H.S. Harding's Blog

Welcome back, friends. And if you’re just joining us—hello, truly. I hope you’ll hang around for a while.

Putting a new book out into the world is absolutely terrifying. There’s this constant tug-of-war in my head: What if nobody reads it?
And the even scarier flip side: What if somebody does?

The old advice is “don’t read the reviews.” But every review—good or bad—feels like a precious window into how readers are experiencing the story I poured so much of myself into.

So of course, I peek. When the early ARC reviews started coming in, I held my breath. Then I read them… and I let that breath out in a big, relieved smile. People are really enjoying Zulu Company. Some of the feedback has been genuinely kind and thoughtful. It’s still sinking in.

Writing in this space is a unique challenge. Military dystopian thrillers for adults aren’t exactly flooding the market right now. The big hits tend to be either classic Cold War-style stories (think Orwell or Huxley) or wildly popular YA series like The Hunger Games and Divergent. I’m over here trying to craft grounded, adult-oriented dystopian fiction with real military flavor, moral complexity, and no chosen-one tropes. It feels a little unconventional.

So when readers pick it up and actually like it? That gives me real hope. Every single reader who takes a chance on Operation Forgotten Spire or the upcoming Zulu Company means more to me than I can properly express. Whether you leave a review, tell a friend, or just quietly read and move on—you’re helping a small indie author keep chasing these stories.

I’m excited. Nervous. Grateful. All of it at once.Thank you for being here with me on this journey, week after week. Your support makes the scary parts feel a lot less lonely.Zulu Company is coming soon.

I can’t wait for you to meet the new characters… and see what fresh trouble they find themselves in.See you next Wednesday—take care out there

H.S. Harding

Welcome back, friends. And if you’re just joining us—hello, truly. I hope you’ll hang around for a while.

First, I apologize for being a day late this week. State testing at the school where I teach completely drained my time and energy. But I’m here now, and I really appreciate you still showing up too.

Today, I want to talk about one of the hardest necessities in fiction: killing off a character. A good story runs on conflict. Without it, nothing meaningful happens. And while not every tale needs death, in the kind of dystopian military thrillers I write, some characters simply don’t get to survive. The story demands it.

I never want to kill them. Especially the ones readers grow to love. But the more important the character, the greater the impact their death creates. The stakes feel real. The loss hurts. And that pain makes the eventual payoff so much more powerful.

In the Forgotten Spire series, I’ve had to kill off characters that fans (and I) became genuinely attached to. One death was so rough that even my editor joked there should be an apology note at the beginning of the chapter. It never gets easier.

There are still moments when I’m writing later scenes and think, “Man, this would be so much better if they were still here.” But their absence forces me to get creative. It pushes the remaining characters (and me) to grow in ways we wouldn’t have otherwise. In a strange way, it honors the character’s memory by letting their loss matter. And I won’t lie… I’ve shed real tears over some of them. When you’ve lived with these people inside your head for months or years, they start to feel like friends. Saying goodbye permanently is harder than I ever expected it would be.

Writing isn’t just intellectual. It’s deeply emotional. Sometimes you have to break your own heart a little to tell the story the way it needs to be told.

Thank you for being here with me as I navigate all these messy, vulnerable parts of the process. Your support makes even the hard Wednesdays feel worthwhile.

I’ll see you next week (on time, I promise). Take care out there.

H.S. Harding

Welcome back, friends. And if you’re just joining us, hello. I hope you’ll hang around for a while.

Writer’s block. Just saying the words out loud can make some authors break into a cold sweat. The looming deadline, the blank page staring back at you, the feeling that the words are right there… just out of reach. You can’t sleep. You can’t eat. Some people describe it as worse than death.

I’ll be honest with you, I’ve never really had what people call “writer’s block.”And from talking to a lot of other authors, it seems I’m not alone. Not saying it doesn’t exist, I’m sure it does for some people, but I think it’s far less common than the panic stories make it sound.

For me, there are simply good writing days and bad writing days. Some days, the words flow easily. Other days, I have to sit there, grind it out, and fight for every sentence. I don’t call the hard days “block.” They’re just… hard days.

