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.

#PersonalBlog #AuthorLife #HopeInDarkTimes #KeepWriting #MerchantOfVision

A Decade of Dedication: How I Stayed Focused on the Vision

Ten years. That’s how long it’s taken me to bring Kars Vandor and his universe to life. A full decade of dreaming, writing, rewriting, doubting, learning, and—most importantly—believing. As I reflect on this journey, I realize just how much it’s been shaped by the quiet moments of determination, the endless hours of research, and the refusal to listen to anyone who said, “Why bother?”

When I first began sketching out the world of Merchant of Vision, I was armed with little more than a notebook and an overwhelming desire to tell stories that felt as vivid and expansive as the ones I grew up reading. I didn’t have all the answers. I didn’t know the technical ins and outs of plotting a novel or crafting complex characters. But I had a vision—a clear image in my mind of who Kars Vandor was and the universe he inhabited.

And that vision was enough to take the first step.

Building the Foundation

In the beginning, it was easy to feel overwhelmed. The sheer scope of a Space Opera universe—thousands of worlds, centuries of history, and countless characters—was daunting. Where do you even start? For me, the answer was simple: by learning.

I spent years devouring every book on writing I could find, from craft-focused guides to literary classics. I found incredible gems in local bookstores—many of them on sale shelves—and built a library that became my foundation. Amazon became another invaluable resource, connecting me with books on everything from world-building to narrative structure.

I also turned to online courses and seminars, diving into subjects like pacing, character arcs, and the nuances of dialogue. I learned from experts in the field, but I also learned from fellow writers—hearing their struggles, their triumphs, and their advice on pushing forward.

The Role of Editors and Mentors

One of the biggest lessons I learned was that you don’t have to do this alone. Writing may feel solitary at times, but no great book exists without collaboration. Over the years, I’ve worked with developmental editors, line editors, and story consultants who challenged me to see my work in new ways.

They pointed out weaknesses I hadn’t noticed, suggested new directions for characters, and helped me tighten plots that felt sprawling and aimless. Their feedback wasn’t always easy to hear—sometimes it felt like being torn apart and put back together again—but it was always necessary.

These editors became mentors in their own right, showing me that even the best ideas need refining and that good storytelling is as much about revision as it is about inspiration.

Keeping the Faith

If I’m being honest, there were times I thought about giving up. When a plotline refused to come together or a character didn’t feel authentic, it was tempting to throw my hands up and walk away.

But I didn’t.

What kept me going wasn’t just the dream of seeing Merchant of Vision in readers’ hands—it was the belief in myself. The belief that this story mattered, that it was worth telling, and that I was the only one who could tell it.

Over the years, I’ve faced skepticism from people who didn’t understand why I was dedicating so much time to something so uncertain. Some laughed, others dismissed it as a hobby. But I knew better. I knew this wasn’t just a pastime—it was a calling.

The Power of Persistence

Writing a book is not just about talent—it’s about persistence. It’s about showing up every day, even when you don’t feel inspired. It’s about pushing through self-doubt and trusting the process.

For me, persistence meant finding time to write amidst a busy life. It meant waking up early, staying up late, and carving out moments whenever I could. It meant staring at the same chapter for days, reworking it until it felt just right.

And it meant never losing sight of why I started this journey in the first place: to share a story that had lived in my heart for years and to invite readers into the universe of Kars Vandor.

What I’ve Learned Along the Way

After ten years, I’ve come to understand that writing is as much about the journey as it is about the destination. Here are a few lessons I’ve picked up along the way:

1. You Don’t Have to Know Everything at the Start: It’s okay to begin with just a spark of an idea. The rest will come with time and effort.

2. Invest in Yourself: Whether it’s books, courses, or editors, every investment you make in your craft will pay off in the long run.

3. Embrace Feedback: Constructive criticism isn’t a personal attack—it’s an opportunity to grow.

4. Trust Your Vision: No one else sees the story the way you do. Stay true to what matters most to you.

5. Celebrate the Small Wins: Every word written, every chapter revised, every lesson learned—it’s all progress.

Looking Ahead

Now, as I prepare to launch Merchant of Vision, I feel a mix of pride, relief, and excitement. This book is the culmination of a decade of hard work, and while the journey hasn’t always been easy, it’s been worth every moment.

