I’ve been writing with intent to publish since January 1st, 1985 when my New Year’s resolution was to write a novel before I turned twenty-five (ten months later, more or less).
I hit my resolution with a few days to spare, but the book, Hearts In Stitches, sucked. I wrote a LOT after that, accumulating a big shoebox with well over a hundred rejection slips in it before anybody decided I was good enough to pay for fiction.
I actually started selling in 1991, and I broke in with with the fantasy novel Fire In The Mist (which won the Compton Crook Award for Best First Novel), and with a couple of sonnets I sold to the SF magazine Aboriginal.
It was a long hard slog between intent and realization.
It’s been a rollercoaster ever since.
But I love telling stories. In fiction, I’ve found the work I want to do for the rest of my life.
You’ll find a little more about me by reading the rest of the About pages. Frankly, though, there’s much more of who I really am spread across the writing articles and sprinkled through the heart of my fiction, and sprawled all over the damn place in my weblog, Pocket Full of Words.
I am not my work. But my work is me.
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