What does trip me up is something else entirely: ADHD. I’ll be halfway through a story, deep in the zone, when my brain suddenly lights up with a brand-new, shiny idea. A countdown timer starts in my head—if you don’t write this down in the next ten minutes, the idea will vanish forever. So I’ll happily spend the next hour outlining an entirely new book while my current work-in-progress sits there looking at me like a neglected, jilted girlfriend.

Deadlines? As an independent author, they’re all self-imposed. If I miss one, I feel bad for about five minutes, then just quietly set a new one. No angry editor emails. No panicked publisher calls. Just me, my guilt, and another reset.

So no, writer’s block isn’t really my problem. Managing procrastination and an ADHD brain that chases every bright new idea like a squirrel on espresso? That’s a completely different topic… and probably deserves its own post someday.

If you struggle with writer’s block, I see you. If you’re like me and your biggest enemy is shiny new ideas and self-inflicted distractions, I see you too. We’re all just trying to get the stories out of our heads and onto the page, one messy day at a time.

Thank you for sticking with me through these Wednesday posts. Knowing you’re out there reading makes it a little easier to sit down and keep going — even on the hard days.

See you next week. Take care out there.

H.S. Harding

Welcome back, friends. And if you’re just joining us—hello, truly. I hope you’ll hang around for a while.
Authors are readers first, and I was no exception. I started reading young, and by the time I hit junior high, I was already devouring Stephen King and Sidney Sheldon. Gotta love Gen X parenting, someone apparently decided it was perfectly fine for early teens to read Flowers in the Attic. We survived.
As a reader, certain books sink deep into your bones and quietly shape the way you write. For me, the ones that left the strongest mark are the classic Cold War-era dystopian novels.
Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World was my first real taste of the dystopian sci-fi genre. That subtle, razor-sharp sarcasm of his is something I still admire, even if I’ve never quite been able to match it. (And honestly, I’m not sure I want to. I like my sarcasm a little louder.)
Then came George Orwell’s 1984. That one hit me with the psychological weight of dystopia. The way authority can twist minds, rewrite truth, and control people from the inside out… It’s terrifying in the best way. You can see Orwell’s influence pretty clearly in Zulu Company and Shadowveil.
As my own understanding of writing grew, Ray Bradbury became a new favorite. Fahrenheit 451 looks deceptively straightforward on the surface, but the subtext underneath it is devastating. It still blows my mind how much power a “simple” story can carry.
More recently, Terry Mancour’s Spellmonger series opened my eyes in a different direction. It’s not as polished as the classics, but it’s a rich, history-rooted fantasy that showed me what’s possible when you step outside traditional publishing norms. It gave me permission to tell big stories my own way.
These books didn’t just entertain me, they taught me. They shaped how I think about world-building, psychological tension, subtext, and the courage to write what the story demands rather than what the market expects.
If you haven’t read them, I genuinely recommend giving any of them a try. And if you do pick up Operation Forgotten Spire, I think you’ll spot little shades of each of these influences hiding between the lines.
Thank you for letting me share these pieces of my writing heart with you, week after week. It means more than you know.
See you next Wednesday—take care out there.
H.S. Harding

Welcome back, friends. And if you’re just joining us—hello, truly. I hope you’ll hang around for a while.
I never expected to fall in love with writing military thrillers. In fact, I actively avoided them at first. The genre feels so overdone, so packed with the same tropes and hardened heroes. I wanted something fresh, something different. But here I am—completely hooked. Turns out, military thrillers are just plain fun to write.
The challenge is that the real military is a proud, serious institution with its own culture, traditions, and rhythms. And as any veteran will tell you, the old saying is painfully accurate: war is long stretches of crushing boredom interrupted by about five minutes of sheer terror. That makes for a very honest book… but a very boring one.
So yes, I take creative liberties. Quite a few of them, actually. I try my best to honor the spirit of military life—the discipline, the camaraderie, the weight of responsibility, the dark humor—but the actual procedures, missions, and day-to-day details in Forgotten Spire are heavily fictionalized. I bend, stretch, and sometimes flat-out invent things to keep the story moving and the tension high.
Most of my “research” comes from my own time in the National Guard, mixed with endless hours of reading, watching interviews, and asking careful questions. Then I embellish. A lot.
To all my veteran friends and readers who might pick up Zulu Company: please know this comes from a place of deep respect, not disrespect. I’m not trying to write a documentary or a training manual. I’m just trying to tell a story that feels exciting while still carrying the weight and feel of real service. If I get something wrong or take too many liberties, I’m sorry in advance. My goal is never to mock or misrepresent—just to entertain and maybe, in some small way, honor the people who actually live that life.
Writing this genre has been equal parts humbling and exhilarating. It forces me to balance accuracy with storytelling, respect with excitement, and reality with the kind of drama that keeps pages turning late into the night.
If you’re a veteran reading this, thank you for your service. If you’re a civilian who enjoys these kinds of stories, I hope the heart behind the fiction still comes through.
Thank you for walking this messy, wonderful writing journey with me, one Wednesday at a time. Your support means more than I can say. See you next week, take care out there.
H.S. Harding