And the best part? This is just the beginning. Kars Vandor’s story is far from over, and I can’t wait to see where it takes me—and you—next.

If you’re chasing a dream, whether it’s writing a book or something entirely different, my advice is simple: Don’t give up on yourself. Believe in your vision, invest in your growth, and keep moving forward.

Thank you for being part of this journey with me. Here’s to the stories yet to come.

#WritingJourney #AuthorLife #Persistence #MerchantOfVision #KarsVandor #SpaceOpera #CreativeProcess

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?

The Art of Character Creation: From Traveller’s Life Path to the Heart of Space Opera

When I look back on the long journey of creating characters for my Space Opera stories, it’s impossible not to credit my experience as a referee and player of the classic role-playing game Traveller. It was 1977, and I was just 11 years old when I first picked up the Little Black Books of Traveller—a game that would go on to shape not only my early storytelling experiences but also the way I approach character development in my novels today.

While most of my friends had heard about Dungeons & Dragons, it hadn’t become the global phenomenon it is now. In fact, I hadn’t started with D&D at all; my entry point into the world of tabletop role-playing was Traveller. D&D’s appeal was obvious even then, offering the excitement of dungeon delving, treasure hunting, and spellcasting. But what struck me about Traveller, and what continues to influence my writing decades later, is its life path character generation system—a process that feels more like crafting a backstory than simply rolling stats.

The Difference in Starting Points

In Dungeons & Dragons, characters often begin their journeys as young adventurers, just stepping out into the world. It’s a zero-to-hero system where the excitement lies in gaining skills, acquiring powerful items, and watching your character grow in power. Your average D&D adventurer might start with a longsword or shortsword, a bit of money leftover from a small inheritance, and a pack of essential gear. You’re equipped, but you’re at the beginning of your journey, with a lot of room to grow. It’s a setup that mirrors the classic coming-of-age tale—young heroes finding their place in a dangerous world.

Traveller, on the other hand, flips this narrative on its head. Instead of starting as a fresh-faced adventurer, you begin with a character who has already lived a life—sometimes several careers' worth. When I introduced my D&D-playing friends to Traveller, they were amazed by how different the experience was. Here, you might be creating a grizzled Navy captain, a retired scout who’s seen it all, or a merchant who’s already made (and lost) a fortune. The characters are disparate in experience, age, and background, much like the eclectic crews you find in classic Space Opera tales. Think of the bridge of the Enterprise, or the crew of the Serenity—individuals with different skills and histories, each bringing something unique to the table.

The Life Path of Traveller: Guided by Fate and Choice

The beauty of Traveller’s character creation lies in its life path system, a process that I’ve come to love and adapt in my own writing. Unlike D&D, where you roll dice to determine your stats and pick skills from a list, Traveller offers a blend of randomness and choice. You start with basic attributes—Strength, Dexterity, Endurance, Intelligence, Education, and Social Standing—determined by dice rolls. But from there, the process becomes a narrative in itself.

You choose a career path: Will your character join the Navy, enlist as a Marine, become a merchant, or take the risky road of a scout? Each career choice brings its own set of challenges and opportunities. You don’t always get what you want, though. Sometimes, a failed roll means your character couldn’t make it into their desired career. Maybe they were injured in a failed scouting mission, or perhaps they were dishonorably discharged from the Navy under mysterious circumstances. These twists become plot hooks and character-defining moments, shaping the backstory and personality of the character long before they enter the story.

The skill acquisition in Traveller isn’t about cherry-picking abilities; it’s about making choices that align with the narrative you’re building. You gain skills through the experiences your character goes through—surviving combat, making risky trades, or navigating uncharted space. It’s a process guided by the player but influenced by the unpredictable nature of dice rolls, creating a character with strengths, weaknesses, and a wealth of experiences that feel real.

The Unpredictability of Life Path Generation

One of my favorite aspects of Traveller’s character creation is how the process mirrors real life. It’s not a perfect, linear path. There are setbacks, unexpected events, and sometimes catastrophic failures. I remember vividly the first time a player in my Traveller campaign experienced a major setback during character generation—a roll of the dice meant that their character was severely injured in combat, leaving them with a permanent limp and a lower Dexterity score. Instead of being upset, the player was thrilled. This wasn’t a disadvantage; it was a storytelling opportunity. That limp became a defining trait, a source of tension and drama throughout the campaign. It’s these kinds of moments—when things don’t go as planned—that make Traveller characters feel alive.

