I’ve been writing ever since grade school. I remember in the first grade, telling short stories about my day. How I jumped over the fence of my school yard in a single bound, then with my next jump I’d fly from California all the way to the desert of Nevada. From there, I’d hop over the Rocky Mountains and go for a swim in the Mississippi River. Then, I’d jump super high, so that I’d dry off on the way back to class, and be back at school in time for recess to end.

In middle school, other kids would be studying social studies. I’d write about a guardian angel police force, made up of wayward youth who were trying to make up for the crimes they had committed when they had still been alive.

In high school, I wrote about a band of classmates who suddenly discovered they all had mutant superpowers. Unfortunately for them, the world they grew up in had no tolerance for freaks.

In college, I worked nights as a security guard, but rather than watch the cameras I scribbled down half a novel about an alternate history in which hackers were accepted and praised, rather than reviled. That was the novel I got the farthest on.

Then, life got in the way for awhile. I got busy, I got tired, and I got lazy.

Now, I’ve got a wonderful wife, and two great little girls, and I’m hungry again. Hungry for the thrill of other worlds, worlds that only exist in my head. Worlds that beg to be brought out into this reality.

And it’s up to me alone to make them real, to let them live.

To write.