Welcome back, friends. And if you’re just joining us—hello, truly. I hope you’ll hang around for a while.
Finishing and releasing Operation Forgotten Spire, my first full-length novel, felt like crossing a finish line I wasn’t sure I’d ever reach. It was exhilarating, terrifying, and exhausting all at once. Now that some time has passed and the dust has settled, I’ve been reflecting on what that experience actually taught me. These aren’t glamorous “how to write a bestseller” secrets. If I had those, I would use them. They’re the quieter, humbler truths that hit harder in the trenches.

The story has a mind of it's own:
I started with a clear vision. The characters had other plans. Operation Forggotten Spire was supposed to be an urban fantasy set in South Dakota. Whole plot threads unraveled, scenes refused to land, and at least three major characters demanded rewrites because they simply wouldn’t behave the way I wanted. Every time I tried to force it, the writing got stiff and lifeless. The best moments came when I finally stopped wrestling and started listening. Lesson: Trust the story more than your outline. It knows where it needs to go, even if you don’t yet.

Consistency beats perfection.
I chased “perfect” for way too long, endless revisions before the book was even half done. It was paralyzing. What finally moved the needle was committing to my unglamorous 500-words-a-day goal, even when the words were clunky or the scene felt flat. Most of those “bad” pages got fixed in later drafts. The ones that never got written? They stayed blank forever. Lesson: Momentum matters more than polish in the early stages. You can’t revise what doesn’t exist.

You’ll doubt yourself. Everyone does:
Imposter syndrome didn’t just knock; it moved in. There were nights I stared at the screen, convinced no one would care, that the world had enough dystopian thrillers already, that my voice wasn’t unique enough. I still feel that way. Sharing the book felt like standing naked in a spotlight. But the people who reached out—readers, early reviewers, even a few friends who’d been quietly following along—reminded me that connection happens in the vulnerability, not in the perfection. Lesson: The fear doesn’t vanish, but it gets smaller when you realize you’re not shouting into an empty room.
Letting go is part of the process.
I could tweak Operation Forgotten Spire for the rest of my life and still find things to change. At some point, you have to decide it’s done, not flawless, but finished. Releasing it was one of the hardest things I’ve done. It also felt like handing a child off to the world and hoping they’ll be kind to it. Lesson: The book stops being only yours the moment it meets readers. That’s scary, but it’s also the point.
The real win isn’t sales or reviews—it’s showing up.

I won’t pretend numbers don’t matter (they do, and I’m grateful for every reader who picks it up). But the deepest reward has been the quiet proof to myself that I could finish something this big. That I could keep coming back to the page, week after week, even when life was loud, and the doubts were louder. Lesson: Writing the first book is as much about proving to yourself that you’re capable as it is about the story itself.