For me, this process translates seamlessly into writing Space Opera. In a genre where the scope is vast and the stakes are cosmic, it’s easy for characters to become lost in the spectacle. But by grounding them in a detailed backstory created through a Traveller-like process, I can ensure that they feel real. They have scars, both physical and emotional. They’ve made mistakes, learned hard lessons, and have stories to tell before the reader ever meets them.

Building the Crew of the SS Vagabond

When I started writing Merchant of Vision, I applied this method to my main characters. Take Kars Vandor, for instance. I didn’t just decide that he would be a young, talented welder on a mining colony. I mapped out his life as if I were generating him in Traveller. He started as a laborer, who learned mechanical skills out of necessity, and faced the life of a smart but inexperienced technician on a poor, corporate controlled, mostly lawless frontier mining world that shaped his drive to escape his harsh circumstances. By the time he enters the story, he’s not just a blank slate—he’s a fully realized person with a history that informs his every decision.

Kris Herron was another character brought to life through this approach. Her backstory as the daughter of a Terran naval hero shaped her motivations, her sense of duty, and her inner conflict. I didn’t plan out every detail; instead, I let her life path unfold as if I were guiding her through a Traveller character generation session. She starts out on the same desert Frontier world with a higher social status and some more money, as well as being a skilled pilot. But I also understood that she's going to become a naval officer who is going to go to the Naval academy because she's been accepted. So that she's going to be gone for 4 years. This means that their paths are going to diverge, they're going to separate and then perhaps come back together at a later date both having matured so much over those four years of early adulthood. What starts out as essentially a high school romance on a frontier colony can become something with depth, or their lives will just diverge and they will have the memories. 

 This method gave her depth, making her relationship with Kars more complex and layered, rather than just becoming the stereotypical passive female love interest, she has her own life, motivations, and dreams. She feels organic to her own story... not just arm candy for the lead male protagonist.

Why It Works for Space Opera

The essence of Space Opera lies in its characters—the heroes, the rogues, the explorers who make the universe feel alive. By using a method rooted in role-playing game character creation, I’m able to build individuals who feel like they’ve lived entire lives before the story even begins. They come with baggage, with unresolved conflicts, and with skills honed by experience. This makes the dynamics between them richer and the narrative more compelling.

I believe that this approach can benefit any writer, especially those crafting speculative fiction. It adds a layer of realism and depth that draws readers in, making them feel like they’re peering into the lives of real people, not just characters on a page.

If you’ve ever played a role-playing game or are curious about how game mechanics can inform storytelling, I’d love to hear your thoughts. Have you created characters this way? Do you enjoy reading about characters with detailed, nuanced backstories? Drop a comment below—I’m always excited to dive into a conversation about the art of character creation.

The Burden of Legacy: Leadership in a Fallen Empire

In the universe of Merchant of Vision, power is a fleeting thing. The galaxy is a vast and chaotic place, shaped by wars, forgotten histories, and the rise and fall of countless civilizations. One of the central figures who embodies this turmoil is the Duchess—a character who, despite standing in the shadow of a fallen empire, carries herself with the dignity and poise of a true ruler.

A Leader in the Darkness

The Duchess is not just a remnant of a bygone age; she is a living link to the lost grandeur of the Imperium that once united the stars. In the story, I wanted to capture the essence of what it means to be a leader clinging to the traditions and values of a golden age that collapsed a thousand years ago. It’s not just about wielding power or making decisions; it’s about carrying the mantle of leadership in a world that has forgotten what true leadership looks like.

Imagine a galaxy where the remnants of a once-great empire are scattered across the stars, their influence lingering in fragments of old treaties, lost protocols, and forgotten rites. The Duchess is one of the few who remembers these things, who was taught the ancient ways by her predecessors and holds onto them as if they were a sacred trust. To many, she might seem like a relic—a ruler clinging to the past. But in truth, her adherence to the old protocols is what sets her apart and commands respect, even among those who no longer recognize the old titles of nobility.

