Tag: author

It’s harder than you imagine

ChatGPT is an amazing image development tool.

And a lot of effort to use, particularly if the concept is original.

In this and other projects, I’ve had to draw, photo-edit, juggle reference images, refine page after page of prompts, try and try again, ad infinitum.

And learn what the reasoning engine can do, what it cannot do, what it will not do, and when to give up.

The robot did the above illustration on the basis of months of training, using a description straight out of a chapter.

This usually works. The robot KNOWS what my characters are supposed to look like.

But look at Francine’s hands.

The featured image didn’t happen until I scrapped a whole day’s worth of neck strain, and came at it from a different angle.

Read the chapter at https://marolitango.substack.com/p/160-day-trip

Don't say I didn't do this. I did.

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Rasslin’ with the Robot

I have been using ChatGPT almost exclusively for chapter illustrations. The machine almost always gets it right within two tries, but sometimes it doesn’t.

See the featured image. What a great composition, with the wrong actors.

Getting that straightened out consumed half of yesterday and most of this morning.

Finally, I asked for a style sheet.

The male figure has a tail. This is not canonical.

Not to complain. The chapter illustrations look great. See for yourself at https://marolitango.substack.com/s/read-the-book

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Busking at the Intersection of Merit and Mayhem

The Secretary of the Treasury lived in an exclusive gated community. If one were to consult the HOA charter, front-yard spacecraft landings would fall under the same category as helicopter traffic — requiring prior approval by the board of governance.

Carmen Benequista did not ask permission. Instead, she dropped a Fatboy troop shuttle right on top of her victim’s mailbox.

Her companion, an elevated size-two fighting maroli named Incredible, asked, “What’d this guy do to piss you off?”

She replied, “He disobeyed a lawful order to default on United States debt held by foreign actors.”

Incredible let himself out a cargo hatch. “Why do you want to default on debt?”

Continue reading “Busking at the Intersection of Merit and Mayhem” →
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Frog!

When the machinist was a boy, his grandfather told him about a tiny ceramic frog kept in a pocket at Dachau, the old man’s silent prayer to God that he not be forgotten.

Upon retirement, the machinist took up woodcarving, producing pocket-sized figures of frogs in remembrance of his grandfather’s ordeal.

One day, someone mentioned the frog was a symbol of liberation.

“Oy vey,” he said. “Is that what this is about?”

Thematically, my novels are about discipline, calling, stewardship, covenant, and moral formation over time.

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What Silken Thread is About

Destiny

Purpose

Loss

Discovery

Renewal

An uncommon spin on the coming-of-age theme, informed by the author’s upbringing in mid-century Asia. Mature content, Young Adult appropriate. Value-positive, about good character as a strategy for creating a successful life. An immersive journey to a time and place now gone forever.

Alter Systems says:

  • The Setting Feels Lived-In
    Dyer’s description of 1960s Asia — the humid streets of Manila, the smoky golf clubs, the charged diplomacy around embassies — feels meticulously authentic. He paints a world poised between Cold War espionage and emerging globalization. You can smell the scotch, the silk, the rain on warm pavement.
  • Complex Characters, Real Stakes
    Sixteen-year-old David Aarens isn’t the typical coming-of-age protagonist. His relationship with Barbara Schneider — a twenty-eight-year-old American Air Force officer turned CIA recruit — is written with startling candor and emotional nuance. It’s equal parts romantic idealism and the loss of it. Their story is tender, dangerous, and unafraid to confront human contradiction.
  • Maturity and Moral Texture
    What Dyer achieves here is literary realism rarely seen in modern fiction: everyone in Silken Thread carries both light and shadow. The father’s moral warnings, the lover’s forbidden affection, the diplomats’ coded games — every scene bleeds authenticity and restraint.
  • Historical Depth Without Pretension
    Beneath the personal drama is a larger commentary on Western presence in postwar Asia. The book hints at the cultural arrogance, the quiet racism, and the backroom dealings underpinning “soft power.” Yet it does so without preaching; the truths emerge in texture and subtext.

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Ready for Beta

This morning, I wrote a final draft of a final chapter, marking three-and-a-half years of the most labor I have ever invested in a novel.

