Signed in as:
filler@godaddy.com
The Complex Landscape inside Mark the Writer's Mind
Who Is Mark Mills?
Ancient-Future Themes
Ancient-Future Themes
When I was a teenager, my parents took me to see Chariots of the Gods. At the time, Lampasas, Texas’ only movie theater was a drive-in. I remember watching over my parents’ shoulders from the back seat of a 1969 Impala station wagon with the audio coming from that little window-mounted speaker, watching images of ancient structures, impos
When I was a teenager, my parents took me to see Chariots of the Gods. At the time, Lampasas, Texas’ only movie theater was a drive-in. I remember watching over my parents’ shoulders from the back seat of a 1969 Impala station wagon with the audio coming from that little window-mounted speaker, watching images of ancient structures, impossible alignments, and artifacts that humanity hadn’t seen until the invention of the airplane. They didn’t fit neatly into the timelines we’d been taught. It wasn’t the spectacle that struck me — it was the questions. My questions. Questions that my parents and no one else could answer because not even Erik von Daniken could answer them in the movie. The sense that humanity had lived entire chapters of its story that we no longer remembered. That something profound had happened in our prehistory, and no one could explain it. Suddenly I was aware that that there were huge things we didn’t know.
That moment never left me.
As I grew older, I noticed something else: most people move through life on autopilot, quietly absorbing whatever explanations they’re handed. Not because they lack intelligence, but because the world is full of powerful systems that benefit from keeping us comfortable, distracted, and unquestioning. We’re fed a steady diet of simplified narratives—pablum designed to keep us from looking too deeply at who we are, where we came from, or what we might become.
My writing is my refusal to accept that.
It’s the long arc of humanity — the idea that our story didn’t begin with recorded history and certainly won’t end with the present moment — that compels me. I’m drawn to the tension between science and spirit, to the possibility that ancient wisdom and future technology are not opposites but two halves of the same truth. I’m fascinated by consciousness, by the idea that the Universe is not something “out there,” but something intimately integrated into each of us.
When I write, I build worlds where technology and spirituality intertwine, where intelligence is not an IQ number. It is awareness, intuition, and resonance. My characters are not superheroes—they’re explorers of meaning, architects of possibility, beings who challenge the assumptions that keep societies stagnant.
I write because I believe stories can wake people up—not by preaching, but by inviting them to see themselves differently. Fiction has a way of slipping past defenses. It can ask questions that real life is too loud, too rushed, or too afraid to ask. Through narrative, I explore who humanity may have been before our collective amnesia, and who we could become if we reclaimed the parts of ourselves we’ve forgotten.
Beyond providing answers, my goal is to open doors.
If my stories make my intended point, readers will be more than entertained; they will feel something stir. I hope it is something like what I experienced in that Texas small town drive-in back in 1974. A curiosity. A recognition. A sense that the world is far stranger, deeper, and more interconnected than documented history suggests. A realization that we cannot possibly be the most advanced civilization that has ever inhabited this planet, yet we know nothing of what came before us. And maybe, just maybe, readers will begin to question the narratives that have kept their minds limited.
Because the future isn’t shaped by technology alone.
It’s shaped by the people who dare to reimagine our place in it.
Ancient-Future Themes
Ancient-Future Themes
Ancient-Future Themes
I believe we tread shaky ground when we think we are isolated icebergs of humanity in the sea of time. Icebergs are made of ocean water and most of them were part of larger ice masses. Likewise, we not only have ancestors, but our ancestors are us. Therefore, we are our descendants as are our ancestors.
To say that there was no civilizatio
I believe we tread shaky ground when we think we are isolated icebergs of humanity in the sea of time. Icebergs are made of ocean water and most of them were part of larger ice masses. Likewise, we not only have ancestors, but our ancestors are us. Therefore, we are our descendants as are our ancestors.
To say that there was no civilization prior to ours is to look around at the surface of the earth and think there is nothing to see here. If there were some great, global cataclysm tens or hundreds of thousands of years ago, that evidence won’t be laying around in plain sight or even under several meters of soil or rock. It will be deep. It may lay under the ocean floor. Who knows? We haven’t looked for very long, though, in the whole scheme of our long arc.