The Benevolent Imperium

The empire she represents wasn’t a tyrannical regime—at least, not in its golden age. The Imperial Monarchy that once ruled the galaxy was flawed, yes, but it was built on a foundation of benevolent ideals: the pursuit of knowledge, the spread of prosperity, and the unification of disparate worlds under a banner of shared peace. The collapse came not from inherent evil but from the slow decay of time, external pressures, and the Prophet’s War—a cataclysmic conflict that shattered the core worlds and left a power vacuum that has yet to be filled.

When I was writing the Duchess, I envisioned her as a leader who carries the weight of this legacy on her shoulders. She is haunted by the memories of a better time, one she never lived through but knows intimately through the stories passed down to her. It’s her belief in the old ways—the idea that a ruler should serve her people, not dominate them—that makes her stand out in the fractured political landscape of the present galaxy.

The Prophet’s War and the Fall into Chaos

The galaxy in Merchant of Vision is shaped by the aftermath of the Prophet’s War, a devastating conflict that tore apart the Imperial Monarchy a millennium ago. It was a war not just of ideology but of betrayal and lost faith, a war that ended with the core worlds in ruin and the great star fleets shattered into factions and pirate bands. The Duchess’s own ancestors were part of that last, desperate stand against the forces that sought to tear down everything the Imperium stood for.

In a sense, her struggle is twofold: she fights against the chaos of the present, but she’s also fighting to preserve the memory of a time when rulers were not just warlords, but stewards of a greater vision. The Duchess understands that leadership is not about clinging to power but about embodying the values of a better time—honor, wisdom, and service. This is what she tries to impart to those around her, even as they scoff at her adherence to the old ways.

Why This Matters for the Story

In Merchant of Vision, the Duchess’s role is pivotal because she represents a beacon of hope in a galaxy that has lost its way. Her presence forces characters like Kars Vandor to confront their own beliefs about power, loyalty, and the kind of future they want to build. Is the old empire worth remembering? Can its values still guide a new generation, or is it just a lost dream buried beneath the dust of forgotten worlds?

These questions are at the heart of the story. The mantle of leadership isn’t just a title—it’s a burden, a responsibility to the past and the future. The Duchess carries this weight with grace and strength, even as the galaxy around her spirals into anarchy. Her character challenges us to think about the nature of power and leadership, especially in times of upheaval. What does it mean to be a ruler when your empire has crumbled? What legacy do you leave behind when your title is little more than an echo?

The Heart of the Space Opera

For me, writing the Duchess has been an exploration of what it means to hold onto hope in the face of overwhelming odds. Space Opera as a genre often grapples with grand themes—empires rising and falling, heroes and villains, epic battles among the stars. But at its core, it’s about people, about the choices they make and the ideals they cling to.

The Duchess, with her calm yet intense demeanor, embodies the resilience of the human spirit. She’s a reminder that even in a galaxy that has lost its narrative thread, there are still those who strive to tell a better story—who believe in the power of leadership not as a tool of domination but as a means of service and unity.

As the series unfolds, I hope readers will see her not just as a relic of a lost empire, but as a symbol of the kind of leadership we need in our own lives—steadfast, compassionate, and willing to fight for a vision of a better future.

When Empires Fall and Democracies Falter

History has shown us again and again that the mightiest empires don’t always fall to external forces. Often, they crumble from within, weakened by leaders who fail to heed the needs of those they are meant to serve. It’s an uncomfortable truth but one that seems to echo across time and space, from the ruins of ancient civilizations to the challenges we see in flawed democracies today. And it's a theme that has become deeply personal to me as I work on building the worlds and political dynamics in Merchant of Vision.

There’s a certain hubris in leadership that becomes dangerous when those in power stop listening to the people. Empires—and yes, even democracies—aren’t sustained purely by military might or economic power; they are built upon the collective hopes and ambitions of the individuals within them. People want simple things, really: stability, a decent livelihood, and the chance to improve their lives. When leadership loses sight of those simple needs and becomes entangled in self-serving agendas, a rift begins to form between the rulers and the ruled. It’s in this disconnect that the seeds of downfall are sown.

