Occasionally, I get asked, “Why do you write?” 

The simple answer is because I have to. There are people and stories in my head clamoring to get onto the page. Sometimes they wake me up at night. Sometimes I can’t write fast enough. In the five years before this writing, I published seven novels and a short story collection. Still, it feels too slow. At the time of this writing, six of the novels comprise the Linc Malloy Legacy Series, and the seventh is a standalone medical thriller, Do No Harm.

I always have projects in various stages of development. Currently in process is the seventh Linc Malloy, a sequel to Do No Harm, a Paranormal/Psychological thriller, and a dabble into Sci-Fi. I have eighteen folders of just potential Linc Malloy plots.

So many words, so little time.

Cursed with a restless mind, I started writing at an early age. In elementary school, I read every available How & Why Wonder Book, started a lab notebook, and to my parent’s chagrin, roamed the swamps, fields, woods, and ravines of western Washington filling my room with rocks, bugs, plants, and fossils. I built tree forts, hung rope swings, and dug holes to China. I kept a pet bullsnake and a chipmunk. My bedroom had a wall of bookshelves. One entire row was dedicated to the Colliers Encyclopedia. I made it about halfway through before I discovered girls and motorcycles.

With the precarious state of the Cold War, I never expected to see thirty, and I descended into what my parents termed, “The Decade from Hell,” an anger and angst fueled haze of sex, drugs, and rock and roll. Somehow, through the haze, I managed to stumble through a Bachelor of Science degree in biology. I made many, many mistakes. Did too much of this, too little of that, and have the scars to prove it.

One afternoon in my twenties, I woke up hungover and dehydrated realizing I might actually make it to thirty. With this epiphany, I put the nonsense behind me—except girls. Even walked away from motorcycles after a horrendous, ball-busting crash. Took a risk, got a loan, and started over. Another BS, this time in computer science, and together with my biology degree, I was in the right place at the right time with the right knowledge base to dive into Seattle’s burgeoning biotech revolution.

I have always had a restless, ranging, and raging mind—and a penchant for alliteration. Through all the turmoil, risks, and resultant measure of success was a compulsion to put thoughts and feelings into words—to tell stories. Poetry and teenage angst led to short stories in my thirties, volumes of business documents in my forties (yes, business documents tell stories), and eventually to novels. Along the way, I’ve done a lot of things—carpenter, fisherman, mechanic, farm worker, scuba diver, photographer, beekeeper, homebrewer, competitive shooter, pilot, bioinformatist, IT exec, coffee roaster, kayak angler, and husband—twice, one stuck. These experiences, my local knowledge, and meticulous research bring authenticity, accuracy, emotion, and action to my storytelling—or so I’m told.

These days, when not writing, I may be flying my tiny airplane above the Pacific Northwest and beyond, fishing Puget Sound from a yellow Tupperware kayak, baking, homebrewing, or roasting coffee. On occasion, I may stoke a fine cigar, tip an old bourbon, or quaff a young, robust stout.

I hope you enjoy my work.

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