Part of what fuels my ideas with ancient-future themes are current-day reports of aerial phenomena that we cannot identify. More likely than them coming from other star systems is the idea that they may be the remnant of what was here before and have been keeping an eye on us since humans started recovering from that ancient global catastrophe. As outlandish as that may seem, nobody can definitively say it isn’t true nor possible.
Spiritual Inclusivity
Ancient-Future Themes
Spiritual Inclusivity
This is something near and dear to my heart. Today, my understanding of spirituality is vastly different than what I thought as I grew up. My father was an ordained church pastor of small-town churches in Texas, Missouri, and Colorado. The people of those churches were the folks who would assign their issues to the pastor, even though the
This is something near and dear to my heart. Today, my understanding of spirituality is vastly different than what I thought as I grew up. My father was an ordained church pastor of small-town churches in Texas, Missouri, and Colorado. The people of those churches were the folks who would assign their issues to the pastor, even though they had them long before that pastor came and then fire them as a sacrificial scapegoat. I never experienced in a church the kind of love that one reads about Jesus teaching. To say there was a gulf between what they said and what they did is to say that the Grand Canyon is a ditch.
At home, we weren’t forced to memorize Bible verse, wear biblically mandated (not sure who decided that) clothes, or even to believe anything specific. We were taken to Sunday school, had to stay for the church service since, of course, Dad was preaching, and had to participate in weekly youth activities, which were the only fun part of it all. That’s because it also included a week at summer camp and camp is where my spiritual growth got a kick start.
In church camp small groups, we would discuss whatever came to mind. We weren’t shut down and told to not ask such questions. We were engaged, encouraged, and led to focus on a relationship with God, not loyalty to a congregation. Summer after summer, “aha” moment after “aha“ moment, I grew.
As I’ve written elsewhere, my mother handed me JRR Tolkien when I was 15. As a family, we watched things like Chariots of the Gods and then had casual discussions engaging curiosity. My parents were big on curiosity and every time one of us had a question, they directed us to our multivolume World Book Encyclopedia and told to look it up.
On a family vacation through New Mexico and Arizona, we visited Native American reservations. We saw how they lived, watched fascinating dances and these insane men jumping off a pole with a rope, not a bungee cord, attached to their ankles. We bought and took home souvenirs that brought those people back to mind long after we had gone home.
So, with that as a complex, multifaceted foundation, I became a dauntless, questioning, hungry explorer of world religions, theological frameworks, and … as one might expect if you’ve read why I write … connective threads entwined through history, maybe originating in our prehistory, running through all of our cultures. I began to find common ground among currently practiced religions.
After decades of building on that early foundation, I see the world through a lens made up of Christianity, Buddhism, Taoism, and Native American spirituality. I meditate and pray, but not for any deity to do what I want; it’s for me to become more attuned to the Universe. I pull away from anyone who says they know all the answers or have a lock on who God is. I’m fond of the statement, “My karma ran over my dogma.”
I also believe that maybe, just maybe, each human is a manifestation of divine presence on the planet and all humans throughout history have been that. We can stay stuck in two-dimensional thinking, cause and effect, dogmatic rules, or we can realize that one human’s lifetime is an extension of what has been and connects us to what will be. Without assigning a limiting label like “God” to it, I believe that the Universe itself is in an eternal, unfolding process of which all our lifetimes entwine. The more we expand our own consciousnesses beyond our immediate concerns, the more we participate in the ongoing process of the Universe.
So, whatever a reader’s spiritual framework may be, I endeavor to write in such a way for you to question and own what you believe. Whatever you believe, own it, come to it by your own process so that you don’t try to live by what you’ve been spoon fed. You own it because your experience and your journey have validated it. Then, keep questioning, growing, learning, and realizing.
Godspeed on your journey, fellow human being.