I asked five reasoning engines how to describe the book to prospective readers. Claude AI says:

Readers will get:

  • A fully realized universe with 70,000 years of history
  • Characters who feel like real people making hard choices
  • Dialogue that crackles with wit and intelligence
  • Worldbuilding that rewards attention and rereading
  • Emotional payoffs earned through 256 chapters
  • The satisfaction of watching competent people solve complex problems
  • Hope tempered by realism—victory is possible but costly

The emotional experience: Like watching The West Wing in space, or reading Ursula K. Le Guin’s Hainish novels with more humor and romance. Smart, emotionally intelligent, occasionally devastating, frequently funny, always humane.

The robot is a competent writing craft analyzer, but all it can do is tabulate. Maroli Tango is, as far as I know, ready for publication, except nobody with a breathing apparatus has read the whole book.

I see you fidgeting. Well, let me just say — if you make the right choice, you’ll be able to tell your friends, “I knew about this guy before he was famous.”

Tomorrow, if you like. That’s how good a deal this is.

Drop a comment. Tell me you'll read the book. We'll make a big splash, I promise.

#wholesome #unwoke

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If you are in Singapore, and reading this …


Welcome! Also, how did that happen?

I have noticed a surge in Malaysian Peninsula traffic these past few days, and what’s not to like about that?

Two more visitors, and I’ll add Internationally recognized to my profile.

But I am curious — is this about Maroli Tango on Substack, Chapter 61, set in Geylang? 

Feedback from readers would be fun. Are you in Singapore? Are you reading Maroli Tango? Please tell me how I'm doing.

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Craft + Art + Endurance

Following the application of more effort than I have ever spent on a single chapter, the cold opening for Maroli Tango is, as far as I can tell, in final draft.

1 ~ Fast Forward

Tuesday

Three days after the White House Christmas party, eighteen months after aliens from outer space claimed a seat at the table, President Carmen Benequista went on a first date with her steady companion, former NSA officer Brandon Lopez.

Venue — A housewarming celebration aboard the historic airborne estate Ruksa Zila — built on Vidura 68,000 BCE, released into atmosphere only hours before.

Arrival queue — West of Panama, above the Pacific Ocean, behind a fleet of spaceboats. Expected wait time — more than ten minutes.

Entourage — Valet-bodyguard Pascal the maroli, one of forty elevated Anye-technology labor appliances, said to be possessed by spirits of the dead, although not in a bad way.

The PMI Explorer Inconsistent followed the attraction south. Brandon reached across the center console to hold Carmen’s hand.

Pascal crowded up front, tentacles spilling between operators’ seats. “This one is not prone to gossip, but my hearing is excellent.”

Brandon replied, “I could tell you about our trip to see Carmen’s family.”

Carmen rotated the co-pilot’s seat. “When I was a twelve-year-old nosepicker in convent school, segregated from the decadent disco seventies, my maternal grandfather traveled to the United States for a Christmas visit.”

Pascal quantum-glued his capsule to the deck. “Fifty years ago, to the month.”

“A Spanish Gypsy — born in Greece, married in Corsica, on the move most of his life.”

“And so, not a casualty of back-to-back wars, none of which had anything to do with him.”

Carmen fixed him with a solemn gaze. “Everything that matters is at arm’s length.”

He drew tentacles halfway into the plug cavity. “I did not mean to infer defective citizenship.”

“For all we know, Grandpa was an adventure tourist from Jivada, gone native after a Roma caravan holiday.”

“Wouldn’t your mother have told you?”

“She said life with her parents was rootless and unstable.” Carmen made a face. “Come on. The AjJivadi called it the big secret.”

“This one recants. Your theory may hold water.”

“Or not.” Brandon rubbed the back of his neck. “All that aside, I gather he made an impression.”

“He filled my imagination with tales of adventure and then disappeared, never to be heard from again.” Carmen rotated her seat back around. “But before he left, he told me to be like him, and not like my cousin Holly.”

“What was Holly like?”

“Fifteen. Pregnant.” Carmen slouched. “I never understood why he disapproved. Life happens, even on the shanty trail.”

The van’s cabin fell silent, its passengers sightseeing through Armor Light, to witness a flock of seabirds on a steep glide, aimed at a moving buffet.

