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People often ask me what my writing process looks like, and I usually tell them it resembles the Trojan War more than any orderly system of productivity. There is planning, of course. There are strategies, outlines, timelines, and carefully laid foundations. But there are also days when everything catches fire for no obvious reason, alliances collapse, and I spend several hours staring at a single paragraph as if it personally offended me. Most mornings begin with the confidence of Agamemnon rallying the troops. Coffee in hand, notes spread across the desk, I am absolutely certain that today is the day great progress will be made. The words will flow. The timeline will behave. Characters will cooperate. Then, somewhere around mid-morning, Achilles storms into camp—metaphorically speaking—and refuses to participate. A scene I thought would take thirty minutes suddenly requires three hours, four rewrites, and one long stare into the void while questioning every life choice that led me to writing about Bronze Age warfare. There is also the inevitable Trojan Horse moment. This is when I convince myself that I am being clever—brilliant, even—by inserting one small idea into a chapter. Just one. Harmless. Innocent. Except that idea turns out to contain thirty more ideas hidden inside it, and suddenly the chapter has expanded by five thousand words and requires a full restructuring of the timeline. What began as a tidy paragraph becomes an invading army. Of course, every writing session includes moments of heroic endurance. There are days when the words refuse to cooperate, when the research rabbit holes multiply like Hydra heads, and when I find myself deep into ancient geography wondering why there are three rivers with nearly identical names in the same region. This is usually the point when I remind myself that Homer didn’t have Google Docs either, so perseverance is part of the tradition. And yet, despite the chaos, the stubborn characters, and the occasional literary siege, there is always that moment of victory. The paragraph clicks into place. The timeline aligns. A character finally says exactly what they were meant to say. It feels less like conquering Troy and more like surviving it, but survival counts in epic storytelling. So if you ever imagine writers sitting peacefully in candlelit rooms, calmly crafting masterpieces with perfect grace, allow me to assure you that the reality is far closer to a battlefield. There are victories, retreats, clever strategies, and the occasional desperate charge. But in the end, every finished chapter feels like raising a banner over the walls and declaring, at least for today, that the city still stands. And tomorrow? We march again. 2014, revised 2026 Janell Rhiannon. All rights reserved. 
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From time to time I get asked what books might compare to The Homeric Chronicles, and I always come back to the same idea. I love epic fantasy that operates on a grand scale, where individual emotions matter just as much as sweeping wars and the rise and fall of kingdoms. One comparison that often comes to mind is The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller. Not because the stories are identical, but because of the emotional depth. I’ve always admired the way that novel focuses on the inner lives of legendary figures and reminds us that even the greatest heroes are still human at heart. That emotional core is something I try to carry into my own retellings. On a broader scale, the series also shares DNA with A Game of Thrones by George R. R. Martin. Like Martin’s world, The Homeric Chronicles follows multiple characters across shifting alliances, rival kingdoms, and generational consequences. No single perspective tells the whole story. Instead, the world unfolds through many voices, each carrying their own loyalties and burdens. And in spirit, there is also a thread that reminds me of Red Rising by Pierce Brown. Not in setting, but in momentum and consequence. Choices ripple outward. War changes people. Characters are pushed to their limits, shaped by violence, loyalty, ambition, and the heavy cost of survival. At the heart of it all, my goal has always been to combine emotional intimacy with epic scope. Stories that feel personal, but unfold on a scale worthy of legend. --Janell Rhiannon © 2014, revised 2026 Janell Rhiannon. All rights reserved. For me, music has always been part of storytelling. Not just background noise, but a kind of doorway into emotion. More often than not, it is soundtracks that pull me in the deepest. Instrumental music has a way of opening space in my imagination without crowding it with words. When I sit down to write, I rarely begin in silence. I begin with music. A single track can set the tone for an entire scene. A rising swell of strings can feel like marching toward battle. A soft piano can carry grief, memory, or longing without a single line of dialogue written yet. Sometimes I will play the same track over and over until the rhythm of it feels like the heartbeat of the chapter I am working on. Soundtracks, especially, feel like they were made for storytellers. They are written to carry emotion without explanation. They hold tension, triumph, sorrow, and hope in pure sound. When I listen, I start to see images. A shoreline at dawn. Armor catching the light. A mother standing at the gates as her son walks away to war. The music helps me feel the moment before I ever put it into words. There are times when a particular soundtrack becomes tied to a character or a storyline. I hear the music, and suddenly I understand their mood, their fear, their determination. It becomes easier to step into their world because the sound has already prepared the emotional ground. In many ways, music is my quiet collaborator. It does not write the words for me, but it helps me feel the story before I shape it. And for a writer working in epic worlds filled with memory, loss, and legend, that emotional connection is everything. 