Musings

About a quarter of a century ago when your momma was four, she and I had a memorable conversation. I recall this fondly not only because of her age (four was my favorite age with both her and your uncle), but also due to the content of our exchange.

Every year on my birthday—and other days, too—I revisit an event that has become a favorite memory. And as if there is magic afoot, when I recall those particular 4th of July fireworks, I'm instantly transported back to childhood.

As a writer, my memories and emotions influence my fiction. What's more, I liken being a fiction writer to being a method actor.

Skyward: Memories of childhood become faded things. Sometimes the details escape us. So, we fill them in with our imagination.

I have boxes of keepsakes and in these boxes are talismans evoking the memories and stories related to a particular place and time.

Since that first living room concert one Sunday during the Pandemic, music has been the way to my heart.

Silence is a muteness, an absence of sound, a stillness, something or someone fading to oblivion—and secrecy.

The Nature of Doors. Perhaps some doors never fully close even when new ones open.

My favorite room faces the south at the front of the house. The walls are all painted a non-descript beige and lend to it a quiet demeanor.

When I was kid, I collected unicorns—trinkets, books, and pictures. In fact, like most children, I was enthralled by anything magical.

In July 1977, my brothers treated me to a movie and those events cemented my love for Space Opera.

Music and books go together like two sides of the same coin. I could not have one without the other. Each book I write has a soundtrack.