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For my birthday, I want to share something special–a new draft of the summary for my science fiction series, The Eternal Moon. This saga spans twelve books and has been years in the making. For the longest time, I doubted I’d ever finish it–let alone see it published. Only recently have I found real hope that those dreams might actually come true.

This morning, as I cracked open my laptop, many potential topics for today’s post flickered through my mind. But with today being a milestone, I knew I had to return to my Magnum Opus–the sci-fi epic that has tested every ounce of my imagination, persistence, and resolve.

So, here it is:

THE ETERNAL MOON

In history’s final days, the battle between good and evil reaches its fever pitch. Evil makes its last, desperate move – a single gambit that could lock Earth under its rule for eternity. The year is 2965, and the fate of all creation hangs in the balance.

In the sleepless steel labyrinth of Metropolis – Earth’s sprawling capital – orphans Jordan and Jesse scrape by on wit, grit, and sheer will. Survival and friendship have bonded them for life, or so they think. Their lives take an unexpected turn when fate reunites them with their birth families… but rescue isn’t always salvation. Jordan is swept into the opulence and intrigue of the Rushes, a wealthy tech dynasty whose power stretches across the globe, while Jesse returns to the crushing poverty of his working-class parents, where survival demands hard choices. But they quickly discover that both their paths lead to one terrible truth–an ancient, eternal gambit crafted by evil forces as old as time itself–making these days in which they live the last days of human history. As political intrigue closes in and blood ties threaten friendship, their worlds pull them in opposite directions, straining their once seemingly unbreakable bond. In a time when the difference between personal gain and eternal fate is blurred, that which is sacred is now weaponized.

Tonight, I’m feeling pretty good. I just wrote the character profile for a protagonist that has existed in my thoughts for years. He’s a lot like me, taken by grandiose ideas but enjoys working with his hands and appreciates beauty.

Having written over eight hundred words for this character, I find myself on the top of a slope where one inch forward sends me sprinting, then tumbling, down a hill of creativity where the forward momentum is overwhelming, at which point I have no choice but to write – write like a mad man.

Dark Times

It wasn’t always like this, having this growing urge to write the story, unable to stop until it’s finished. For years – many years – I slogged through the creative process, fighting “resistance,” pushing myself to write, despite my mood. It was easier to fight that creativity-sucking mosquito when I was around writer friends. They held me accountable. But just as often as they pushed me to write, they were also visibly frustrated by my apprehension to write characters, to write scenes, to tell a damn story.

They said I had good ideas, and they wanted desperately to read a story by me.

But I was afraid to pull the trigger.

Telling a story meant putting my money where my mouth was because I had often criticized movies and books for not being well written or for being emotionally shallow. Whether my criticisms were sound or well-founded, it didn’t matter, because, ultimately, behind all that was a heavily implied claim that I was a good storyteller.

Character Development

I would later become a great storyteller, able to write short stories on the spot and read them to the nearest open ear in the room, which was often my wife and her family. But to get there, I had to recognize the fact that I had a lot to learn about self-confidence and belief in who I was. The arrogance had to die, and humility had to take its place. Pride had to die for the art to come forth.

The journey was painful at times. Some late nights, alone, in the light of my lamp, with Pad Thai and a coffee to keep me company as I wrote in silence.

Light At the End of the Tunnel

But as it turns out, I don’t function well in silence. I don’t work well alone. When my wife came along, the creativity burst out unexpectedly. Finally, someone who wanted to hear my ideas and was genuinely excited to hear more. She is my ear. My muse.

Her constant encouragement helped shape the creativity that pours out of me today. Now, not only do the ideas pour out but the characters, plot, and world-building do as well.

Get Ready for Awesome

So, I can say with confidence, that beginning next year, as in early January, after New Year’s Day, I will begin chronicling my progress. The goal is to write and finish my novel, The Eternal Moon. Publication will be a battle for another year. For 2025, the battle is to forge the pages of The Eternal Moon in blood with meat and tears.

In 2025, be prepared to plunge into the story of the far future, a Christian science fiction story of epic magnitude similar to Dune and Star Wars. It’s time for good and evil to clash for the last time.

Alright, so, Santa relaxing in September was where we left off. He’s resting before gearing up for the holidays, and he’s living off his stash of silver and gold, which is precisely what would attract the naughty who would want to steal his treasure.

There are a few things this begs to question. Does Old Saint Nick have a way to defend himself? How wrong could things go? Whom can Santa call on for help? And we’ll answer them in that order.

Santa carries around an umbrella, a tool he can offer others and defend himself with. Of course, it’s a magic umbrella, capable of surprising anyone who uses it or gets hit with it.

No matter how careful Santa tries to be, someone’s bound to notice his uncommon form of payment and want more where it came from. Something he cannot avoid is paying someone on the naughty list for passage somewhere.

Entranced by the precious metals in their hand, the naughty one, with street smarts to boot, takes mental note of Santa’s defining feature, his eyes. They are the eyes of a saint, warm and welcoming, and leaving a lasting impression on anyone who comes in contact, though they don’t know it.

One Saturday, having chosen a different AirB and B in the back country, as he has for the first three Saturdays, Santa settles in for a quiet day inside, Christmas songs on his heart, a Safeway box of sweet and sour chicken stabbed with chopsticks on the table, and a stack of wood in the fireplace ready to catch flame.

The latched door is pried open with a crowbar and kicked in. The naughty figure stands tall in the doorway, cold air blowing in from outside. Santa remains sitting, unfazed. He’s known this man since his first letter, which asked that his dad come home from the war for Christmas.

As Santa purses his lips at the encounter, the imposing figure, wearing leather gloves, grips his crowbar and points it at Santa’s leather stash of silver and gold. Santa slowly shakes his head, unfazed by the razor’s edge upon which the moment hangs.

The figure steps inside and closes the door with a slow creak. Santa sighs. The figure walks over to Santa, his steps measured for instilling terror in his victim. As he looms over the old man sitting in his chair, Santa shakes his head.

That leather grip on the crowbar tightens with silent rage, but the thief sidesteps Santa in his seat and goes for the bag of silver and gold, opening the sack to see the coins glittering from the ceiling light. A shadowy grin appears on the thief’s face as he chokes the bag closed and stands up, only to turn around and see Santa standing before him, making eye contact at his level. He too has a imposing presence, his red suit somehow giving him a transcendent presence.

Where everything changes is in Santa’s eyes. They tell the thief’s entire life’s story in one look. How he’s become this thief, who helped him along, and how Santa feels about it, compassionate but furious. Most powerful though is how he feels in Santa’s eyes: small.

The sack hits the floor with a sharp, metal thud, and the thief raises the crowbar to a striking pose. Santa’s eyes remain locked on his, unchanged.

With time standing still, the thief lowers the crowbar, having lost the upper hand, having felt exposed and disarmed. No one had looked at him before, stared at the monster within, only to show compassion and outrage.

The figure walks passed Santa and heads for the door before he felt a sharp pain against his temple and blacked out, Santa towering over him with his umbrella.

With the man on the floor, out like a light, Santa sits back down to enjoy his now-cold sweet and sour chicken, the fire in full blaze. He’s just not in the mood for Christmas songs anymore. But the rest of the year – and the naughty list – press on him with urgency and empathy.

It’s almost October, and he’s still got plenty of silver and gold to last him the ferry ride home. Iceland will be his last stop.