2014, revised 2026 Janell Rhiannon. All rights reserved. Imagine a love forbidden by design, yet needed as desperately as air. Could you resist it? Would you endure the consequences when it slips through your fingers? Passions like these burn hot and fast, consuming everything in their path before fading into memory and ash. We do not truly choose who we love. Love strikes without warning. Sometimes it is a spark of recognition, sometimes a force that sweeps us away before we understand what has happened. It lifts us from the life we once knew and sends us soaring, reckless and radiant, like wings caught in firelight. Forbidden love, the kind that tempts us to betray oath and duty for a single moment of closeness, is the sort of love legends are built upon. Bright. Fierce. Unforgiving. But no one can remain in flight forever. Eventually, we fall back to earth and must face what remains. Pieces of the life we once held together lie scattered, and nothing fits quite the same again. This kind of love leaves its mark. It alters the course of a life and stains memory with longing. There is no returning to what once was, only moving forward with the taste of ash and the shadow of what might have been. Iseo and Celestino burn bright in BIRTH, Book One of The Livingstone Saga. Will Celestino honor the sacred oath written in the Codex of Gargoyles, or will he betray everything to follow the call of his own heart? 2014, revised 2026 Janell Rhiannon. All rights reserved.  In Book One of The Livingstone Saga: Birth, Iseo and Celestino share a very passionate kiss. It is only a kiss, after all. Harmless. Innocent. Or is it? A kiss seems simple enough. You can steal a kiss, offer a kiss, return a kiss, or brush someone’s cheek in passing. But the more I think about it, the more I believe a kiss may be the most dangerous act of all. The simple motion of leaning closer, of closing the distance between two people, is often the moment when the first line is crossed. It is the dividing line between safety and risk, between what is known and what waits in the shadows ahead. A kiss is the doorway to passion. It is the first truly intimate act between lovers, and often the one most deeply missed when it disappears. Once it happens, something changes. There is a shift, subtle at first, but impossible to ignore. It becomes harder to pull back once the tide begins to rise. A single kiss can carry promise, temptation, and consequence all at once. It can lead to joy, ruin, or something far more complicated than either. That is what makes the kiss between Iseo and Celestino so dangerous. A girl and a gargoyle were never meant to love one another. Their bond defies sacred law and sworn duty, yet the pull between them refuses to be denied. And when that moment comes, when restraint finally gives way, it begins with a kiss. Celestino waited until he felt her reach toward him. It was only the slightest movement, yet it was all the permission he required. Without breaking his gaze, he lowered his head. Gentle at first, he tasted wine and honey on her lips. “You are the nectar of God and earth,” he whispered, so close that she felt the warmth of every word as his lips brushed against hers. You will have to read the rest in Book One of The Livingstone Saga: Birth. This kiss lingers across pages, unfolding slowly, equal parts tender and dangerous. Whether it remains innocent is something each reader must decide. 2014, revised 2026 Janell Rhiannon. All rights reserved. One of the reasons I am drawn to Greek mythology again and again is because I see humanity reflected in those stories. Not perfection. Not simple heroes and villains. Humanity in all its contradictions. That is what keeps pulling me back. When I read or write about these myths, I always find myself asking the same question. What would drive a real person to make that choice? Not a statue of a hero, but a person with fears, scars, exhaustion, pride, and love. Myth gives us the events, but I am always interested in the reasons beneath those events. The human motivations that make the story feel alive instead of distant. Take Odysseus, for example. He is clever, dangerous, loyal, and deeply flawed. He is also a man shaped by war. Ten years at Troy would not leave anyone unchanged. War hardens people. It leaves marks that do not disappear when the fighting stops. So when I think about Odysseus with Circe or Calypso, I do not see a simple label like hero or cheater. I see a veteran who has lived in violence for years, who has lost friends, who has carried the weight of survival. That does not excuse every action, but it makes those actions feel human instead of symbolic. Then there is Penelope. She is often praised as the perfect model of patience and faithfulness. But I do not imagine her sitting quietly in sorrow for twenty years. I see a queen holding together a fragile kingdom. I see a woman managing resources, navigating threats, protecting her