About Me
What should be explained from the beginning is how books changed my vision. Books showed me, and continue to reveal to me, the sameness of the world. Like ancient water jugs and cave paintings, these captured thoughts prove that whenever and wherever consciousness flickers into being, it longs for and grapples with the same forces. From The Epic of Gilgamesh, four thousand years ago, to today at my laptop, books are the witness of infinite others wanting companionship, safety for offspring, the secret knowledge of the universe and a better understanding of themselves--of ourselves.
What do I hope to accomplish as a writer? It is a humble aspiration, if I am honest. I want to create something that helps a reader escape the pangs of reality, while elevating the beauty of those very things. Magic, seeping in through the five senses. Romance cobbled out of the small gestures. I surrender to the old, true cliché of the million lives I live: reincarnation at the rate of each fresh page.
I gravitate to historical fiction--occasionally tapping into the speculative arts--because it underscores the sameness of humanity. I get to blend writing “what I know” with what I want to know.
Is it “genre fiction,” if the happy ending is built in? To those who say “genre” with a sneer, I remind you, there can be no optimism without opposition, no idealism without conflict. Happiness is a victory, it is the ending that is just another beginning and it is the vote I am casting into the universe.
It’s all love letters, in the end. To the ancient artisan, chiseling stone and watching the stars. To the characters I etch, hoping I gave them what they required to live and work in the world. Love letters to my children, to let them know daydreaming is fulfilling, powerful and worth the effort of refinement. To the children of my children’s children. To the stranger, who shares the same-ness. To The Void it bubbles up from. Love letters to myself. To the self I was, fresh in the world and already a storyteller: when you thought that second-and-a-half of air time, leaping from the front porch to the scabby grass-patched yard, was flying—that to fly longer, all you needed was practice and belief—you were right.
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