So I’m sitting here at my computer, playing games because I can’t write (hunching over to write this is difficult enough), and wondering what the hell I’m doing, anymore. I have series bibles mocking me from the shelf directly in front of where I’m sitting, and if I didn’t have to go to “work” (EDJ), I’d have them spread out all over the place, working on my books.
I spend a large amount of my time either writing, planning things to write, or thinking about writing. It’s a curse…lol. I’ve been writing ever since I could hold a crayon (yes, I did say crayon!… You don’t want to know how many books I managed to deface as a child before my parents figured out it would be smarter to give me a notebook, even if what I was “writing” was basically gibberish… Hey, I was 2… I hadn’t figured out the whole written words thing, yet). In my mind, I was writing fantastic stories about my friends… Telling their stories. At the time, my parents (and a great many more, I’m sure) chalked it all up to a highly active imagination. Not me. Those “imaginary friends” of mine stuck around long after the whole process became no longer cute or tolerable to others. I couldn’t help it – they’re as real as I am, even if they’re not visible on this plane.
Eventually, telling the stories I was told by someone else got old. I wanted to write something else. And I discovered a love of fiction that’s stuck with me. A desire to craft characters and situations I can’t always be sure are complete fiction, but which I remain fairly convinced are. Who knows, right?
Over the years, my fascination with science colored how I approach fiction, and it’s become not as much about “This is how it is” as it has been about “What if it was this way? What would it take to prove it?” And a new, speculative angle to my fiction was born. This is where I’ve mostly stuck, since. It’s where I feel at home, blending the possibility of the paranormal with facts, science, and characters who embody both.