that has changed, knowing there is more out there than we ever imagined?

A Call to Curiosity

As the veil lifts, I hope we can approach these revelations with humility and curiosity. The universe is vast and mysterious, and we are only just beginning to understand its complexities.

If nothing else, these experiences have taught me this: the unknown isn’t something to fear—it’s something to explore. And sometimes, the most profound journeys don’t take us to distant stars but deep into the fabric of our own reality, where the familiar becomes strange, and the strange becomes familiar.

So I keep writing, keep exploring, keep searching for the stories that help make sense of the senseless. And as the world begins to change in ways we never expected, I invite you to join me—to ask questions, to seek answers, and to embrace the wonder of a universe that is far bigger, stranger, and more beautiful than we ever dreamed.

Because the rules have changed. And that’s where the story begins.

A Slow Clap in the Auditorium

There are days when it feels like I’m standing on a dimly lit stage, alone in a vast auditorium, and the only sound is the slow, solitary clap of my own hands echoing in the emptiness. It’s not the roaring applause we dream of, the standing ovation that validates years of work. No, it’s quieter, humbler—a sound that could easily be lost in the void.

But it’s enough.

Because I asked for this.

This is my command performance, not for the present audience, but for a future one. For the readers who will one day pick up my books and escape into the worlds I’ve built, finding joy, solace, and adventure. For the next generation of storytellers who might read my words and think, “I could do this too.” And, maybe most of all, for me—the younger me who dared to dream of being here.

A World in Decline, A Personal Mission

Lately, the weight of the world has felt especially heavy. Fascism is rising in America, the country I once swore to defend when I joined the military. Everything I believed in—the ideals of democracy, freedom, equality—feels like it’s slipping through our fingers, sold off by oligarchs who see the world as nothing more than a boardroom game. It’s easy to feel defeated, to think, What’s the point of writing stories when the world is burning?

But here’s the thing: I’m still here.

I’ve faced hard truths before. I’ve been to places and seen things that broke me down and forced me to rebuild from the ashes. And every time, I’ve risen again—not because it was easy, but because my intuition told me I had to keep going. That there was something waiting for me on the other side of the struggle.

And now, my stories are part of that fight.

Cheering Myself On

Writing isn’t just about the words on the page; it’s about believing in yourself when no one else does. It’s about sitting down at the keyboard when the world feels too big and you feel too small. It’s about telling yourself, This matters. I matter.

Some days, that belief is the only thing keeping me going. I remind myself of the dream that’s carried me this far—the dream of creating stories that inspire hope, resistance, and resilience in the face of impossible odds.

When no one else is there to cheer for me, I clap for myself.

And you know what? That slow clap is enough. Because it means I’m still in the game. It means I haven’t given up.

Hope as Resistance

Stories matter, especially now. They remind us of what’s possible, even when the world feels bleak. They’re a way of saying, “We were here. We fought. We dreamed.”

In Merchant of Vision and the books to come, I’ve poured my hope, my anger, and my determination into every page. I’ve written characters who rise above their circumstances, who fight for something greater than themselves, who refuse to let the darkness win.

Because that’s what I believe in, even now: that the fight is worth it. That the slow clap in the empty auditorium isn’t the end—it’s just the beginning.

For You, For Me, For the Future

So I’m here, writing stories, cheering myself on, and trusting that someday, the audience will show up. Maybe it’s not the world I thought I’d be writing for, but it’s the one I have.

If you’re reading this, you’re part of that audience. And for that, I’m grateful.

This is my command performance, and I’m giving it everything I’ve got. Not just because I have to, but because I want to.

Thank you for being here. Let’s keep clapping for each other—and for the future we’re all working toward.

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