I write psychological thrillers. The stories tend to surprise me. Taking a left when I signaled a right. Life when I felt death nearby. The characters are not alive. They do not exist. Yet I try to slip into their skins as I write. Mining for the emotions that flood during times of stress and tragedy and adventure. When the journey ends, a hole opens. A sense of deep mourning. And from those ashes the first line of the next story rises. And I feel better, then.