I wanted everyone to understand how unique paths can sometimes lead to unexpected outcomes.
My foray into writing began accidentally. Though I had often conceptualized ideas and plots for random stories and books, these were primarily mental exercises without any actual intent to develop them. I had never sat down and put pen to paper or finger to keyboard, as it were, and all of these ideas and concepts were lost in the progression of my life.
I was an avid reader in my younger days, devouring authors like Fritz Leiber, Anne McCaffrey, Larry Niven, Frank Herbert, Philip K. Dick, Edgar Rice Burroughs, Robert A. Heinlein, Arthur C. Clarke, and, of course, J.R.R. Tolkien, just to name a few. I always found stringing words together in more than a couple of sentences daunting, to say the least.
My experiences with writing were limited to high school English, Composition, and Literature classes. I found these to be dry at best, and I rarely found myself challenged in a way that would spark my creativity and provide the urge to write anything that wasn’t mandatory. Even at that, I did enough to “get by” in these classes.
In the early 1980s, my father sent off for our “family coat of arms,” and the documentation sparked my imagination and a fascination with heritage. It gave me food for thought as I grew older and would be an instrumental driving force in providing a path to writing.
In 1985, I joined the U.S. Armed Forces, and in December of 1987, I was stationed in Korea. There I found appreciation for vastly different cultures and became enamored with the yin-yang symbol and the concepts of duality it represented, adding another key steppingstone upon my then unrealized literary journey. However, at that time, it wasn’t even a journey I knew I was on.
Upon the conclusion of my tour of duty, I returned to the States. My experiences in Korea merged with my appreciation and love for fantasy elements, culminating in a tattoo that included a phoenix streaming out of the sun, a dragon emerging from the tree, and the phoenix and dragon swirling around each other in a shape reminiscent of the yin-yang symbol. Unbeknownst to me at the time, this complex symbolic scene would ultimately be the inspiration for my first novel, The Heater and The Hack, which you currently have in hand.
As I matured, and with the introduction of the internet at large, the ability to research and understand the intricacies of a coat of arms became more accessible. This allowed me to finally dig into my ancestry and realize that, while a coat of arms might use your surname or a similar variant, your lineage would have to be directly traceable to someone who had a rightful claim in order to use a specific coat of arms in any way that the registrars condoned. With this unexpectedly depressing news, my journey halted once more. Being in my mid-40s, I put the thoughts down.
At 58 years old, I decided to once again delve into trying to prove I had a right to the coat of arms my father had received so long ago. My investigations only showed that there was a high likelihood I would never be able to prove anything.
As I grew older, my desire to honor my father in some small way empowered me to step again on the path to writing as a hobby.
I embarked on a journey to create and register my own personal coat of arms, which I successfully did, registering with the New England Historic Genealogical Society and the Committee on Heraldry. My design, heralding back to the dragon and phoenix tattoo and the underlying concepts, provided the next stone upon my path as I created my blazon, incorporating as much of my life philosophies as possible.

On August 24th, 2023, I received acknowledgment from the committee that my coat of arms had been accepted to the registry and was blazoned thusly:
Arms: Per fess azure and vert, issuing from a sun in dexter chief gold a phoenix descending in an arc toward the sinister gules enflamed gold, and issuant from an oak tree uprooted in sinister base gold a dragon ascending in an arc toward the dexter silver, the heads respectant in fess point.

Crest: A phoenix gold and a dragon silver wings endorsed and respectant and rising from flames proper.

With this accomplished, I worked with an absolutely amazing Polish artist, Monika Zagrobelna, who reproduced it as a highly detailed emblazon.
As I mulled over the success of this venture, I wrote a descriptive piece, which I titled The Heater and The Hack.

The Heater and The Hack
A spattered shield, nicked and dented, battered, and worn from endless battles, its emblazon mirroring the scene in which it is set. In silent respite, it leans stoically against its stalwart mate, a stout, trusty, baneful blade of lethal grace being thrust into the musty earthen ground its hilt jutting skyward begging for purpose anew.
The vista of a boundless horizon reaching far in the hazy distance, above which a strikingly vibrant azure sky beckons of potentialities yet unborn and which slips down to meet a lush welcoming and undulating field of green life.
Above and shieldside, the sun in perpetual effulgence doth shine down, its endless rays casting away shadows and doubt even as a phoenix, with searing heat and blinding luminescence, erupts forth trailing flames and cinders as it arcs armside in a resplendent arc across the ethereal expanse, swooping ebulliently back down to greet its fearless celestial counterpart.
Beneath the blazing celestial entity, the ancient grizzled oak, with its mighty gnarled roots sewn into the earth, rugged and weather-beaten bark, and rustling leaves lightly caressing the sky, stands stout and unyielding, ever reaching skyward despite its timeless nature, as if upon its iron Atlas-like boughs rests the universe in its cosmic entirety.
Bursting forth from leaf and bough, from the very heart and root of the eternal tree, emanates the leviathan of yore, an immense, majestic dragon powering its way to the shieldside, wings dragging huge spats of wind pushing it forcefully and gracefully across the land, twisting and arcing back to face its blazing compatriot.
As these primordial titans regard each other the eternal dance, betwixt and between contradictions and opposites, plays out. Each knowing, trusting, and relying on the other as their very existence is naught without their comrade, there is no light without dark, no life without death, no living without rebirth. Entrusting the powers, they continue evermore.
Upon the shield in blazon proper, the Elysium is reflected: Per fess azure and vert, issuing from a sun in dexter chief gold a phoenix descending in an arc toward the sinister gules enflamed gold, and issuant from an oak tree uprooted in sinister base gold a dragon ascending in an arc toward the dexter silver, the heads respectant in fess point.
The Heater and the Hack, quiet spectators to the visage, stand in silent regard.
In Balance, Brilliance.

