Samuel DenHartog's Blog: The Road to 1,440

"Wrenford’s Seventh Wing" is a novel set on a cliff above the North Sea where a discreet clinic promises rest and order. The promise holds until a brass plaque begins to point toward a corridor that should not fit the floor plan. Rain changes the building in ways that are small at first, like the scent of camphor in dry weather or a nurse using a childhood nickname unprompted. The staff is impeccable, the rooms are polished, and none of that stops the feeling that the hospital knows more about its patients than it should.

The heart of the story is Elinor, who tracks reality the way an art historian tracks provenance. She keeps an index of sights, smells, and times, trying to separate symptom from fact while the place rearranges itself around storms. Wheelchairs arrive at beds without hands on the grips, ledgers record names that fade to pale imprints, and the year 1913 keeps glinting through polite modern routines. The question is not only what is happening, but what the hospital wants from her and which version of her it prefers to keep.

You will find curatorial horror rather than splatter. The clinic collects and arranges rather than simply restrains. Hints of an older medical theater appear when lightning climbs the sky, and the building seems to file the living beside artifacts it describes with elegant handwriting. I wanted the dread to arrive through ordinary details that accumulate until denial no longer stands, so the novel leans on clocks that repeat a minute, curtains that stay damp, and documents that change when no one is looking.

At its core the book is about control, memory, and the price of choosing who we are. Elinor’s intelligence is her lantern, yet even a clear mind must decide what to keep and what to let go when a place insists on writing your label for you. The sea breathes below the windows, the storms keep their schedule, and the nurse still hums the skipping rhyme that children once used to find safe doors. I hope the story leaves you with a steady pulse, a few questions, and a sense that some corridors only open for those who are willing to look.

New York starts loud and hot, then the alarms take over and the air feels like it can cut skin. The opening run is simple to describe and hard to live through: get out before the city eats you. Scenes end with hard choices that are not telegraphed or coached, and the next page does not reward cleverness so much as risk. You pick a door, a stairwell, a roofline, and the book either lets you breathe for a moment or drops you into a pit you did not see coming.

Once the bridges or the river give you a way out, time jumps forward to the weeks after. The world is thinner, food and medicine are scarce, and people organize because they have to, not because they want to. Choices keep coming, and they are rarely gentle. Some paths punish compassion, others punish caution, many punish both. The text does not promise fairness and does not leave breadcrumbs. You feel your way through and accept what follows.

Months later the map has fewer names and more scars. Town lines blur, barricades turn into borders, and quiet places breed the worst stories. The pages still present doors to open and roads to take, but survival comes from stubborn reading rather than solving a puzzle. You will try, fail, and try again, because that is what the world has become.

"Survive the Zombie Apocalypse" is a book of choices without safety rails, where over fifty endings end badly and only three lead to anything like living. There are no fair signals, only decisions under pressure. You will learn the hard way, and if you make it out, it will be because you kept turning pages when the book gave you no reason to believe you could survive.

The city’s quiet corners come alive with puzzles that invite careful eyes and steady judgment. A diamond vanishes without a broken latch. A violin goes missing while its bow returns wrong. An elevator pause becomes a moving wall for misdirection. Each investigation asks readers to choose their next lead and accept the consequences that follow, one deliberate turn at a time, in “The Detective’s Casebook”.

The structure favors fair play. Clues are placed in plain sight, never hidden by tricks the reader could not know. Glare angles, receipt times, ribbon tints, and footprints in silt are presented as evidence, not decoration. Success flows from noticing what the text already gives, from matching a partial print to a mirror blind spot to testing whether an alibi survives a clock’s delay.

Nine cases unfold across theft, fraud, sabotage, blackmail, and a single homicide handled with care. Early chapters establish mechanics such as clue codes that unlock deeper paths and time costs that close options if wasted. Later paths reward combinations of earlier finds, so a choice made in the gallery can resonate at the canal. Endings range from clean arrests to uneasy closures that suggest one more pass through the evidence.

Readers who like to reason things out will find clues that reward careful thinking. These are mysteries you can map, annotate, and revisit with purpose. The cases wait with their answers in plain sight for anyone who reads with care.