The Downfall of Arrogance and Disconnect

A flawed democracy might not wear the trappings of a traditional empire, but it shares the same vulnerability: a reliance on the trust and loyalty of the people it governs. Democracies are, by their very nature, meant to be systems of government that reflect the will of the majority, giving voice to the diverse needs and desires of their citizens. But what happens when that voice is ignored?

When leaders focus more on maintaining power than on serving the public good, they create an environment ripe for resentment and frustration. And eventually, when people feel that their voices are lost, their frustrations evolve into a force that no government—no matter how powerful—can ignore. People begin to seek change through other means, and they no longer view the system as legitimate. History reminds us that when leadership fails to listen, revolutions, coups, and uprisings follow in time.

Prosperity and Livelihood: The People's Simple Desires

At the heart of any stable society is a social contract. People work, pay taxes, obey laws, and contribute to the community with the expectation that their government will ensure peace, safety, and opportunities for prosperity. This is what makes society function: the idea that each citizen has a part to play, and that in return, they’ll have a chance at a good life.

However, when leaders act only in their own interests—whether through corruption, short-sighted policies, or sheer disregard for the will of the people—they break that social contract. People begin to feel that the system no longer has their best interests in mind. Rather than prosperity and a good livelihood, citizens are left with instability, economic disparity, and a sense that they are powerless to change their circumstances.

In Merchant of Vision, I explore a galaxy where people’s simple desires—prosperity, peace, and purpose—are often left unmet due to leaders who view their positions as entitlements rather than responsibilities. This disconnect drives people to seek change, sometimes in ways that disrupt the very foundations of their societies.

Learning from History: Warnings Ignored

If there’s one thing we can learn from the rise and fall of civilizations, it’s that power unchecked is power abused. Ancient empires such as Rome, dynasties like the Ming, and even more recent powers have faced collapse when leaders became too distant from the needs of their people. Rome fell under the weight of corruption, endless wars, and leaders who viewed the empire’s riches as their personal wealth. The Ming dynasty crumbled after years of internal decay, ignoring the needs of its people while focused on maintaining a façade of strength. Time and again, history warns us: when leadership becomes self-serving, societies begin to fracture from within.

In a flawed democracy, this is especially dangerous because it erodes the very principles the system is supposed to protect. When democratic leaders ignore the public, it isn’t just one leader who fails—it’s the entire foundation of trust upon which democracy stands. Citizens lose faith, and with that loss of faith, the structure of democracy itself begins to shake.

The Danger of Failing to Serve

One of the major themes in Merchant of Vision is that leadership is not a privilege; it’s a duty. When leaders become blinded by their own power, they forget the people who supported them in the first place. Whether in an empire or a democracy, leadership means responsibility to others, a responsibility to listen, and to respond to the needs of the many over the desires of the few.

For me, writing about these themes isn’t just an exploration of power and politics—it’s a reflection of the lessons we can draw from our own world. It’s a reminder that leadership without humility, service without empathy, and power without accountability are all paths that lead toward the same outcome: decline.

As I write about interstellar civilizations and the people who inhabit them, I find myself inspired by these truths. These stories are set in the far reaches of space, but the underlying lessons are as old as humanity itself. Empires fall. Democracies falter. But it’s the people, striving for a better life, who are the true constant, resilient and determined, often stronger than the leaders who claim to represent them.

I hope these reflections resonate with you, whether you’re a reader, a fellow writer, or someone passionate about history and the cycles of civilization. As I continue to build this universe, these themes serve as both cautionary tales and reminders of what truly matters in any society: humility, accountability, and the willingness to serve. Thank you for joining me on this journey and for supporting the story of Merchant of Vision.

Behind the Scenes of Merchant of Vision and the Journey to Book Two

Today, I’m excited to share a bit of the journey behind Merchant of Vision, where it stands now, and what’s coming up as we build toward the release of Merchant of Fortune in December 2024. This story, these characters, and this universe have been in the making for over a decade, and as we move through the final phases, I wanted to take a moment to bring you into the process—the challenges, the delays, the triumphs, and the sheer thrill of seeing this series come to life.