Upon writing this piece, I continued to think about the sword and shield, realizing there would have been history as to why they were in that scene, and it was then I put Emanrasu’s foot to the literary path that led us inexorably to the creation of my first novel, The Heater and The Hack. The blazon included within the narrative of the story and emblazoned on the Heater was my own. It was gradually revealed as the story progressed. Thus, the meandering path I took to provide a coat of arms for my future lineage was the instrumental inspiration and catalyst of my journey as an author.
As I put my fingers on the keyboard, I literally closed my eyes, and luckily, my typing skills are just enough to successfully put something coherent on the page (about 85% of the time, in any case). This allowed me to enjoy the process of writing, and after having it reviewed and getting feedback, I was encouraged by the success of my writing. Immature though it was, there was enough skill and excitement in it that I worked through the return to Bren after the meeting and acceptance from the White.
This was my first foray, and initially, Emanrasu was a young man devoid of friends or companions until he met Tarlis, and then Serrah. The three, attempting to assist Emanrasu in returning the Heater and the Hack, found themselves making realizations. These realizations were not simple likes and dislikes; they were profound and struck at the core of one’s struggle with balance, meaning, and the need for change or escape.
The boy and his cow are taken directly from my own life experiences, though I had no one stop by and query me on my actions (outside my mother, of course).
The divulging and laying bare of Tarlis’s past made me slightly uncomfortable, and as I sought feedback, the piece was described as introspective-heavy. This was absolutely valid at this stage in my writing because it was Emanrasu’s point of view exclusively. So instead of laying things out in action or discussion with the others, whom he had met recently, he thought about the things and mulled things over incessantly.
It was around this time that I started thinking about the true origins of some of these items and how these memories would be documented. This idea developed into the concept of the Tubatonona (translated loosely into “spiritual human creators”) and the Hadokai Tubatonona (spiritual human creators of a singularly unique language).
This feedback prompted me to rethink my concept. (Not that I had truly put thought into the story at this point; I had just continued to write.) As I contemplated, I realized that the perfect companion for Emanrasu was someone he could talk to, someone different from his introspective personality—someone to use as a sounding board with a more prominent personality. Rezua was thought into existence. The gargantuan mass of man took his first steps down the road in the Rosewood Forest.
The introduction of Rezua required a complete rewrite of 14 chapters (at the time, it was about 27 shorter length chapters), which, for a fledgling writer, is daunting at best and downright dreadful at worst. Trying to successfully integrate the large man into a narrative that was already focused, for the most part, on Emanrasu’s inner monologues was tedious at times, but in the end, it was rewarding to see Rezua emerge and the path he chose through the novel. The friendship and camaraderie made it all worthwhile.
I feel that it is literature that stretches our vocabulary, engenders a heightened sense of wonder, and helps expand our minds. Similar to most great authors I have read, I feel reading should never be a journey in which you are merely entertained; it should be a journey that expands your mental horizons, provides food for thought, and grows your ability to speak and communicate with greater nuance.
The Chronicles of the Dance has become a project and a study of my philosophy, showcasing the opposing forces that tug at me daily. I am proud of where this journey started and, thus far, where it has led me. I am glad that you have taken the time and interest to follow me to this point. My hope is that I will be able to provide many more stories to entertain and challenge you.
As we close this book and, eventually, this series, I hope that I do not limit myself to one genre. Though I currently intend on staying within the fictional realms, I have concepts that enter into the Science Fiction tropes as well.
May the Dance guide your journey.

I didn’t set out to write a novel. I didn’t name characters with divine purpose or hidden lore. When I first opened the file that would become The Heater and The Hack, I just needed a name that didn’t sound ordinary. I typed “username” backwards—Emanresu—and it looked exotic enough to keep going.

But then something happened.
I passed ten thousand words.
Then twenty.
Then fifty.

Twenty-seven chapters later, I realized… introspection was killing me. We were all in Emanresu’s head a good 60% of the time. I needed a foil—before I even knew what a foil really was.