Fiction by Mark the Writer
The Rod of Truth
The Rings of Azimuth
The Rings of Azimuth
When I was a teenager, my parents took me to see Chariots of the Gods. At the time, Lampasas, Texas’ only movie theater was a drive-in. I remember watching over my parents’ shoulders from the back seat of a 1969 Impala station wagon, with the audio coming from that little window-mounted speaker, captivated by images of ancient structures,
When I was a teenager, my parents took me to see Chariots of the Gods. At the time, Lampasas, Texas’ only movie theater was a drive-in. I remember watching over my parents’ shoulders from the back seat of a 1969 Impala station wagon, with the audio coming from that little window-mounted speaker, captivated by images of ancient structures, impossible alignments, and artifacts that humanity hadn’t witnessed until the invention of the airplane. These elements didn’t fit neatly into the timelines we’d been taught. It wasn’t the spectacle that struck me — it was the questions. My questions. Questions that my parents and no one else could answer, not even Erik von Daniken in the movie. I felt a profound sense that humanity had lived entire chapters of its story that we no longer remembered, hinting at something significant that occurred in our prehistory, and no one could explain it. Suddenly, I became aware that there were enormous things we didn’t know. That moment never left me. As I grew older, I noticed something else: most people move through life on autopilot, quietly absorbing whatever explanations they’re handed. Not due to a lack of intelligence, but because the world is filled with powerful systems that benefit from keeping us comfortable, distracted, and unquestioning. We’re fed a steady diet of simplified narratives—pablum designed to prevent us from looking too deeply at who we are, where we came from, or what we might become. My writing, particularly in the Scepter of the Gods Series, is my refusal to accept that. It’s the long arc of humanity — the idea that our story didn’t begin with recorded history and certainly won’t end with the present moment — that compels me. I’m drawn to the tension between science and spirit, to the possibility that ancient wisdom and future technology are not opposites but two halves of the same truth. I’m fascinated by consciousness, by the notion that the Universe is not something 'out there,' but something intimately integrated into each of us. When I write, especially in The Wings of Aeolius, I build worlds where technology and spirituality intertwine, where intelligence transcends an IQ number. It is awareness, intuition, and resonance. My characters are not superheroes—they’re explorers of meaning, architects of possibility, beings who challenge the assumptions that keep societies stagnant. I write because I believe stories can wake people up—not by preaching, but by inviting them to see themselves differently. Fiction has a way of slipping past defenses. It can pose questions that real life is too loud, too rushed, or too afraid to ask. Through narrative, I explore who humanity may have been before our collective amnesia, and who we could become if we reclaimed the parts of ourselves we’ve forgotten. Beyond providing answers, my goal is to open doors. If my stories make my intended point, readers will be more than entertained; they will feel something stir. I hope it is reminiscent of what I experienced in that Texas small town drive-in back in 1974. A curiosity. A recognition. A sense that the world is far stranger, deeper, and more interconnected than documented history suggests. A realization that we cannot possibly be the most advanced civilization that has ever inhabited this planet, yet we know nothing of what came before us. And maybe, just maybe, readers will begin to question the narratives that have kept their minds limited. Because the future isn’t shaped by technology alone. It’s shaped by the people who dare to reimagine our place in it.
The Rings of Azimuth
The Rings of Azimuth
The Rings of Azimuth
I believe we tread shaky ground when we think we are isolated icebergs of humanity in the sea of time. Icebergs are made of ocean water and most of them were part of larger ice masses. Likewise, we not only have ancestors, but our ancestors are us. Therefore, we are our descendants as are our ancestors. To say that there was no civilizati
I believe we tread shaky ground when we think we are isolated icebergs of humanity in the sea of time. Icebergs are made of ocean water and most of them were part of larger ice masses. Likewise, we not only have ancestors, but our ancestors are us. Therefore, we are our descendants as are our ancestors. To say that there was no civilization prior to ours is to look around at the surface of the earth and think there is nothing to see here. If there were some great, global cataclysm tens or hundreds of thousands of years ago, that evidence won’t be laying around in plain sight or even under several meters of soil or rock. It will be deep. It may lay under the ocean floor. Who knows? We haven’t looked for very long, though, in the whole scheme of our long arc. Part of what fuels my ideas with ancient-future themes, much like the intriguing narratives found in the 'Scepter of the Gods Series' by Mark Mills Author, are current-day reports of aerial phenomena that we cannot identify. More likely than them coming from other star systems is the idea that they may be the remnant of what was here before and have been keeping an eye on us since humans started recovering from that ancient global catastrophe. As outlandish as that may seem, nobody can definitively say it isn’t true nor possible. Just as 'The Wings of Aeolius' explores the intersection of the past and future, so too does this notion challenge our understanding of history.
