Who am I? Isn’t that the question. Do we define ourselves by what we do? Do we define ourselves by who we surround ourselves with?
What do I do? I have been a teacher, a wine steward, an intern, a mall Santa, and even the Easter Bunny. Now I’m an author. I’ve always been a story teller and a dreamer. I’m also a husband, a fathers, a mostly stay at home dad.
I’m also a traveler, a follower of dreamers. Edgar Rice Burroughs took me to Barsoom and the center of the Earth. Robert Heinlein took me to Venus and Mars.
Ginsberg, Kerouac, and Burrows took me to places beyond that. As did Hemingway and Steinbeck.
Who am I? Just a collection of sometimes sentient bacteria and, and cells that sometimes is lucky enough to pick up a story from the ether, and have a pen handy.
—Scott—
The dreaded about page. As a writer I like to keep to myself. In a perfect world I’d have locked myself away in an Ivory tower and simply write. That’s the fantasy. It’s also bullshit. I write science fiction, and literary fiction, along with things that blend the two. I couldn’t do that if I’d locked myself away in the ivory tower. It’s my experiences, the students I’ve taught, the people I’ve met, and the promises I’ve made that allow me to write stories. As a reader you may see a pulp hero, or a lovable Sasquatch, but I know those are real people I’ve met, real stories that I’ve simply presented as fiction.
I tell their stories because I know they need to be told. Their voices need to be heard. Sometimes they are warnings of what might happen. Sometimes they are warnings of what will. Every time, I hope, I’m showing the beauty of being human. We screw up royally, but when we choose, we are beautiful— doing the right thing for the right reasons.