So I injected a childhood companion into the world.
And who better than “a user”?

Thus, Resua was written in.

For twenty-seven chapters—as I lengthened and combined and fleshed out the material, from twenty-seven chapters to fifteen—the names stuck. The characters hardened. Their names stopped being letters on a line and started feeling like people I knew.

Their names sounded like breath, and memory, and myth.

And suddenly… “username” felt small.

So I made a change. Subtle, but reverent.
Emanresu became Emanrasu—a single vowel shift that kept the intonation, but gave it soul.
Resua became Rezua—softer, older, no longer tied to keyboards and placeholder syntax.

What began as convenience became canon.
The names are no longer jokes.
No longer backwards tags.

They’re vessels now. They carry the myth because they survived its creation.

I didn’t name them.
I heard them wrong the first time—
and only later got it right.

The Heater and the Hack is not intended to just tell a story—it invites the reader to dance with it. Situated at the confluence of high fantasy, philosophical speculation, and mythopoetic narrative, this novel seemingly resists categorization in favor of a deliberate complexity. It asks not for passive consumption but begs for active participation. It calls to the attentive reader—those willing to surrender certainty and follow a thread woven through layers of language, symbolism, and silence.

At its core is Emanrasu—a protagonist not destined by prophecy but defined by choice. Here, we are far from the “Chosen One” archetype. Instead, Emanrasu moves through a cosmos shaped not by divine mandates, but by the intricate interplays of agency, consequence, and cosmic balance. He is not a messiah; he is a mirror, reflecting the cost of knowing, of becoming. His journey is one of becoming attuned—less about conquering the world and more about learning how to exist within it without distorting its truth.

Hovering always at the edge is Rezua—his best friend, silent and almost unseen. His role is relegated to the backdrop, almost as if he is nothing more than a comic relief. Until the end, and we see he is neither seer nor guide but a historical lens through which we observe Emanrasu’s journey. His role, subtly meta-textual, echoes Borges’ fictional historians and Wolfe’s cryptic narrators. What is not recorded might as well not have existed. Yet the act of recording shapes the shape of the real. Rezua’s burden is profound: he documents not a truth, but a moment as it was experienced, flawed and finite. His presence becomes the pulse of memory, tasked with preserving what is real but never whole.

Language becomes not just a feature of worldbuilding, but the architecture of perception itself. The object-oriented conlang, Hadokai Tubatonona, doesn’t merely describe reality—it redefines it. Through this lens, cause and effect shift; consequence precedes agent. This is Sapir-Whorf by way of Tolkien and Delany—a fusion of semiotic realism and mythic poetics. It forces the reader into a worldview where agency is subdued, and balance is born in the in-between. Just as the Dance is neither force nor law, but rhythm, so too does the language shape understanding not by decree, but through its silent insistence on inversion.

This is the novel’s greatest achievement: it does not impose a myth—it generates one in real-time. The Dance, that elusive cosmic principle, offers a framework not of prophecy or law, but of resonance. Like the Tao, it flows between Chaos and Order—not choosing sides, but harmonizing their tension. It is not a balance achieved, but a balance endlessly sought, renewed in every decision, every silence, every act left unwitnessed.

Serrah and Tarlis emerge not as side characters, but as manifestations—mythic echoes given flesh. The Phoenix and the Dragon are not just symbols, they are lived realities. They do not instruct Emanrasu but orbit him, illustrating what Balance demands: transformation, wisdom, renewal. Their presence is quiet but elemental. Through them, we glimpse a mythos that breathes rather than proclaims—a subtle unfolding rather than a grand revelation.

This is a mythopoetic work, myth not as ancient story but as ongoing revelation. It doesn’t seek to entertain—it seeks to initiate. Like the works of Wolfe, Erikson, and Borges, The Heater and the Hack is not for every reader. It resists simplicity. It offers no catharsis, only understanding, and even that is partial. In its restraint lies its power—it asks us not what a hero will do, but what it means to remember them after the moment has passed.

What we find in The Heater and The Hack is a rejection of modern stylisms in favor of something deeper—an exploration of the messiness of life, where the heart and soul wrestle with the divine and the cosmic. It is not always clear, but it becomes clearer the farther in. Its meanings are buried like fossils, waiting for careful excavation by those patient enough to stay.

This is not a fast-paced action adventure, though it has its moments. It is not a coming-of-age, though we see growth. There are many tropes that it touches on, only to disrupt and avoid the peaks which define those tropes. This is its mastery: to present not a story told incessantly through different lenses, but to provide it with a uniqueness we see in life. Lived stories don’t climax on cue—they ripple, they fade, they burn quietly in the memory.

But for those willing to walk the Dance, to struggle with a world where language births worldview and where history is never truly objective, the reward is immense. This is a narrative that will echo—quietly, but enduringly—in the halls of speculative literature. Not as a bestseller, but as a beacon. Not for the crowd, but for the kindred.

Les