I was raised with the notion that time + work = a paycheck and sitting around having fun thinking up stories surely cannot be considered work. On some days I might actually agree with that statement. Writing really is fun, or I don’t think I’d have a passion for it. But on other days I realize it really is work, and that’s what this website is all about. This is a picture of the work of a novelist — well, of one novelist anyway. Me.

I grew up as one of the youngest in a six-kid, boisterously loud German-Irish family in the suburbs of Chicago. Eight of us in a house with only one bathroom! We didn’t really argue, although just to be heard over all the noise it might have seemed that way to an outsider.

So whom did I marry? A quiet, reserved son of a German brick layer. While our family gathering decibels would compare to the lift off of a jet from nearby O’Hare, his family gatherings would register more like the soft rustling of oak leaves.

I grew up loving to tell stories, and God has blessed me immeasurably to be able to tell them to a wider audience these days.

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