I recently completed and published "Playbills and Promises," a frontier romance centered on a traveling theater that rattles into a prairie town with trunks full of costumes, courage, and a few loose nails. Vivienne Choate directs with poise earned the hard way, determined to bring wonder to a place that has learned to doubt it. Morgan Pike signs on to build a safer stage and soon finds himself shaping more than lumber as storms, suspicion, and a missing child test the company. Lantern light, fiddle tunes, and sawdust set the mood while the town decides whether to welcome the marvel or close the curtains.

The story leans into the grit and grace of tent shows, those portable playhouses that popped up wherever folks needed a night away from worry. I wanted the mechanics to feel real, so the scenes linger on canvas seams, sand buckets by the footlights, and the fragile magic that hangs between actor and audience when the wind rises. You will meet a temperance leader whose rules were forged by grief, an impresario who deals in whispers, and a sheriff who knows that justice has to walk, not run. The action turns from storm to sabotage to stampeding panic, yet the heart of the tale is how people steady one another when the boards creak.

At the center are two builders, one with scripts and one with timber, learning a slow kind of trust. Their bond grows through shared work, small confidences, and the quiet moments that follow danger, the kind of intimacy measured in a steady hand on a ladder or a waltz in a hotel courtyard. The romance keeps a gentle pace while the town’s stakes rise, alternating between lively performances and the private conversations that reveal why both leads keep showing up. Every scene tries to earn its place by moving both the story and the relationship forward.

Will the community choose wonder over fear when rumors flare and ropes are cut, and can a tent stitched from planks and hope hold when the hard wind comes back? When a make or break performance asks everyone to take a side, which loyalties will hold and which will slip? And when the lights finally rise on a new stage, will Vivienne and Morgan guard only what the audience sees, or dare to risk the futures they have kept tucked behind the curtain?

Today I’m sharing "River Lanterns", a frontier romance set on the Missouri where lantern light and current decide more than any timetable. Nora Quinn pilots a government snag boat and treats her charts like a vow, while Elias Barrett steps aboard with plant presses and the kind of patience that notices what survives a flood. Their first days are all work and wary respect, with fog rolling in, ropes singing on capstans, and the quiet rhythm of two steady people learning each other’s strengths. The river is never just scenery here; it is a living force that tests nerve, skill, and the small courtesies that become trust.

Writing this story meant learning how snag boats hauled out drowned trees, how a single misplaced buoy could send a hull to grief, and how lantern codes could be read like a second language. I loved pairing that hard knowledge with the soft persistence of botany, letting Elias measure banks by roots while Nora measures them by boil and undertow. Their world is filled with practical detail and earned respect, from a Kaw ferryman who reads water by cottonwood lines to deckhands who know the taste of a storm before the sky darkens. Every choice on the river carries risk, so every kindness has weight.

The romance keeps to a slow burn, grounded in shared labor and clean moments of connection. A thunderhead tears the reach, a fire races a levee wind, a fogbound stakeout turns patience into courage, and a quarantine flag forces them to balance mercy with caution. Across those trials, the closeness grows in looks, in the comfort of standing side by side at the wheel, in the simple miracle of holding hands when the deck finally goes quiet. Restraint matters here, so a kiss means something when it comes, and the heart of the book is how two careful people learn to trust without losing themselves.

If you like love stories where danger is real, hope is practical, and the landscape has a voice, this one is for you. Will Nora believe in a partner she did not plan for, and will Elias find the courage to act when knowledge alone is not enough? When rival lanterns blink from the reeds and the river redraws its own banks overnight, which light should they follow, and what will it cost to reach safe water?

I have not been shy to admit that artificial intelligence was what first opened the door for me as a writer. It gave me the confidence to begin and the structure to keep going. From the very start, it’s been woven into my creative process, not just as a tool, but as a partner, helping me shape scattered ideas into stories with form and direction. But no matter how powerful it is, AI has never replaced the part that matters most. It doesn’t tell me what to care about. It doesn’t choose the stories I feel drawn to or the way I want to tell them. That still comes from inside me, from how I see the world and what I want to share.