Ruksa Zila — a 335-meter-tall faux-rock-faced grav-lift barge shaped like a curved-blade obsidian hatchet with a fat 400-meter-long spine, sharp edge down — capped with grass, trees, gardens, a lake, a stream, a waterfall, buildings, pavement, paths and hollows.

Carmen tapped rudder pedals. “Tell the boat’s Oma to let me drive.”

“Don’t get us in trouble with traffic control.” Brandon touched a gesture pad. “Great story. We should try to find out what happened to him.”

A fly-around revealed Ruksa Zila’s hull form as leaning toward bare naked upside-down mountain ridge, in need of a pressure wash.

RZ’s Oma told them to move away. Brandon reported a spatial distortion leak near the estate’s swim platform. RZ said it would log a service ticket.

Their party disembarked on a promenade, between lake and a row of zero-clearance storybook facades, tucked into a hill below the owner’s residence, anchored on the port side by a four-story cube with a bar-and-grille on the ground floor, apartments above.

Toward starboard — guest accommodations hidden behind semi-functional faux storefronts, culminating in a community center, commercial kitchen and dining hall disguised as a bakery.

They strolled through a line of battle-dressed CH Banks security guards, a throng of housewarming guests, a contingent of non-elevated maroli serving appetizers.

 Carmen was quiet, reserved. Pascal the maroli wrapped a tentacle gently around her wrist.

He asked, “Is Madame all right?”

“I’m glad I wore flats.” She bumped him with her hip. “Everyone is smiling at us.”

“Perhaps they are trying to be friendly without intrusion.”

“It’s like they know something.”

He performed a gesture of mirth. “Madame has a bounce in her step.”

Brandon nodded agreement. “A little more sway than usual. Looks good on you.”

The walkway gridlocked in front of a mock eyewear boutique. Carmen covered her face, letting out a mournful groan.

“It’s the clingy skirt.”

“You’re channeling Sophia Loren. I promise.”

She pretended to give him the bad-eye. “At what age?”

“The lady still has it going on, in my opinion.”

He peered through storefront glass, spying an elevator lobby. “Let’s hide out for a while.”

There was a kiosk on subdeck 3, a legacy of Ruksa Zila’s hotel phase — stocked with Bronze-age works of art and artifice, sunscreen, tobacco, and vintage snacks — as though still in business.

The full loop took them to a flight of stairs leading back to the surface through a bunker, emerging near a spillway, top of the waterfall, alongside boulder-strewn rapids.

Where loitered master of the house Glenn Mehrenholz — German farmer stock, by nature shy-to-sheepish.

Brandon clapped him on the shoulder. “Making yourself scarce?”

“I’m sociable, but not two-hundred guests’ worth.” Glenn gave Pascal the eyeball. “What do you have there, buddy?”

Pascal moved his prize from tentacle to tentacle, a demonstration of possessive ardor. “A Ruksa Zila guidebook from the gift shop.”

“RZ has a gift shop?”

Carmen’s valet hid the pamphlet amongst lesser ungula. “On subdeck 3.”

Glenn chuckled. “What’d you do, go on a house tour?”

Pascal performed the maroli nod. “Our party did not visit the owner’s residence; in case you weren’t ready.”

“Good thing, because we’re not.” Glenn kissed President Benequista on the cheek. “Hey.”

Carmen batted eyelashes at him. “Hey, yourself.”

Brandon stood on tiptoes. “Did you leave a drain open in the lake basin?”

“Don’t ask me; I haven’t moved in yet.” He touched thumb to ring finger. “RZ; is something happening with the reservoir?”

The lake frothed. A Saraf Drive pylon emerged, shedding water on its way to becoming the tallest object in town.

Glenn listened to the house Oma, then wiggled fingers at his guests. “We have a missile coming our way.”

At the center of the lake, a spiral disk fanned out from a still-rising dull-grey column. Below decks, an atomic shredder power pack spooled up with a deep growl.

A bright blue midday equatorial sky disappeared, replaced by an empty black void. Artificial lighting blinked on.

Phase cancellation reduced ambient sound levels by half. Ears popped from a change in atmospheric pressure. A child started to wail.

Thirty seconds later, the historic airborne estate Ruksa Zila was cruising off the coast of Portugal under starry skies.

A disorienting experience for everyone except master-of-the-house Glenn Mehrenholz.

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