Literary Salon #2
A Magazine for Readers and Writers
Empire’s Daughter
I’m giving (verily) away 10 paperback editions of
’s Empire’s Daughter, and still have copies left to claim. Reply to this email to claim one before it’s too late! Just let me know you’re interested, and if you one of the lucky ones, I’ll respond asking for the information to give the bookseller. (Name. Address. Phone number.)In June, Empire’s Daughter will be the first book in the Literary Salon book club, and we’ll read and talk about it over at the forum.
A captivating tale of defiance and growth, Empire’s Daughter is a story about shattering expectations, forging unexpected bonds, and discovering the strength to create your own destiny in a world on the brink of change.
In the village of Tirvan, where a generations-old agreement has defined the roles of both women and men, Lena, although happy with her partner Maya, is restless. When Casyn, the enigmatic Emperor's Messenger, arrives with a shocking request – for the women to learn to fight – Lena's world is thrown into chaos. Suddenly, age-old gender roles are challenged, threatening to unravel the very fabric of Tirvan's society. With the support of her elders and the newfound strength of Tirvan's women, she confronts the long-held traditions that have confined her. Thrust into a whirlwind of responsibility, Lena grapples with leadership and personal tragedy, forcing her to face the realities of war – and the irrevocable changes it brings.
Will Lena find her true purpose and rewrite the future of the Empire?
A B.R.A.G. Medallion Honoree; Qi Gold Medal, 2023; Eric Hoffer Finalist, 2021; BBNYA 2021 Semi-Finalist; Readers' Favorite 5-Star Award, 2021 (as part of Empire's Legacy: The First Trilogy); Discovered Diamond Award, 2020; Silver Medal, Historical Fantasy Box Set (2019), Coffee Pot Book Club Awards;
Would rather buy it yourself? Get it here.
Welcome to Literary Salon #2
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Literary Salon #2
Table of Contents
Empire’s Daughter: get your copy of the book before we read and discuss it in the Literary Salon forum.
The Last Temptation of Winnie-the-Pooh: Chapter One: Based upon the works of A. A. Milne. A serial. Read the original post.
MmmFA: Mighty Fine Arts: A 6-Month-Group Novel-Writing Program. Read the original article.
The Sibyliad: The Pseudologue: The Sibyliad is my unfinished epic and is composed of several short books. The rules of wisdom tell us not to write a prelude or prologue, so this is a pseudologue, a pseudo logos, a false word—or, should we look to Christian tradition—a false god. Read the original post
In the Stacks:
Non-Fiction
6 Worlds Theory of Character Arcs by
of Story SteedThe Cult of the Rainbow Rat by
of Burnt Tongue
Fiction
Patty Cake by
of From the Roots of the Tanglewood
(A serial for fans of Stephen King)On the Doc by
of and now Miguel.
(A rap lyric poem)Shadows by
of Grey Matters.
(Short horror)
Looking for a fresh new Author Newsletter?
Find a new author and get a book as a welcome present.
The Last Temptation of Winnie-the Pooh
Chapter One
Behold the bear. Heavy feet and an empty head lead the bear to a quiet place in the middle of the Wood where a large tree stands, and from the top of the tree, hangs the body of a boy. The bear looks at the boy and listens, just as hard as his stuffed ears can listen, and what he hears is a nothing-noise.
He sits at the foot of the tree, puts his head between his paws, and begins to think. First, he says to himself: ‘That nothing-noise means something. You don't get a nothing-noise like that, just nothing and nothing, without its meaning something. If there's a nothing-noise, then nothing's making a something-noise, and the only reason for not making a something-noise (that I know of) is because you're playing hide-and-seek.’
Then he thinks another long time, and says: ‘And the only reason for playing hide-and-seek is so someone will come seeking.’
And then the bear stands up and says: 'And the only reason for hiding is to be found.' Having thus reasoned with himself, and finding himself very reasonable, indeed, he climbs the tree.
He climbs and he climbs and he climbs a little farther... and a little farther... and then just a little farther. And soon, he’s thought of something more to say.
‘Christopher Robin,’ he says, for this is the boy’s name. 'All our friends are hiding, and I thought to myself, if there’s a boy who can find a friend who’s lost, that boy is Christopher Robin.'
The bear’s getting rather tired by now, which is why he talks to Christopher Robin, even though Christopher Robin isn’t talking back. He stops on a branch just a little too low to reach Christopher Robin’s feet, and he listens just as hard as he listened before. Christopher Robin doesn’t answer. The bear hears only the nothing-noise and nothing else in the whole wide Wood. Even the birds have taken the brethren’s vow of silence.
To read the rest of the chapter, visit the original post.
MmmFA: Mighty Fine Arts
A 6-Month-Group Novel-Writing Program
June - November 2025
With an alternative schedule for a slower pace: June - March.
Program Overview
Before it’s implosion, I respected NaNoWriMo but always as a spectator, never a participant. I didn’t see its goals as fitting my process. For MmmFA, I want to serve people who loved NaNoWriMo, but I also want it to be a space for people who like me, who just didn’t fit.
The secondary goal of MmmFA is to take us through three complete drafts of a novel, from initial concept to polished manuscript.
The primary goal is to take each of us, wherever we are in the process of writing our next novel, and bring us to where we want to be. The program has goals and is structured around them, because that’s a necessity, but what you want as author matters more. You don’t have to start fresh to participate. You don’t have to be any particular type of writer, either in process or output. Be who you and create what you desire, using the MmmFA group however you need to help get you there.
It’s time for Substack to help support your desire to write a novel and not just distract you from it.