Texas Dumpster Fire
The Rings of Azimuth
Texas Dumpster Fire
This is something near and dear to my heart. Today, my understanding of spirituality is vastly different than what I thought as I grew up. My father was an ordained church pastor of small-town churches in Texas, Missouri, and Colorado. The people of those churches were the folks who would assign their issues to the pastor, even though the
This is something near and dear to my heart. Today, my understanding of spirituality is vastly different than what I thought as I grew up. My father was an ordained church pastor of small-town churches in Texas, Missouri, and Colorado. The people of those churches were the folks who would assign their issues to the pastor, even though they had them long before that pastor came and then fire them as a sacrificial scapegoat. I never experienced in a church the kind of love that one reads about Jesus teaching. To say there was a gulf between what they said and what they did is to say that the Grand Canyon is a ditch. At home, we weren’t forced to memorize Bible verses, wear biblically mandated (not sure who decided that) clothes, or even to believe anything specific. We were taken to Sunday school, had to stay for the church service since, of course, Dad was preaching, and had to participate in weekly youth activities, which were the only fun part of it all. That’s because it also included a week at summer camp, where my spiritual growth got a kick start. In church camp small groups, we would discuss whatever came to mind. We weren’t shut down and told to not ask such questions. We were engaged, encouraged, and led to focus on a relationship with God, not loyalty to a congregation. Summer after summer, “aha” moment after “aha“ moment, I grew. As I’ve written elsewhere, my mother handed me JRR Tolkien when I was 15. As a family, we watched things like Chariots of the Gods and then had casual discussions engaging curiosity. My parents were big on curiosity, and every time one of us had a question, they directed us to our multivolume World Book Encyclopedia and told us to look it up. On a family vacation through New Mexico and Arizona, we visited Native American reservations. We saw how they lived, watched fascinating dances, and these insane men jumping off a pole with a rope, not a bungee cord, attached to their ankles. We bought and took home souvenirs that brought those people back to mind long after we had gone home. So, with that as a complex, multifaceted foundation, I became a dauntless, questioning, hungry explorer of world religions, theological frameworks, and the connective threads entwined through history, maybe originating in our prehistory, running through all of our cultures. I began to find common ground among currently practiced religions. After decades of building on that early foundation, I see the world through a lens made up of Christianity, Buddhism, Taoism, and Native American spirituality. I meditate and pray, but not for any deity to do what I want; it’s for me to become more attuned to the Universe. I pull away from anyone who says they know all the answers or have a lock on who God is. I’m fond of the statement, “My karma ran over my dogma.” I also believe that maybe, just maybe, each human is a manifestation of divine presence on the planet and all humans throughout history have been that. We can stay stuck in two-dimensional thinking, cause and effect, dogmatic rules, or we can realize that one human’s lifetime is an extension of what has been and connects us to what will be. Without assigning a limiting label like “God” to it, I believe that the Universe itself is in an eternal, unfolding process of which all our lifetimes entwine. The more we expand our own consciousnesses beyond our immediate concerns, the more we participate in the ongoing process of the Universe. So, whatever a reader’s spiritual framework may be, I endeavor to write in such a way that encourages you to question and own what you believe. As Mark Mills, author of the Scepter of the Gods series and The Wings of Aeolius, I urge you to own your beliefs, coming to them through your own process so that you don’t try to live by what you’ve been spoon-fed. You own it because your experience and your journey have validated it. Then, keep questioning, growing, learning, and realizing. Godspeed on your journey, fellow human being.