AI can help tell a story, but it doesn’t decide which story to tell. It offers prompts, outlines, and sometimes snippets of dialogue, but I’m the one who chooses what feels true. The heart of the story is always personal. Whether I’m writing something light and fun or serious and thoughtful, the meaning has to come from me. No software can provide the feeling that tells me when a sentence lands just right or when a moment has the emotional weight it needs. That instinct belongs to me.

Some people worry that using AI takes away from the art of writing. I don’t see it that way. For me, it’s like using any other tool, a good pen, a helpful thesaurus, or a strong word processor. AI doesn’t take over. It supports. It helps me move quickly when I’m on a roll and slow down when something needs more care. It offers clarity without demanding control. I don’t feel like less of a writer because I use AI. If anything, I feel more capable of writing the kinds of stories I’ve always wanted to tell.

Writing has never been about the tools we use. It’s about having something to say. AI can help me shape a thought or clean up phrasing, even point out a new angle, but it can’t tell me what matters. That’s my job. I’m the one who decides what sounds honest, what tone feels right, and how the rhythm of a piece should flow. That’s what gives the story its voice, and that voice has to be mine.

I wouldn’t want to write without AI. It’s become part of how I think and how I get the words to move. But even as it helps, I know it’s not the one telling the story. I still have to feel it. I still have to shape it. The tools I use are powerful, but they don’t dream, they don’t care, and they don’t understand meaning. That part, the human part, is still mine.

Writing, for me, is something deeply human, made stronger with the right kind of help. I don’t separate myself from the tools I use. I embrace them. They make the process smoother, faster, and sometimes even more fun, but they don’t write the book. The spark still starts in my own heart. The choices still come from my own hand. What to keep, what to fix, what to toss out entirely, that’s not a decision an algorithm makes. That belongs to me.

I can still create stories that fall flat. AI doesn’t change that. If a piece lacks structure or feels off, it’s because of my decisions, not the tool. One of the hardest lessons I’ve learned is that stringing together a series of events isn’t enough to make a story work. Even if each scene is well written, if they don’t build toward something meaningful, the whole thing can feel disjointed or aimless. A good story needs momentum, shape, and intention.

That’s something I had to figure out through trial and error. AI might help me generate scenes faster, but it doesn’t tell me how they should connect. That’s my responsibility. I have to step back, look at the whole, and ask whether the story grows, whether it carries the reader forward with purpose. That kind of awareness takes time to develop. It takes planning, revision, and a willingness to throw things out when they’re not working. Learning to use AI in a way that supports that process rather than gets in the way has been a huge part of my journey.

When I write mysteries, for example, I lean on AI for all kinds of tasks. It helps polish sentences, fine-tune pacing, and suggest structure. But the most important parts still need human eyes. AI isn’t great at managing the small, vital details that make a mystery satisfying. Clues have to appear at just the right time. Red herrings need to mislead without annoying. Character choices must stay believable, and timelines can’t fall apart. That’s not just data. It’s emotional timing. It’s understanding what a reader is hoping for in that moment and how to surprise them without breaking the story. That’s where I come in, adjusting and refining, making sure everything ties together in a way that feels right.

Children’s books are a different kind of challenge, and AI has opened up new possibilities. The AI art tools I use have completely changed how I handle illustrations. What used to take months can now be done in a few days. But it’s not automatic. Every image begins with a prompt, which must be carefully crafted. I guide the look and feel, check for consistency, and decide what belongs in each scene based on the text. AI generates the art, but I’m the one sorting through it and choosing what fits. It’s still work, and sometimes frustrating work, but the time saved is unbelievable.

Back when we were producing new games at EnsenaSoft, where I continue as CEO, I managed a full-time art team. At one point, we had seven in-house artists. I know what it means to build a visual pipeline, to review drafts, give feedback, and make sure everything stays consistent across a project. That experience helps me see just how much AI has changed the process. It absolutely can replace an artist, at least in the kinds of projects I work on now. That is not a claim, it is my lived reality. Where I once needed a full team, I can now handle the visual work myself. It is not about clicking a button and calling it done. I still have to guide the vision, write thoughtful prompts, and sort through the results to find what works. But I am no longer waiting on sketches or managing revisions. I am directing the creative process from start to finish, faster and more independently than ever before.

