I grew up in southern Idaho, a stone's throw away from a Nevada indian reservation. I spent much of my youth exploring the trails among the sage brush, but even more of it lost in the worlds of fantasy, horror, and science fiction. As a teen, I went to a boarding school, and continued to judge my surroundings against the backdrops painted by people from Jack London to Stephen King, and started trying to write seriously myself. I wrote an underground newspaper. I cranked out short stories with an ease I long to recapture. But then I actually tried to get published, and like many a young writer I believed the things I saw in the rejection letters that filled my mailbox. I put my pen and paper away as inconsequential, and tried to move on. After a failed attempt at a culinary career, I became homeless and learned about poetry. I finally fought my way up from the streets, and got a family and a tolerable if oppressive job. I haven't recovered the lightning speed at which I used to write, but I've got the pen and paper once more, and what I lack in production I think I've replaced with wisdom.
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