When I look back over my writing life, it seems that every word was written in snatches, at moments when nothing more important than whatever short story or novel I was working on was pulling on my attention. Of course, if there was a paycheck at the point of completion, the writing seemed legitimate and deserving of the time it required. If not, it felt like an indulgence, and it's always been difficult to shake that nagging certainty that indulgence is bad for one's character. Still, thirty-five years have produced something of a surprise -- an amount of writing that has real weight: six novels, six collections of short stories, a middle-grade novel, and a memoir. A friend has jokingly called it my oeuvre, and it is my body of work, although it seems pretentious to name it. It came from doing something I've loved as long as I can remember. It's tangible. It gives off energy.
I tired a long time ago of the punishment called 'trying to get your writing published.' I did get published, lots of short stories, a novel. But that process took as much time as the writing, maybe more. So I'm lucky to have survived into a time where publishing one's work is relatively easy. My hat is off to Indie Publishing. Whoever would have believed it twenty years ago.
So here it all is -- the characters, the lives, the what-ifs, the laughs, the tears, the questions (very few answers). All from a process that makes time melt for the writer and expand for the reader. I hope you find something to like.
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