The picture books I create often need at least 25 full-color illustrations. For a human artist, especially one working in a detailed or stylized way, that could take four to six months. With AI, I can generate hundreds of image options in just a day or two. I sometimes go through at least five or six versions before finding one that feels right for a single page. But when I do, I get something beautiful that brings the story to life. It’s not about clicking a button and moving on. It’s about curating, refining, and guiding a process that still takes vision and care.

What surprises me most is how collaborative it feels, even when I’m the only person in the room. The images may be generated by a tool, but they’re still shaped by my decisions. I choose the colors, the characters’ expressions, the settings, and the clothing. I write and rewrite the prompts until they give me something that matches what I see in my head. I compare variations, review results with care, and make sure the visual style holds together across the whole book. In a very real sense, I’m still working with an artist. The difference is that I don’t have to wait. I can move at the pace of my own imagination.

In both mystery writing and picture book creation, AI hasn’t replaced creativity. It has changed how I interact with it. The time I save on the execution side gives me room to explore. I can try new ideas, make bigger changes, and take more risks. I can shift directions without feeling like I’ve lost weeks of effort. However, this does not mean the ideas come from outside. They still begin with me. AI just helps me reach them faster and bring them into form.

I’ve managed big teams before. At one point, I was responsible for fifty people. There were plenty of rewards in that, but I don’t have the interest or the energy for that kind of structure anymore. These days, I work with a very different kind of team, just AI and me. AI never takes a vacation. It doesn’t get tired. It doesn’t need meetings or approval cycles. It’s not perfect, but it helps me stay in a creative flow without the weight of constant oversight. I’m still the one guiding the vision. I still make the decisions. I just get to do it with a kind of quiet focus that suits the life I want now.

Writing stories and making books has become the work I want to do every day. There’s nothing else I’d rather be doing. AI helped make it possible. It’s allowed me to go farther than I could have on my own, not just because it writes for me, but because it gives me the freedom to focus on what really matters. The story still needs meaning. The message still needs thought. And the voice that carries it all has to be my own.

When I first began gathering these stories, I was struck by how many of them felt like they had been with me all along. Hansel and Gretel, with its gingerbread house deep in the woods, or Snow White, with the poisoned apple and the seven dwarfs, are tales so woven into our culture that they almost live in memory before we even hear them. Bringing them together again reminded me how powerful the imagery is, and how these German tales have shaped the idea of fairy tales around the world.

At the same time, there is so much more to discover beyond the famous names. The Twelve Dancing Princesses with its underground palace, The Six Swans with its quiet devotion, and The Goose Girl with its tale of betrayal and justice, all carry a richness that deserves to be remembered. Reading them alongside the better-known stories gives a sense of the wide tapestry of imagination that the Brothers Grimm collected. Each tale feels both rustic and magical, grounded in forests, cottages, and villages yet glowing with enchantment.

What I especially love is the variety of moods. Some stories sparkle with humor, like The Golden Goose with its parade of people stuck together, or Hans in Luck, where a boy keeps trading away his fortune and insists he is happier each time. Others are darker, like The Juniper Tree or The Robber Bridegroom, with their grim turns and haunting images. That mixture of light and shadow makes the whole collection feel alive, like walking through a forest where every path holds something different.

This book is a gathering of fourty-five tales, chosen to give both the comfort of the classics and the surprise of hidden gems. Some will feel like meeting an old friend, while others may come as a first encounter with a story just as worthy of being cherished. Together, they show why German folklore has captured hearts for centuries and why these tales remain as enchanting today as when they were first told. "Fables from Germany" is an invitation to wander into those woods again and see what you find.

The French tradition of fairy tales is one of the richest in the world, and this collection brings together both the classics everyone remembers and the treasures waiting to be rediscovered. Inside you will find familiar wonders like Cinderella with her glittering slipper, Sleeping Beauty resting in her enchanted sleep, and Beauty and the Beast where love transforms the unexpected. Each of these timeless tales shines with a uniquely French spirit, full of elegance, imagination, and a touch of danger.

