Once Upon a Waning Star: A Literary Chronicle of America at the Edge of Time is a genre-defying work that blends the gripping narrative of a political thriller with the innovative structure of a play. Following the January 6, 2021, insurrection, this novel presents an ensemble cast of four characters—a narrator and three actors—as they grapple with the turbulent aftermath of a nation in crisis. Presented as both a novel and a theatrical performance, the story unfolds through the eyes of the actors who perform a play within the novel. The tension between drama, comedy, and surrealism creates a deeply engaging and thought-provoking experience, challenging readers to confront the complexities of history, society, and the political climate. Laced with reverence for history and literature, Once Upon a Waning Star offers more than just a political story—it’s a journey into the heart of America’s struggle for identity and survival. Through its unique format, the novel invites readers to experience both the turmoil and hope of a country on the brink of transformation.
Once Upon a Waning Star: A Literary Chronicle of America at the Edge of Time is a genre-defying work that blends the gripping narrative of a political thriller with the innovative structure of a play. Following the January 6, 2021, insurrection, this novel presents an ensemble cast of four characters—a narrator and three actors—as they grapple with the turbulent aftermath of a nation in crisis. Presented as both a novel and a theatrical performance, the story unfolds through the eyes of the actors who perform a play within the novel. The tension between drama, comedy, and surrealism creates a deeply engaging and thought-provoking experience, challenging readers to confront the complexities of history, society, and the political climate. Laced with reverence for history and literature, Once Upon a Waning Star offers more than just a political story—it’s a journey into the heart of America’s struggle for identity and survival. Through its unique format, the novel invites readers to experience both the turmoil and hope of a country on the brink of transformation.
It has been two years since it started: the writing of a play that now becomes a not-play, a splash of not-quite black words upon the light gray of my computer screen, word sounds roiling in the openings of my ears and cascading over rocks of meaning and rushing into my brain’s caverns before I can catch them, examine them, claim them. My eyes are heavy. My body is tired, has been for a long time: too much work, too little sleep—an unconquerable and relentless problem.
When I try sleeping, voices of my creations talk: Brad, Kevin, Matt, among them. They want to know what they are supposed to be doing, what is the point of their existence, and what will become of them when I am done with them. Sometimes, when they’re tired of talking about their problems, they talk about what I have given them to think about: they rail against the ugliness that has become America, the derailing of the ideals that once held us together, the rise of blatant greed and lust for power. The loss of kindness. The end of this thing we call a republic. The end of hope, for which we cling to one another and weep.
It’s not easy spending time with these people. I try to convince myself that they are better than other voices competing for my attention—the divisive voices of misogyny, racism, homophobia … all forms of hatred. Then, there are the voices of my literary progenitors who constantly demand that I find more of me than I have ... or more accurately, more than I’ve been able to find in myself thus far. It feels to me sometimes that there is an unnamed something I am expected to discover hiding in a brown-grocery-bag-wrapped package hidden behind a locked door in some unused room within the folds of my brain. If there is such a space down a hallway on a floor of the multi-tiered, multi-roomed gray mass of my brain, I haven’t found it. An architectural drawing of the space I inhabit in my head would be helpful, but if I ever had one, I must have lost it somewhere along the many roads of my life experiences.
As if I didn’t have enough distractions related to trying to be a writer, I have to deal with the voice of negativity always ready to toss a bomb into what little confidence I have. It is merciless, knows every trick for using my own self-doubts and fears against me: “You aren’t good enough ... never will be,” “Nobody cares about what you have to offer,” and many other quite disturbing statements that I try to over-talk with ego statements, “Why not?” “You lie!” “Shut up!” “I’m doing it anyway!” and “The worst that can happen is it’s a flop, and it’s my flop to make!” But there is a worst. I can lose the ability to fight back and can be convinced they are right and fall into days, weeks, or months of debilitating depression
I like looking at things from different points of view when I am clear headed enough to understand them, and I like having to rethink what I previously thought I meant—sometimes having to rearrange my world around new ways of thinking. I just wish the discordant voices of my imagination would come at me one at a time instead of their usual trick of talking all at once.
Of course, I know the voices are my own, my way of trying to figure out what I want to do with plot and character for readers through the art of saying versus the skill of putting words together in coherent sentences, but art, like a hummingbird, is difficult to catch. It hovers above words but depends upon them for their nectar even as it demands a life of its own.