If you’re in the middle of your own first (or next) big project, know that the mess, the doubt, and the slow progress are normal. They’re not signs you’re failing—they’re signs you’re doing the work.
Thank you for being here through these Wednesday posts. Your presence—whether you comment, share, or just read quietly—makes me feel less alone in the process. It keeps me accountable, and it keeps me grateful.
I’ll see you next week with more reflections (and probably a few more shameless plugs for the book). Until then—keep showing up for whatever it is you’re creating. It’s worth it.
Take care out there.
H.S. Harding

Welcome back, friends. And if you’re just joining us—hello, truly. I hope you’ll hang around for a while.
People are always curious about where characters in books come from. It’s been one of the most entertaining parts of sharing my writing. I get to watch friends and family scan every page, trying to spot themselves (or someone they know) in the cast. They’ll point to a line of dialogue or a small habit and whisper, “That’s got to be so-and-so, right?” It’s sweet, it’s flattering, and it’s almost always wrong.
The truth is, my characters are their own people.
Sure, I might borrow a quirk from here, a nervous laugh, a way of tilting the head when thinking, or a habit from there. I might tell about the precise way someone folds a napkin or mutters under their breath when frustrated. But those are just small sparks. Each character grows into someone entirely separate, with their own motivations, wounds, and stubborn streaks. They aren’t stand-ins for real people in my life. They’re individuals who showed up fully formed, demanding to be written.
There’s one small exception—in a novella I wrote (I won’t say which one, because half the fun is guessing). There, I leaned into caricature, exaggerating traits from people and institutions I’ve known. Even then, though, they’re not direct portraits. They are heightened, almost cartoonish versions meant to serve the story, not to expose anyone.
So when you meet the people in Operation Forgotten Spire—Dr. Calloway, the soldiers, the quiet resistors, the ones who’ve already given up—they’re their own breathing, complicated souls. They feel real to me because, in a strange way, they are real. They existed somewhere before I ever put fingers to keys.
The funniest part about writing fiction is how little control I sometimes feel like I have. I don’t invent these characters so much as I discover them. I’m more like a conduit, the story and its people were already out there, waiting for someone to listen long enough to let them through. My job is to get out of the way and write down what they insist on telling me.
It’s a humbling thing, feeling like you’re channeling rather than creating. And maybe that’s why it’s so vulnerable to share, because these aren’t just “made-up” people. They’re companions who’ve lived in my head for years, and now I’m introducing them to you.
Thank you for meeting them with me, one novel at a time. Your presence here makes the whole strange, beautiful process feel a little less solitary.
See you next week—take care out there.
H.S. Harding

Welcome back, friends. And if you’re just joining us—hello, truly. I hope you’ll hang around for a while.

Genre matters. It’s the first quiet promise an author makes to the reader: This story will feel a certain way. Action-packed. Heartwarming. Romantic. Dark and twisty. Sometimes we blend genres to capture the best parts of several worlds at once. Sometimes that beautiful experiment crashes and burns. Either way, the label sets expectations.

So with genre being as important as it is, why did I land on dystopian military thriller for the Forgotten Spire series?

The short answer: I didn’t choose it. The story did.

I sat down intending to write a fantasy novel. I wanted to tap into that strange, humming energy that runs through the Black Hills of South Dakota—the kind you only notice when you finally stop moving long enough to feel it. I pictured ancient pines, hidden valleys, quiet magic woven into the landscape. That was the plan.

Dr. Calloway had other ideas.

The story pulled hard in a different direction. It built its own world: fractured, watchful, oppressive in ways that echoed the classics—Orwell’s iron boot, Huxley’s polished control, Bradbury’s burning pages—without anywhere near their level of mastery. Before I knew it, the Black Hills weren’t a backdrop for wonder anymore; they were the last stubborn holdout in a world that had already surrendered. Military stakes rose. Tension coiled. The dystopia settled in like fog that wouldn’t lift.

Stories are funny that way. They don’t always listen to the writer’s agenda. They demand what they demand.

I still have every intention of writing that fantasy novel set in the Black Hills someday. The idea hasn’t gone away; it’s just patiently waiting its turn. Right now, though, the world of Operation Forgotten Spire has taken over. It’s consuming my attention, my late nights, my word-count goals. The story needs to be told this way first.

So for now, I’m writing what the story insists on, not what I originally pictured. There’s a strange humility in that—letting go of the plan and following where the characters and the world lead. It’s not always comfortable, but it feels honest.

Thank you for being here as I figure it out, one Wednesday at a time. Your quiet company makes the detours feel less lonely.