son, and dealing with men who are slowly tearing apart her household. She was not idle. She was strategic. She endured, not by waiting, but by working and thinking and holding the line when everything around her was breaking down. This is where mythology feels most real to me. Not in the polished ideals, but in the hard questions. Why would someone do this? What fear pushed them forward? What hope kept them going? What survival instinct shaped the decision that followed? Sometimes following those questions leads me to interpretations that step slightly outside familiar tradition. Not because I want to change myth, but because I want the characters to feel like people instead of symbols. I want their choices to come from something recognizable, something human. That is the reason I keep returning to these stories. Greek mythology is not just about gods and heroes. It is about people standing in impossible situations and making choices that shape everything that comes after. And when we look closely enough, we start to see ourselves in those choices. 2014, revised 2026 Janell Rhiannon. All rights reserved. Finis Terrae and the Camino de Santiago: The Medieval Edge of the World in The Livingstone Saga8/1/2014 Finis Terrae, or the End of the Earth, was what the Romans called this rugged stretch of stone along the western coast of Hispania. When Rome ruled Spain, this windswept shoreline was believed to mark the very edge of the known world. Beyond the horizon, many believed, lay the threshold to the afterlife itself. By medieval times, that belief had transformed into something darker. The distant horizon became known as the Gates of Hell, a place where land gave way to mystery, and where faith and fear often walked hand in hand. Even today, as in centuries past, Finis Terrae remains the final destination for many Catholic pilgrims. They begin their journey in towns scattered across Europe and travel mile after mile along the famous Camino de Santiago, the Road of Saint James. Their pilgrimage ends at the ocean’s edge, where fire, water, and sky meet in a ritual both ancient and deeply personal. When I wrote this scene in The Livingstone Saga, I imagined what it would feel like to stand there at the very end of the world. To look beyond the horizon and wonder what lay waiting in the distance. I thought it might be fun to let readers stand where Iseo and Celestino once stood, gazing toward the horizon and the place medieval pilgrims believed marked the very Gates of Hell. From the Finis Terrae Chapter Celestino came up close behind her, near enough that she could feel the tension between their bodies. Below them, pilgrims built fires along the beach. They stripped their travel-worn garments and cast them into the flames before running into the cold, welcoming waves. He leaned toward her ear and whispered, “Pilgrims have no modesty.” His breath traced the line of her neck. “I am your pilgrim.” As she shivered, he stepped back and turned to watch the sun as it prepared to sink beneath the meeting of ocean and sky. “We should return to the inn.” Iseo barely heard him. Her knees trembled, and her heart pounded loudly in her ears. For a man untrained in courtly romance, Celestino plucked every hidden string of her heart. As they walked back with the sun fading behind them, the gray hush of evening wrapped them in their own private world. Celestino reached for her hand. She allowed it, and for one precious moment, they walked as lovers beneath the first emerging stars at the end of the world. 2014, revised 2026 Janell Rhiannon. All rights reserved. Santiago de Compostela Cathedral and the Origins of Iseo and Celestino in The Livingstone Saga8/1/2014 The history of Iseo and Celestino begins in the famous Cathedral in Santiago, Spain. The city's roots stretch far into Spain's Celtic and Roman past. After the apostle James the Greater was beheaded, his body was taken back to Santiago, Spain. This connection to Saint James is what made the first Romanesque chapel (that was burned down by the Moor al-Mansur Ibn Abi Aamir) and the current cathedral (completed in 1129 AD) so famous. Santiago is located in the northwestern region of Spain about 20 miles from the sea. It is one of the most famous pilgrimage destinations in Europe. Here, at Santiago de Compostela, this where Iseo first studied the art of carving livingstone, and where she "birthed" Celestino under the moonlight, as recorded in chapter one. For almost three hundred years, gargoyles had been carved at this sight. Primarily because the "Devil's Quarry" was relatively close by. To this day, the exact location of the quarry, where pockets of livingstone were known to exist, has remained a tightly guarded secret. There are subtle reminders left behind in the construction that speak to the sacred mission of the Makers (creators of gargoyles) and the raging battle between Heaven and Hell. The Portico de Gloria is the primary architectural feature that holds clues of the hidden history. Primarily, there are the numerous relief sculptures of Saint James himself and the Apocalypse. The representation of demons and beasts in the portico represents how glory triumphs over evil, and is a clue that gargoyles lived in this cathedral. This includes, the demons on tympanum of the left door (arch over the door). There is a very strong correlation between the depiction of demons on churches, and the little known livingstone workshops. |
Janell Rhiannon
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