For as long as I can remember, I have been a storyteller. My childhood was spent immersed in make believe and countless hours of role-playing games. At long last, I finally sat down and typed out some of the things trapped in my mind, desperate to get out. I’ve often been accused of having an over-active imagination and being a hopeless daydreamer, writing fantasy stories seemed like the obvious endeavor. I am a self-described, modern Bohemian; more than content pursuing a life that few people would describe as normal. I have had various jobs: plumber, security guard, teacher, just to name a few. None of these became my life’s calling, but each taught me a little more about the thing all literature—regardless of the genre—is all about: people. In 2007, while a semi-professional musician, I earned my bachelor’s degree in religion and philosophy, solidifying the fact that I would never have a career that made me a lot of money. In school I was praised for the quality of writing in my papers and I began to reconsider the doubting voice in my head, the one that said I could never be a writer. Through discipline and perseverance I began to write down some of the jumbled ideas bouncing around my head like a monkey on bath salts. Naturally, I focused on the kind of stories I always enjoyed.
