My teenage years were typical: emotionally turbulent, often bruising, commonly boring. But somewhere during that era of the Great Sulk I discovered poetry and became entranced by the way well-struck words worked magic in the mind. Much better than drugs, although I certainly gave those a bash for a while. Oh well…

It was around this time I made efforts to understand my place in the universe. I haunted bookstores and local libraries, seeking out those semi-banned books about the occult tucked away on lower shelves in the back racks. Attempting to hide them like that only increased their mystery and appeal. Age may have dimmed some things, but never my interest in spirituality and our existence as soul.

With respect to writing I began in the world of poetry and later branched into what I see as speculative fiction; some agents I submitted my work to have described it as literary fantasy.

So why do I write? It’s all about death and the fervent hope-driven search for any meaning that may transcend that event. I write to find the way Home.