When I am at my best, I think of art as a way of being and becoming, and if I am fortunate, others will like what I have to say. Some people seem to think of art as a means for an artist to gain some kind of fame, fortune, and immortality. I toyed with these ideas long ago, but came to think of them as silly concepts, a self-aggrandizing fantasy that rots in the ground beside the carcasses of its believers. Notoriety and riches have eluded me, and I have eluded them, and I think that best. For me art is about living my brief moments upon this planet as honestly as I am able and making things that go beyond the utilitarian and that attempt to answer, “Why?” My time is spent in trying to understand who I am and who we humans as a species are beneath the façades we show to one another—the good, the bad, and the downright ugly, our self-delusions and the mental constructs created for us through coercion and judgments of others—that which we call “culture”—“others” telling us who we are, were, might be, and should be, much of it steeped in mendacity. So many layers of lies lie between thick tungsten-skinned fears and self-loathing it seems to me, and, therefore, are much easier to deal with than truth. Truth is maddeningly difficult to find, and often, when we think we’ve found it, it escapes and becomes something else that later becomes something other than that.
As far as I am concerned, being an artist isn’t so much about finding the truth as it is about seeking the truth and marking steps along the way to remind ourselves—and interested others—where we have been and maybe make it easier for the next person to pursue. It is also about trying to find something worth saying in some symbolic form—something that I can use as a touchstone to inspire me to carry on when I am discouraged by my fellow human beings (which is quite often). If others are find value in what I make, all the better; that’s a gift for my ego, but I maintain that it must be irrelevant to the act of making art honestly.
This thing that I am about to create is a book-I-want-to-read-but-which-hasn’t-been-written-so-I-have-to-write-it (a la Toni Morrison), and it frightens me. It’s not my first attempt. The words, stories, and experiences behind it have written themselves into and out of existence like grocery lists over the past two years, yet my mind returns incessantly to the sounds and images that demand I write them as honestly as I am able before setting them before you. If you are reading this, it probably means they succeeded, at least for me, and I like the book I wrote.
Once Upon a Waning Star: A Literary Chronicle of America at the Edge of Time by R. Luce is a satirical portrayal of American politics, presented as a play inspired by the January 6, 2021, insurrection at the US Capitol. Four roles—Dave Singh (a bar owner and bartender, played by one actor), James Lathrop and Bill Hagerty (a banker and a thug respectively, both played by a same, second actor), and Jack Ingram (an aspiring book writer, played by the last actor)—perform the play in an auditorium setting. In the background, the COVID-19 pandemic continues to unfold.
Dave is hospitable, understanding, and helpful. His bar, Dave’s Place, welcomes all kinds of customers. Jack becomes a close friend, and the two team up to run Dave’s Place efficiently. James Lathrop is a perennial drunkard. He has plenty of cash on his person, which he heedlessly spends on drinking. The powerfully built Bill Hagerty is a thug. He’s domineering, volatile, and abusive. If brushed on the wrong side, he’s quick to anger and revenge, forgetting any kindness shown to him earlier.
Although I made a sincere attempt, I found interpreting the play rather difficult. Most probably it’s because I couldn’t correctly put names (of the key players in the January 6, 2021, insurrection) to faces in the play. James Lathrop possibly represents the well-to-do population of America, who, however, don't contribute. The Bill Hagerty type represents those who stand in the way of national progress by being violent, unreasonable, and uncooperative on public issues.
That said, one thing is abundantly clear: America, the once great “Star,” is slowly waning. Forces derailed the ideals that once united them. Senators and congressmen, greedy for gain and power, threaten to tear down democracy by putting themselves first. America has relegated kindness to the backseat. And the nation’s glorious legacy, proudly celebrated by patriotic songs like “My Country ‘Tis of Thee,” is inching it to death!
The author's narrative skills are commendable. That, coupled with a well-chosen page style and formatting, makes for excellent readability. The only shortcoming I noticed is that the book isn't error-free. Fortunately, the errors are relatively few, and none are serious.
This book is a clear-eyed opener that seeks to harness the powerful medium of theater to inform Americans about the plight of their nation. While scores of Americans are aware that the country is passing through perilous times, they feel helpless to do anything to save it!
In summary, I recommend it first for all active American citizens (ages around 15 through 65) as a source of awareness of this burning issue. Secondarily, since America is the world’s leader, which many nations follow, it's read by the political community worldwide, social activists, policymakers, historians, and the like.