I think what I try to do when writing is bottle up a little bit of the wonder and mystery and magic of everything, and do it in such a way that somebody else can come by and drink from my bottle and suddenly feel a rush of ideas as they become connected to the same stream I had found. It’s like providing spring water for a wide world of thinkers. I want to deliver a little sensation of frisson that spreads throughout entire bodies, starting in the brain and expanding to the very smallest toes and fingertips of the readers that make the hike to find my words. I want people to pause while reading because the words before them are playing instruments in their heart, and the only way to hear them properly is by taking a moment of silence. This is how I read, and this is what I wish to create. Small pockets of space, silence, and calm, scattered around a busy and bustling world, hidden between two tattered book covers yet in plain view on the bookshelf. pl
It’s not my goal to write plot-driven epic stories of betrayal, war, lust, or larger, far more dramatic lines of thinking. There are artists elsewhere with a superior grasp on those realms of the subconscious. I wish to remain within what I know: an ordinary, slow-moving life blessed with love, friendship, nature, and art. My stories will not spawn big-screen interpretations or television sagas. Instead, readers may well find themselves birdwatching, tasting homemade meals at the dinner table with children, hiking through woodland with light streaming between the trees, or smelling pine needles rubbed between fingertips. The writing I want to make is simply a compilation of language that describes the very fabric of daily experience. For what immortal purpose I do not know: yet I do know that every time I take pen to paper, the same streams of consciousness flow into existence. It’s time to do something about it.