Most fiction writers are introverts revealing their interior world to the outer world — word by word, line by line. I am one of those. I reach into the dark corners of my mind to snag a brief image, an overheard conversation, or a faded memory and weave it into a tapestry of fantastical storytelling. My friends know that I’m always watching, taking notes or pictures; gestating the next story while I sleep. In dreams, I sometimes feel as if I’m Alice wandering through a wonderland of ideas, forming and transforming, sculpting and refining my art. I finally reach a point when I’m ready to submit My Precious to my editor for publication. And then? I begin again.

I write about interior landscapes and ethereal possibilities, of mistakes as opportunities to learn, and recognizing the gifts each of us bring to this life. Some have called it Metaphysical fiction, Buddhist fiction, or Philosophical Fantasy, and my writing could and should fit nicely into these genres, but I prefer to think of my writing as an expedition into my Introverse. Enjoy the ride as we travel together.