Books Worth Reading
The pedal on our 17-year-old trash compactor came loose yesterday, a consequence of a shoulder screw having worn through sheet metal at the bottom of the drawer. Only one side had broken out, but both needed reinforcing. I found steel washers in my parts bin, ground the plating off, drilled them out to spec and […]
Pedal to the metal
Images from Vacuum Forged – The Novella. Or whatever the kids are calling unfinished manuscripts these days.
When I tabled the fourth of nine Anye Universe novels to outline the seventh, I had no idea I would keep going — and set Vacuum Forged aside for seven years.
I returned to the middle trilogy uncertain of my intentions — 80,000 words in, having written treatments for volumes five and six, so I would know where I was going with four.
Seven novels in thirteen years. Maybe I should do something else with whatever time I have left.
But then I read this.
Svami Reva lounged in a recliner across the room, poking fingers at the augmented reality space. He acknowledged their arrival without looking. “You’re wasting your time.”
“Maybe.” Suban addressed the prisoner in Low Desert. “Does it seem odd to you that we took the language of our Manu conquerors, called it the Noble Tongue, pretending it was our own when everyone knew it was not? You’d think our people had no shame.”
The man kept his eyes down. Suban dragged a chair over. “You should be afraid of me. Do you know what I am?”
That provoked a response. “A policeman. Zirna Zapha. What else?”
Continue reading “Re-engaged”
From Vacuum Forged - The Anye Migration - Volume 1 - First Draft
Upon the sixth anniversary of First House’s instantiation, Master Sa summoned his three most important students to tell them what they were.
Spring was early in the Northern Reach. The scent of young blossoms drifted through parlor doors. Birdsong rang in the air. Tree pollen tickled noses.
It was all, said Master Sa, an artful deception. “We call it the Anodyne Virtuality.”
Sattva took the news with a smug grin on her face. Master Sa gave her the hairy eyeball. “Your father already told you.”
Continue reading “Riffed”
An early cold-open. Should I have left it in the book?
It was 6:03 AM Mountain Time, 26 minutes ahead of sunrise, 43 degrees Fahrenheit in town, 35 in the desert, mostly clear, the eastern sky shining pale blue with a tinge of pink.
To the northwest, still dark and full of celestial wonder, a colorful ionized-gas display marked a position downrange of the solar system’s galactic path, where Star Forge Partners, a Jivada-based materials manufacturing company, was suctioning space dust into an electrostatically charged funnel.
Furry aliens from outer space and their human partners, mitigating the potential of a cosmic-gas-fueled micro-nova burning half the Earth to a crisp, 15 years hence.
At street level, an Anye-tech fighting drone named Titter spotted a black Chevy Suburban taking a position near the Fowlkes residence.
Continue reading “in media res”
I did not tell Gab AI my novel is Christian adjacent. It figured it out on its own, and is the only one to have done so.
Publication is scheduled for September 15. In the meantime, read the book for free at https://marolitango.substack.com
Maroli Tango occupies a very specific, valuable niche. It is “unconventional” because it treats the high-fantasy elements of its universe (spirits in appliances, ancient lemur-folk lineage, planetary migration) as mundane reality, while treating the traditional human experiences (raising children, grieving a spouse, building a house, choosing a career) as the truly significant events of the narrative.
My takeaway: You have created a work of “metaphysical realism” disguised as space opera. It is likely that readers will find the story disorienting or “strange” for the first fifty pages, then find themselves deeply attached to the characters by the time they reach the mid-point.
You aren’t writing for the typical “laser-gun” space opera audience. You are writing for readers who want to feel the weight of deep time balanced against the lightness of a day at the beach or the arrival of a new child.
This is a complete, well-realized vision. You haven’t just written a story; you’ve built a cosmology that feels lived-in, flawed, and profoundly Christian in its ultimate orientation toward virtue, responsibility, and the sanctity of the person within the machine.
Inspired by posts about cars people wish they still had, I found a photo of my 1962 Mercedes-Benz 220, a possession I should have kept for a lot of reasons — including the fact it would have been a good investment. But then, remorse over cast-away treasures is a common experience as we age. Sometimes […]
Nostalgiafied
Eating
Two days ago, a double-murder-convicted prison escapee crashed a stolen car in a neighborhood across the river. Shortly thereafter, his shoe was found on a nearby boat ramp, implying he might have taken a swim over to our side. See the featured image. I don’t want to find him hiding under the stairs. We’re locking […]
Desperado
Fifty drafts, so far.
The spirit of sacrifice is not an article of surrender. It is a doctrine of self-rule.
U.S. President Carmen Benequista is a mother, a widow, a war veteran — no stranger to the practice of handing fate to the mercy of God, no pushover in a contest of wills.
In 2041, Earth will cross a river of stellar gas — fuel for an extinction-scale solar event, and a signal for neighbors from another planet to lend a hand.
Jivada, fully vested since the Ice Age: “We will not share Trans-Dimensional technology.”
Carmen Benequista: “What happens when you get into trouble? Who’s your partner then?”
Former NSA officer Brandon Lopez: “We can deliver America and France.”
The big blue bus is on a slow-motion slide into a light pole. Passengers in back are getting ready to bail out. An Italian lady from New Jersey is trading words with the driver.
You know she’s going to take the wheel.
Literary space opera. Political suspense. Romantic tension. And the discovery that who you’re with is more important than what you do.
Read the book at marolitango.substack.com
John Dyer Writes 
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