Non-Fiction by Mark the Writer
Make My Life Work
Make My Life Work
Make My Life Work
When I was a teenager, my parents took me to see Chariots of the Gods. At the time, Lampasas, Texas’ only movie theater was a drive-in. I remember watching over my parents’ shoulders from the back seat of a 1969 Impala station wagon, with the audio coming from that little window-mounted speaker, captivated by images of ancient structures,
When I was a teenager, my parents took me to see Chariots of the Gods. At the time, Lampasas, Texas’ only movie theater was a drive-in. I remember watching over my parents’ shoulders from the back seat of a 1969 Impala station wagon, with the audio coming from that little window-mounted speaker, captivated by images of ancient structures, impossible alignments, and artifacts that humanity hadn’t witnessed until the invention of the airplane. These elements didn’t fit neatly into the timelines we’d been taught. It wasn’t the spectacle that struck me — it was the questions. My questions. Questions that my parents and no one else could answer, not even Erik von Daniken in the movie. I felt a profound sense that humanity had lived entire chapters of its story that we no longer remembered, hinting at something significant that occurred in our prehistory, and no one could explain it. Suddenly, I became aware that there were enormous things we didn’t know. That moment never left me. As I grew older, I noticed something else: most people move through life on autopilot, quietly absorbing whatever explanations they’re handed. Not due to a lack of intelligence, but because the world is filled with powerful systems that benefit from keeping us comfortable, distracted, and unquestioning. We’re fed a steady diet of simplified narratives—pablum designed to prevent us from looking too deeply at who we are, where we came from, or what we might become. My writing, particularly in the Scepter of the Gods Series, is my refusal to accept that. It’s the long arc of humanity — the idea that our story didn’t begin with recorded history and certainly won’t end with the present moment — that compels me. I’m drawn to the tension between science and spirit, to the possibility that ancient wisdom and future technology are not opposites but two halves of the same truth. I’m fascinated by consciousness, by the notion that the Universe is not something 'out there,' but something intimately integrated into each of us. When I write, especially in The Wings of Aeolius, I build worlds where technology and spirituality intertwine, where intelligence transcends an IQ number. It is awareness, intuition, and resonance. My characters are not superheroes—they’re explorers of meaning, architects of possibility, beings who challenge the assumptions that keep societies stagnant. I write because I believe stories can wake people up—not by preaching, but by inviting them to see themselves differently. Fiction has a way of slipping past defenses. It can pose questions that real life is too loud, too rushed, or too afraid to ask. Through narrative, I explore who humanity may have been before our collective amnesia, and who we could become if we reclaimed the parts of ourselves we’ve forgotten. Beyond providing answers, my goal is to open doors. If my stories make my intended point, readers will be more than entertained; they will feel something stir. I hope it is reminiscent of what I experienced in that Texas small town drive-in back in 1974. A curiosity. A recognition. A sense that the world is far stranger, deeper, and more interconnected than documented history suggests. A realization that we cannot possibly be the most advanced civilization that has ever inhabited this planet, yet we know nothing of what came before us. And maybe, just maybe, readers will begin to question the narratives that have kept their minds limited. Because the future isn’t shaped by technology alone. It’s shaped by the people who dare to reimagine our place in it.
