I was born in Dallas, Texas, and I lived there until my parents figured out what was good and moved to the middle of nowhere. Out among the trees and pastures, a long drive away from town and any sort of help, where the night is alive with bugs and stars and shadows, I learned how to fear. I’ve always been afraid, see, but I really, really learned what it tastes like, feels like, at the end of dusty country roads.
I’ve been trying to get that fear into words for years. I figure I might as well do something useful with it, for all the trouble it’s caused me.
Now I live in the city, but only on the edge of it, and rural pastures and roads press in on either side. My parents still live on the ranch. When I go to visit them, I remember what it’s like to know you’re alone… but suspect that you aren’t, not really. Compared to the fear of the scrubland, fear of getting shot or robbed is practically mundane.
On a more cheerful note, I also love erotic works. I mean, I lived in the middle of nowhere, with very few friends and even less that were willing to make the long drive (GPS can’t help you, I’m afraid. Lots of those roads, they don’t even exist anymore, except as official names and routes) to come see me. We make our own entertainment out in those parts.
So that’s what you’ll find in my writing. The old fear you feel in the trees, and the sex you pursue to forget it. Sometimes both at once. Okay, lots of times both and once. When you’re always afraid, fear finds its ways into all sorts of places.
It’s not that I don’t like cities, no, I really learned to appreciate a Wal-Mart that’s five minutes away instead of thirty, but I know rural environments. I always default to the small town, the decrepit drive-through cluster of houses in the middle of the rolling hills. The close-knit clan, the thunder of shotguns, the knowing looks and the wall of silence. Diners full of old men, trucks rattling down the riverbed at night. Secrets and isolation. The real good stuff.
And as for the erotica, you’ll find all sorts. I focus a lot on queer themes in my works, and other applications of sexuality that, come to think of it, all the people in those small towns I know so well probably wouldn’t like too well. Every writer is a rebel in their own way, I suppose. Sometimes a very big way.
I’ve been writing since I was just a little redneck, but it wasn’t very good and doesn’t bear thinking of. It has given me a long, long time to practice, though. Fandom work, research work, original work, business work… I’m in the practice of writing, and I do it a lot.
I’ve completed one novel, Dark Skies Over Brightwater, and countless short stories. The good ones, and the ones not lost to computer failure or shame, I’ll put here.