About
Born in Kansas City, MO, near the center of the United States, I arrived during a very scary period of the 1970s. According to many noted historians, that included nearly every moment between 1970 and 1979.
I was baptized on five different occasions—once in the back of a speeding Dodge Satellite—before reaching the age of six months. The final baptism—an official ceremony—happened in a quiet Midwestern church. Family members who had taken matters into their own hands had worried my father’s procrastination and daredevil driving would prevent the ceremony from ever happening. Apparently someone had my back.
After the first six months, childhood was pretty typical. That is, if typical means a mother who served books like they were warm cookies and a kid who had abysmal eyesight and even less athletic ability. This combination resulted in a slightly introverted boy who spent a lot of time inside reading, looking terribly pasty. Not saying that was me. Only that it was someone who resembled me. That pallor cleared up around 27. I still avoid the sun, though.
My parents had the sort of jobs that required frequent moves. Those relocations happened often enough that I thought saying good-bye forever to friends was just something one did for fun.
Along the way we lived in Hannibal, MO, where Mark Twain wrote some of his finest work, plus a collection of suburbs in Missouri, Kansas, Southern California, Utah, Upstate New York, Maryland and New Jersey. Looking back, maybe we were actually in the witness protection program. Sorry, Mom and Dad, for blowing your cover after all these years.
During high school, I earned the distinction of being the student who cared the least about being there, yet had the most anxiety ever recorded about doing well.
Fortunately there was life after 18. I played bass and drank a lot of beer. Changed majors in college a few times. Drank some more beer. Learned to take black and white photographs—before the age of digital cameras. Then one day, as a sophomore in college, I locked myself in the study lounge and came out with a ten page story. I hadn’t felt that alive in a very long time. I promptly drank some more beer and forgot all about writing.
About a year before finishing college, my family moved to Red Bank, New Jersey, which at the time was rated the hippest town in the Garden State. I worked in a convenience store and sold cigarettes to Kevin Smith. At that moment I knew what kind of writer I wanted to be: the sort who never admitted to living in New Jersey. Thanks to Jersey Shore, I have another reason.
I graduated. I worked a bunch of jobs, got married and divorced. Suddenly I was back in that dorm study lounge, ( except this time it was an apartment ) and a book came out of it. Roughly one out of every four waking hours for the next two years was spent writing The Last Track. The feeling from college came back—and, with it, a lot more empty beer bottles.
Now I live outside New York City with my girlfriend and an army of four cats—one feline under the legal limit. When I’m not writing, I’m the Director of IT at an all-girl boarding school and witness world class drama first-hand. It’s also the reason I study Krav Maga and Tai Chi.
For more publisher sanctioned biography propaganda, I refer you to my author profile on Amazon.com
Or Goodreads
Or just have a nice day.