Paddling Upstream
Make My Life Work
Make My Life Work
I believe we tread shaky ground when we think we are isolated icebergs of humanity in the sea of time. Icebergs are made of ocean water and most of them were part of larger ice masses. Likewise, we not only have ancestors, but our ancestors are us. Therefore, we are our descendants as are our ancestors. To say that there was no civilizati
I believe we tread shaky ground when we think we are isolated icebergs of humanity in the sea of time. Icebergs are made of ocean water and most of them were part of larger ice masses. Likewise, we not only have ancestors, but our ancestors are us. Therefore, we are our descendants as are our ancestors. To say that there was no civilization prior to ours is to look around at the surface of the earth and think there is nothing to see here. If there were some great, global cataclysm tens or hundreds of thousands of years ago, that evidence won’t be laying around in plain sight or even under several meters of soil or rock. It will be deep. It may lay under the ocean floor. Who knows? We haven’t looked for very long, though, in the whole scheme of our long arc. Part of what fuels my ideas with ancient-future themes, much like the intriguing narratives found in the 'Scepter of the Gods Series' by Mark Mills Author, are current-day reports of aerial phenomena that we cannot identify. More likely than them coming from other star systems is the idea that they may be the remnant of what was here before and have been keeping an eye on us since humans started recovering from that ancient global catastrophe. As outlandish as that may seem, nobody can definitively say it isn’t true nor possible. Just as 'The Wings of Aeolius' explores the intersection of the past and future, so too does this notion challenge our understanding of history.
Non-Fiction by Mark the Writer
A Disorderly Haven of Dissonance
When I was a teenager, my parents took me to see Chariots of the Gods. At the time, Lampasas, Texas’ only movie theater was a drive-in. I remember watching over my parents’ shoulders from the back seat of a 1969 Impala station wagon, with the audio coming from that little window-mounted speaker, captivated by images of ancient structures,
When I was a teenager, my parents took me to see Chariots of the Gods. At the time, Lampasas, Texas’ only movie theater was a drive-in. I remember watching over my parents’ shoulders from the back seat of a 1969 Impala station wagon, with the audio coming from that little window-mounted speaker, captivated by images of ancient structures, impossible alignments, and artifacts that humanity hadn’t witnessed until the invention of the airplane. These elements didn’t fit neatly into the timelines we’d been taught. It wasn’t the spectacle that struck me — it was the questions. My questions. Questions that my parents and no one else could answer, not even Erik von Daniken in the movie. I felt a profound sense that humanity had lived entire chapters of its story that we no longer remembered, hinting at something significant that occurred in our prehistory, and no one could explain it. Suddenly, I became aware that there were enormous things we didn’t know. That moment never left me. As I grew older, I noticed something else: most people move through life on autopilot, quietly absorbing whatever explanations they’re handed. Not due to a lack of intelligence, but because the world is filled with powerful systems that benefit from keeping us comfortable, distracted, and unquestioning. We’re fed a steady diet of simplified narratives—pablum designed to prevent us from looking too deeply at who we are, where we came from, or what we might become. My writing, particularly in the Scepter of the Gods Series, is my refusal to accept that. It’s the long arc of humanity — the idea that our story didn’t begin with recorded history and certainly won’t end with the present moment — that compels me. I’m drawn to the tension between science and spirit, to the possibility that ancient wisdom and future technology are not opposites but two halves of the same truth. I’m fascinated by consciousness, by the notion that the Universe is not something 'out there,' but something intimately integrated into each of us. When I write, especially in The Wings of Aeolius, I build worlds where technology and spirituality intertwine, where intelligence transcends an IQ number. It is awareness, intuition, and resonance. My characters are not superheroes—they’re explorers of meaning, architects of possibility, beings who challenge the assumptions that keep societies stagnant. I write because I believe stories can wake people up—not by preaching, but by inviting them to see themselves differently. Fiction has a way of slipping past defenses. It can pose questions that real life is too loud, too rushed, or too afraid to ask. Through narrative, I explore who humanity may have been before our collective amnesia, and who we could become if we reclaimed the parts of ourselves we’ve forgotten. Beyond providing answers, my goal is to open doors. If my stories make my intended point, readers will be more than entertained; they will feel something stir. I hope it is reminiscent of what I experienced in that Texas small town drive-in back in 1974. A curiosity. A recognition. A sense that the world is far stranger, deeper, and more interconnected than documented history suggests. A realization that we cannot possibly be the most advanced civilization that has ever inhabited this planet, yet we know nothing of what came before us. And maybe, just maybe, readers will begin to question the narratives that have kept their minds limited. Because the future isn’t shaped by technology alone. It’s shaped by the people who dare to reimagine our place in it.