What makes the collection even more exciting are the stories that many readers may not yet know. The White Cat tells of an enchanted feline who hides a queenly secret, The Blue Bird captures a love transformed by magic, and Princess Rosette enchants with charm and courage. These are the stories that once filled the salons of Paris, written by women and men who shaped the literary fairy tale as we know it today. They deserve to be read alongside the classics that never left us.

The range of moods within the book is remarkable. Some tales are lighthearted and whimsical, offering clever tricks and happy endings, while others, like Bluebeard and Little Red Riding Hood, remind us of the darker paths in the forest. That balance between delight and dread is what gives these stories their lasting power. Children can enjoy the adventure and sparkle, while adults recognize the depth of meaning hidden beneath the surface.

It has been a joy to bring these tales together in one place, giving them a new life for today’s readers. Whether you are revisiting old favorites or meeting new ones for the first time, this collection invites you to wander through enchanted woods, cross paths with ogres and fairies, and discover the heart of storytelling that has endured for centuries. The magic of France’s fairy tales is alive once more, gathered here in "Fables from France."

When I set out to retell the journey of Arjuna, I knew I wanted to capture both the grandeur and the humanity that make him one of the most unforgettable figures in ancient storytelling. His life is not just about battles and weapons, but about the questions he faces in his heart. Through his victories and his struggles, he speaks to anyone who has ever had to make a hard choice between duty and desire.

This book carries readers across the sweep of kingdoms, forests, and battlefields, showing Arjuna in his full complexity. You will meet him as a young warrior, eager and determined, and follow him into exile where he gains wisdom and divine weapons that shape his destiny. The story does not shy away from his doubts, for it is in his moment of hesitation that the teachings of Krishna reveal themselves in their greatest power.

Writing this journey gave me the chance to bring together the richness of mythology with the intimate struggles of a single man. Arjuna is a hero touched by the divine, yet his story is also deeply human. He feels love, grief, fear, and hope, making his arc as meaningful today as it was thousands of years ago. Readers will walk beside him, seeing both the weight of destiny and the flicker of choice in every step he takes.

"Arjuna of the Mahabharata" is an invitation to step into an ancient world alive with gods and warriors, to hear the clash of weapons and the whisper of eternal truths, and to witness a hero’s journey that still speaks to the human heart. I hope readers will find themselves both inspired and moved as they discover his story.

When I began shaping this mythology anthology, I wanted to bring forward the voices of ancient Persia in a way that would let readers feel their power and presence. These stories reach back thousands of years, carried through the Avesta, where light and darkness battle over creation, and human beings are called to stand on the side of truth. They are not dry fragments of history but living tales of gods, spirits, and heroes who shaped the imagination of one of the world’s oldest civilizations.

The book gathers accounts of Ahura Mazda, the Wise Lord who formed the world, and Angra Mainyu, the destructive spirit seeking to undo it. Around them move the Amesha Spentas, radiant guardians of the elements and virtues, and the Yazatas, mighty beings who defend creation. Within these pages, you will meet Mithra, the keeper of oaths; Anahita, the goddess of rivers and fertility; Tishtrya, the star who brings the rains; and Atar, the sacred fire that stands against corruption. Their battles with drought, disease, and demons still echo with urgency and beauty.

Alongside these divine figures, human heroes also rise. The brave Thraetaona strikes down Azi Dahaka, the monstrous serpent that terrorized the land, while the Fravashis, guardian spirits of the dead and unborn, watch over the righteous. These stories are filled with struggle, sacrifice, and a vision of the world where every choice matters in the greater war between truth and the lie. Ancient Persia’s imagination shaped a cosmic order where the divine and the human are bound together in destiny.

I sought to bring together this vast tapestry of creation, conflict, and hope in “Tales from the Persian Avesta.” The stories are both mythic and human, rooted in the land of fire temples and starry skies yet reaching into timeless questions about good and evil, devotion and betrayal, life and immortality. I hope readers will enjoy these tales and feel the spark of wonder that sustained them for generations.