Thanks for visiting! I see you’d like to know more (cue Starship Troopers theme)
I grew up in a small town, the only child of two working parents, which left me a lot of time alone and unleashed an imagination too bold to contain. I was always making up stories (some of my own, some in the franchises I loved). Being an only child left me with the unfortunate trait of speaking to myself on a regular basis, as I often grew lonely (don’t worry, this is a good thing).
Now, if you have siblings you may find this odd. But “only children” will understand. At least, the special ones will. Talking to myself became such a regular habit my parents began to worry they might have to ship me off to the psychiatrist. Spoiler alert: they did. I saw more than a few over the years.
But none of them fazed me. None of them could quell the voices within. The only thing that could do that…was a piece of paper.
If you’ve ever played rock, paper, scissors you may have wondered how a flimsy piece of paper can “beat” a rock. You already know this, it can’t. It’s just a silly game for children. But what a piece of paper can do is change the world.
Infinite variations of words can be contained on a single piece of paper. And if it isn’t enough to contain your desire, you add another piece. And another. And another. Soon enough, an inkling turns into a masterpiece and you’ve made something from nothing. You’ve created magic, with nothing more than the power of your mind.
I am fascinated that worlds can be contained on nothing other than paper. As you’ve probably already guessed I’ve been a lifelong reader. My poor parents—who often forced me to stop reading and go to sleep already!—could not halt the reader within. And as they say, if you want to write, read. Many of my first creations for school were stories of people who lived under the earth. Or in the stars. The stories were terrible and didn’t make much sense but they pried open a previously closed door. But for a long time that door would remain barely cracked.
Along came adulthood. (sad horn) And I forgot all of the wonderful aspects of being an imaginative child. The voices were quelled (not silenced, mind you, but nearly crushed under things like electrical bills, daily commutes and *gasp* live, laugh, love signs). I knew I wasn’t doing what I was supposed to do. I was doing what society told me to do. As long as I worked hard and didn’t think about it too much, it was enough.
But a few years later, my father passed away very suddenly. And I woke up to the fact that life is short, and you better do what you can while you can or you’re going to regret it. Because he was a business magnate (and I was the only heir) it was up to me to take over his business and affairs. I did that faithfully for five years. But always in the back of my mind was the tickling notion telling me I needed to find more. I searched long and hard, but nothing spoke to me. Nothing filled my soul.
In 2014 after dwelling on the possibility for more than a year, I sat down and opened a blank word document, and began to write. Could I do this? Could I create an entire story from scratch, one of appropriate length and gravitas? Seven months later, I finished the novel. I immediately sat down and wrote another. And a third. Each time refining my process. Those first two novels will never see publication. They were tests. The third eventually became my first published book: Singular, which I followed with four sequels.
In May of 2018, after spending years waiting and waiting for my work to be picked up by an agent, I decided to become an indie author. Some may say that’s because I couldn’t cut it as a traditionally published author. Maybe that’s true and maybe it isn’t, I don’t really care. Because going indie was the best decision I ever made. Instead of waiting for someone to notice me, I spent that time writing and publishing. Unhindered by the traditional publishing process, I wrote ten novel-length books in twelve months. All of that pent-up energy from those dark years (read: corporate America) came flowing out of me like a raging river.
Now, I do this full time. People think being an author is a very lonely profession. And it can be, but it hasn’t been that way for me. There is a wonderful community of fellow authors out there always willing to lend a hand, and I wouldn’t be even close to where I am now had I not had their guidance and inspiration. I’ve attended conferences, made friends, learned skills, lost friends, joined groups, been mentored, mentored others and on and on and on. It’s an amazing life.
I love this job. I love sitting down and crafting a story to entertain you with. (yes, I just ended on a preposition, but when you’re a writer you can do what you want! Take that Mrs. Clemmer! J/K, I love you, Mrs. Clemmer) And I realize I am luckier than most. Many people spend their entire lives never knowing what it is they love. I am fortunate to have found it, and I thank you for trusting me to tell you a story. I hope you find them worthwhile.