I am a husband, father and grandfather. I have spent over 30 years in the manufacturing world. It wasn’t until my late forties that I discovered I really wanted to write fiction.
I grew up in Oregon. My father was somewhat of a gypsy and we moved a lot. I have lived in log cabins in the middle of nowhere, a lighthouse on the coast as well as a large number of houses in little towns. I have used some of those experiences in my stories. I have one sister who lives in the Southern United States. My responsibility for her growing up is the basis for my main character’s responses when he losses his sister.
I always had a very active imagination and would invent games or adventures with my friends. We would be space explorers, deep sea divers who would find fabulous cities or underground explorers who would find civilizations that were cut off from the rest of the world.
My best friend and I made a box with all kinds of knobs and dials on it. We placed it in his walking closet and turned it into our space ship. We had an old tube radio that we would pick up signals from aliens. That was almost 40 years ago. Ten years ago I was visiting his mother and went up to that old room. The “space ship” was still there.
My family believed in being practical. That meant there was no room for imagination in the adult world. You were suppose to get a job, start a family and earn a real income. I put my adventures to the side and followed what I was told.
It took my wife to convince me that writing was something that I should persue. It took a while for the imagination to strengthen back to where I could pour it out on paper. If it wasn’t for her, I would never have tried. Now I have wonderful characters who live in my writing.