As always, take care out there. See you next week.

H.S. Harding

Welcome back, friends. And if you’re just joining us—hello, truly. I hope you’ll hang around for a while.

This seems to be a popular question: What does a day in my writing life actually look like? I wish I could paint the romantic picture—the struggling author in a cozy coffee shop or a sunlit home office, sipping something artisanal while meticulously polishing every word into a masterpiece. It’s not like that. Not even close. It’s much, much messier.

I’m too old to live off my parents and too young to retire, which means I still have to work a regular job. Writing isn’t paying the bills yet (though if you want to change that, Operation Forgotten Spire is available now—shameless plug complete). I won’t lie: summers get a little closer to the stereotype. As a teacher, I get those glorious months off, which gives me more flexibility to write. But since I’m not paid for that time, a second job is still a necessity most years.

The rest of the year? Routine chaos.I get home from work, let the dogs out, change clothes, tackle the dishes, prep supper—life stuff. I might steal a few minutes to jot something down right then, but honestly? Not much gets done in that window. The real writing happens late evening, once the house quiets and the day’s noise finally fades.

My goal is 500 words a day. Why 500? It’s a nice, round number that feels attainable without being overwhelming. Some days I hit 2,000 words in a burst of inspiration. Some days it’s 50, and I’m just happy something made it onto the page. But averaging 500 keeps the momentum going. It works whether I’m drafting fresh material or grinding through a third revision.

The bigger point, the one that matters, is the old advice: Write every day. Even if it’s one line you delete tomorrow. Even if it feels pointless in the moment. Keeping the story fresh in your mind is what keeps it alive. Skipping days turns small gaps into big ones, and suddenly the whole thing feels distant and cold.

So that’s my unglamorous reality: a full-time job, dogs, dishes, supper, and squeezing words in when the world finally gives me a quiet corner. No dramatic montages. Just showing up, day after day.

If you’re chasing your own creative thing amid the mess of real life, know that you’re not alone. The stereotype is nice, but the messy version is where the real stories get made.

I’ll keep showing up here every Wednesday. If you’ll keep showing up too—even just to read quietly—that small bit of connection makes the late nights feel worthwhile.

Until next time—stay safe out there.

H.S. Harding

Welcome back, friends.
And if you’re just joining us—hello, truly. I hope you’ll hang around for a while.

“Putting yourself out there” is one of those phrases we toss around all the time. Coaches say it. Friends say it. Therapists probably say it. But what does it actually mean?

When I was coaching football, I used it to push athletes: Don’t hold back. Leave it all on the field. Football—for most people—is a finite thing. You play in high school (if you’re lucky), maybe college for a few, and then it’s over. The clock is always ticking. There’s a built-in time limit, so you'd better show up fully while you can.

In the creative world, the advice sounds similar but deeper: Bare your soul. Show the world who you really are. Let it all hang out.

That sounds noble… until you realize your life is pretty ordinary. No dramatic highs, no cinematic lows. If someone tried to make a movie about me, the audience would be napping by the opening credits.

So what does “putting myself out there” mean for me as an author?

It’s all of the above.

First, there’s the time limit. The stories in my head won’t outlive me. Once I’m gone, they go with me. Like those glory days on the field—once they’re over, they’re over for good. No do-overs. No second chances to tell the tale the way it wants to be told.

Second, it means being raw and honest. A piece of me slips into every character, whether I plan it or not. That flawless hero? Maybe that’s me allowing myself to be perfect for once, in the one place where I get to rewrite the rules. But the flawed ones—the angry ones, the broken ones, the quietly terrified ones—those carry real regrets, real fears, real observations from my own twisted little mind. Every story is a peek behind the curtain, even if it’s dressed up in fiction.

So here I am, putting myself out there. Not because my life is fascinating, but because the stories are—and because holding them back forever feels like the bigger loss.

If any of this resonates, take the risk with me. Put yourself out there, whatever that looks like for you. Bring your friends along for the ride. It’s scary, it’s messy, but it’s worth it.

I’ll keep showing up here every Wednesday. If you’ll keep showing up too—even just to read quietly—that means more than you know.

Until next time, stay safe out there.

H.S. Harding