— Thaddeus Thomas
For the schedule and more, see the original article.
The Sibyliad
The Pseudologue
A rock streaked with molten fissures lit the circle of land on which he-who-had-been-secretary-to-the-emperor stood. On that tiny island with just that rock and a dead tree, they were alone, Daphnis and Herophile, and Daphnis felt small next to her broad back and shoulders.
His voice broke the silence. “How long have we been here?”
Herophile gave no answer.
“What is this place?” he asked.
“The beginning,” she said. “When I lost the last of my humanity, this is what I found.”
Having run out of questions, he offered what comfort he could. Such was the comfort of company, whether or not one knew what one was talking about. He cleared his throat, announcing the profundity to come. “We’ll regain our strength soon enough.”
“Soon is a matter of perspective,” she said.
She’d brushed off his efforts, and that was more discomforting than he cared to admit. “Is there anything we can do?”
“Nothing to be done.” She stood close to the heat and light of the rock.
He redirected his gaze to where the red light reflected off black waters. “What’s out there?”
“The dark.”
“I can see that.”
“Then you didn’t need to ask.”
He pinched his nose. “My head hurts. If I have no body, why do I feel pain?”
“You’ve seen too much to ask such questions.”
He sat beneath the tree, as if seeking shade from a non-existent sun. “If you didn’t make this place, maybe this is real.”
“What reality would you suppose?” she asked.
“It’s not bad enough to be Tartarus.”
“The gods help us if this is Paradise,” she said.
“How so?”
“If this is the best there is,” she said, “may the gods have mercy on us all.”
“If this were Paradise, there would be hope.”
“With this? What hope do you see with this?” she asked.
“That something better is coming.”
“And if this is Tartarus?” she asked.
“Fear of something worse,” he said.
“And if it’s Hades? Should we be content?”
“Content?” he asked. “With this?”
“If nothing better is coming and nothing worse, how else should we feel?” she asked.
“Absolutely hopeless, maudlin, and forlorn.” He squinted into the dark, as if he might see the lights of cities upon a distant and mediocre shore. “Maybe this is Hades.”
“We’ll regain our strength soon enough,” she said.
“Didn’t I say that? I thought I’d said that. We must have been here longer than I imagined.”
“That’s always a possibility.”
“Nothing seems possible here. That’s the point, that there is no point. Everything is. Nothing changes.”
“Things were different once.”
“How long have we been here? Is there time in this place?”
“Time is change,” she said.
“There is no time here.”
“We’ve changed,” she said. “We’ve moved. We’ve spoken. Heat has radiated off the rock. Shadows have danced upon the tree.”
“Maybe it has a little time, less than usual, the dregs of a sundial beneath a moonbeam.”
“That makes sense,” she said.
“How much longer do you think we’ll be?”
“A little time more.”
“That could be forever,” he said.
“Maybe it has been. Maybe it will be.”
Silence filled the empty space.
“Are you hungry?” he asked.
“No. You?”
“No.”
“That’s something,” she said.
“Is it? What is it?”
“Something,” she said.
“I could eat, though,” he said.
“I honestly don’t remember how.”
“No capacity. No need,” he said.
“Any desire?”
“Not so much,” he said.
“Me, neither.”
“We won’t starve?” he asked.
She stared past him. “Something strikes me odd about the tree.”
“What? Now? Why? The tree hasn’t changed,” he said.
“In form, perhaps, but in my understanding, it has transformed.”
“How so? It’s grown no taller nor grown any leaves. It is as it has always been.”
“It’s not a tree,” she said.
“Not a tree? It’s neither a bush nor a house. It’s neither a dog nor a man. It’s not snow, and it’s not rain. We can run through the list of all things it’s not, and all that would remain is a tree.”
“That’s true,” she said.
“So you admit it’s a tree?”
She shook her head.
“We have determined that all things that describe that-which-is-not-a-tree don’t describe the object in question,” he said. “It is the nature of a name to exclude all things something is not. That’s its function. This is a tree.”
“Look again,” she said. “These are the roots of a tree.”
“The roots?”
“The roots.”
“Then where is the tree?”
She pointed below them.
“Underground?” he asked.
“Perhaps the tree to which these roots belong is bathing in the light of the Florentine sun.”
“And if we dig around its base, we’ll find the surface?”
“Perhaps,” she said.
He looked at the tree, his feet, and then back again. “And we’re hanging like bats?”
“Must be.”
He pushed himself into a crouch and leaped into the air. His feet lifted several inches and then fell back again. “There. That’s disproved.”
“You’ve disproved nothing.”
“If these were roots dangling from some cavern ceiling, we’d fall to the floor.” He pointed above his head. “That way.”
“You know where to find Florence on a globe?”
“I do.”
“It’s all sideways. Every Florentine should slide until he hits a mountain. Up and down mean nothing except to say ‘to the ground’ and ‘away from the ground’.” She pointed down. “That’s to the ground.”
“Not to the ground, to the center of the earth.”
“Maybe the tree grows at the very center of the earth,” she said, “and here its roots extend as a connection between us and the underworld.”
“So if we dig at its base, we’ll find our way to Hades?”
“Perhaps,” she said.
He sat against the tree and closed his eyes. “Either way, doesn’t matter. I don’t possess the energy.”
To read the rest, visit the original post.
Fiction, Analysis, and Lessons on Prose Style and Literary Theory
Nuno Pinto: Now I am actually having fun writing and revising.
Thank you for another wonderful week,
Thaddeus Thomas
Thank you for mentioning my short story 🐧💖.