#indieauthor

----( Recommended reading music: Baki OST - Determined (Extended) On Youtube )----

Book 1. Chapter 1: Part 2 The Tide of Tydius Flow 1. The next day

A tall adult male was sleeping shirtless on a futon. Coiling-tossing. On the Temple's third floor, which belongs to the masters as their shared bedroom space, 5 large futons lying on hard wooden-boards. All 4 futons looked used recently, besides 1 futon clean and dusty closer to the southwest wall—5 meters away, from the tall animal—in morning grey. The buff animal starts to make noise, waking up in the morning, slowly transitioning from yawning, lying-stretching, bed-stretching. Then slowly—standing, walking over and looking out the south window, finally-muttering gibberish. Stretches right arm to the sky, left on elbow. Yawns, at the same time his mundane morning turned to thoughts = "Training brats. {A smirk forms as it fades.}. The rice rats is rewarding.. {His arms dropped, as he stood tall.} Mountain sword. {He looks over and behind his right shoulder, to the northeast corner, a large war coffer—eight foot long—four feet tall—six feet wide, old wooden box decorated with orange, yellow, and light brown fabric—falling off.} Sword mastery going—{His head slowly turned forward then stopped half way.}—nowhere. {He faced out the south window.} innovating my stylish style.. Is almost a fantasy..!" For a fraction of a second his lips shook. He then gave a tired smirk. Then he said in a low quiet voice = "Well! Time for morning sword training. {His smirk to a smile.}. His muscles blooming under the sunlight, waking with no shirt—and thin light PJ-pants. A man with long straight black hair, just past his shoulder blades, white with dark blue eyes. 5'11 tall, well-shaved face from heaven, presence from hell, for he had, like us all, a story to tell..!

The-Waking-Master slouched—walking almost stumbling, muttering morning frustrations over towards the war coffer. He then bent over, and unlocked the four-number combination lock on the war coffer. He gently opened the box, his right knee to floor. Beneath a sword and shield, his right hand reached for a mountain sword in its sheath. 165cm end to end. The Blade length was 120cm. At the base of blade 2.7 inches wide. Near the tip 1.65 inches wide.

The-Waking-Master turned and walked to his futon—Then faced north wall. He sat criss-cross applesauce, sword in the sheath—a-blade's buried teeth, leaning like an embrace—resting across his right shoulder—hilt at soul ease on the ground, between his right leg. pounds to hold material felt whole, cold steel as warm. Indexes and thumbs in a circle. He closed his eyes.. To meditate...

Silence!

No will release. To self appease.

In the silence

----(Recommended reading music: Japanese traditional metal — Gakusaku Shiki On Youtube )----

Inside eyes open! A world for his demise! A pitch-black-world in smoke. An elevated circular arena barely visible, embraced haze, for his scream without a sound! Surreal, locked, focused, seen through eyes. The-Waking-Master felt-saw shadows pulling. From all around. The emanating smoke! Forming! A man, an enemy slightly shorter yet buffer—vapors rising to sky—crawling down low, a wish—warrior to-test war of the soul.

The shadow of h-a-z-e, had two one-handed swords, each about three feet long in blade, blades four inches wide at hilt... A thick slash-and-slide!

In deep focus, his sword of choice a sword held past the wish, through meditation in embrace, in both hands. His mountain sword. In hand now he stands. Facing his enemy.

The shadow enemy circles, crouched over—mist vapor trailing to skies, motions-to-ties. The-Waking-Master stands his ground on guard, facing down the shadow—leading stream of steam. A planet's pull does not orbit—the moon; a shark swims around its prey—in battle, too soon to know the cascade—of the winning blade! Focused like his soul only sees, feels, body-mind-relives, flow, motion, emotion-of-instinct, ocean-of-truth!.. I write philosophical essays, hypotheses, and fantasy fiction book Crownose Chronicals.

We’re currently sitting at 64% for the @queerliblib fundraiser. In an effort to generate some more interest, I have set son new threshold goals:

At $400 I’ll release a short story focused onJoe and Cassie from my novel, Blackpoint.

At $500 (the final goal) I’ll release a sneak peak of one of my current WIPs.

Please consider donating or even sharing this post!

Every writer starts with a spark. An idea that won’t leave them alone. A character that feels real. A scene that plays in their head like a movie.

Then the writing begins… and so do the problems.

1. The gap between vision and execution The story in your head feels powerful. On the page, it feels flat. You read it back and wonder, Is this even good? That gap can be painful.

2. Starting strong, losing steam The first few chapters flow. After that, doubt creeps in. The middle drags. The plot feels messy. You question the whole thing.

3. Fear of being judged “What if this is cliché?” “What if no one connects with it?” “What if I’m not as good as I thought?” Those questions sit quietly in the background while you try to write.

4. Loving your story too much to see its flaws You’re close to it. Too close. It’s hard to tell what works and what doesn’t when you’ve lived inside the manuscript for months.

5. Perfectionism that kills progress Editing the same paragraph ten times. Deleting chapters. Starting over. Waiting for the “perfect” sentence instead of finishing the draft.

6. Emotional exhaustion Writing isn’t just typing words. It’s pouring parts of yourself onto a page. That takes energy most people don’t see.

The real problem isn’t talent. It’s isolation, self-doubt, and the weight of trying to do everything alone.

Do you love stories full of tension and heart? Have someone on your holiday list who does?

If you’re looking for a winter read that blends atmosphere, emotion, and high-stakes sci-fi, Imber might be for you.

Reviewers praise its immersive worldbuilding and call it “a gorgeous portrait of humanity” and “a slow-building fire that gradually consumes you.”

Some families don’t raise you. They manage you.

There’s a moment where loyalty starts to feel like control, and love comes with conditions no one warned you about. That’s the space The Inheritance Trap lives in the quiet pressure of family expectations, the secrets people protect, and the cost of choosing yourself when walking away isn’t easy.

This isn’t a loud story. It’s a slow one. Psychological. Uncomfortable. Honest. If you’ve ever felt boxed in by decisions made for you, this might resonate more than you expect.

THE PRICE AND PREY OF MAGIC

Yew and a lot of yew leaves and yew berries. Yes, it did take as long as you think it did.

Yew's the protagonist of my first book, The Price and Prey of Magic, published all the way back in 2022 now, wow. Yews are trees with a number of contradictory connotations, including both healing and death -- in England, they were historically planted in graveyards.