The Road So Far: Merchant of Vision

Merchant of Vision, the first book in the series, has been a labor of love, to say the least. This story started as a seed of an idea, an image of a distant mining colony, a character struggling against the odds, and a vision of a galaxy where the smallest choices ripple out to affect entire worlds. Over the years, that small idea expanded into a fully realized universe. Every detail, every planet, every faction was built with a sense of purpose and history, and my goal was to create a world that feels as vast and real as the characters within it.

But, as many authors know, creating something with this level of depth and complexity takes time. I’ve recently decided to extend the editing phase of Merchant of Vision to ensure that it’s everything it needs to be. I want readers to experience Kars Vandor’s journey at its absolute best. After investing so many years into this story, I want to make sure it’s polished, engaging, and immersive from the very first page. So, while it may be disappointing to see a delay, I promise that the extra time spent refining the story will make it worth the wait.

The Journey Ahead: Merchant of Fortune

With the first book in its final edit, we’re now turning our sights toward Merchant of Fortune, which is slated for release in the last week of December 2024. Book Two takes us deeper into the galaxy, unraveling secrets hinted at in Merchant of Vision and throwing our characters into new, high-stakes challenges. Kars, Kris, and the rest of the crew are headed to new frontiers, facing dangers they never anticipated, and uncovering mysteries that could change everything they thought they knew about the galaxy.

To prepare for the launch of Merchant of Fortune, we’ll be kicking off a social media push that will bring readers into the universe and introduce them to the key characters, worlds, and themes of the series. Starting today, every Monday, I’ll be sharing teaser excerpts and behind-the-scenes glimpses from the manuscript. These snippets will give you a taste of the action, atmosphere, and intrigue that define Merchant of Vision and set the stage for what’s to come in Merchant of Fortune.

Teaser Excerpt: The Salt Flats of Port Obarwinko

One of the things I love most about worldbuilding is creating places that feel atmospheric, almost alive. Today’s teaser takes us to Port Obarwinko, a mining colony with a harsh landscape that’s both beautiful and unforgiving. Picture this: an ancient desalination plant, rusting and crumbling on the edges of a vast salt flat, stretching as far as the eye can see. It’s a place haunted by the past, a relic of an era when this world once had oceans, now abandoned to the winds and sands.

Here’s an excerpt from Merchant of Vision that sets the scene:

 "The last rays of sunlight stretched across the salt flats, painting them in muted shades of lavender and indigo as dusk settled over Port Obarwinko. The ancient desalination plant loomed like a skeletal giant against the fading sky, its rusted framework and twisted pipes casting long shadows over the abandoned seabed. Jagged metal towers rose from the structure, once used to siphon seawater through massive intake pipes, now hollow and silent."

This location, for me, captures the tone of the story—an abandoned frontier, a place of forgotten industry and rugged survival. Kars and his crew pass through these desolate places, finding beauty in their isolation, but also danger lurking in every shadow.

Why Book Two is Worth the Wait

Writing a series on this scale means that Book One is just the beginning. Merchant of Fortune dives even deeper into the galaxy, expanding on the events and conflicts of Merchant of Vision and pushing our characters to their limits. The stakes are higher, the scope is broader, and the mysteries become even more complex. Kars and his allies will confront powerful enemies, uncover hidden truths, and face the consequences of choices that reach far beyond their understanding.

I won’t spoil anything, but I will say this: if Merchant of Vision is the spark that ignites Kars’s journey, then Merchant of Fortune is the fire that will test him, forge him, and reveal what he’s truly capable of.

The extra time we’re taking now with Book One will ultimately benefit the entire series. This story has been in development for so long that it feels like it’s finally ready to breathe and take on a life of its own. And as we move forward, the support from readers, fans, and fellow space opera lovers has been invaluable.

Building Excitement Together

As we approach the release of Merchant of Fortune, I’ll be sharing more of these teasers, along with character spotlights, artwork reveals, and insights into the galaxy’s complex factions and cultures. My hope is to make you feel like you’re right there with me on this journey, experiencing each new discovery, each world, and each plot twist as it unfolds.

Thank you for your patience, for your enthusiasm, and for joining me in this incredible adventure. Merchant of Vision and Merchant of Fortune are stories I’ve waited a decade to tell, and now, together, we’re about to explore them.

Stay tuned for more updates, teasers, and a few surprises along the way. Here’s to the journey, to the stars, and to all the worlds still waiting to be discovered.