I get asked, “Why do you write?” The simple answer is because I have to. There are people and stories in my head clamoring to get onto the page. Sometimes they wake me up at night. Sometimes I can't write fast enough. In the five years before this writing, I published eight novels and a short story collection. Still, it feels too slow. I always have projects in various stages of development. Currently in process is the eighth Linc Malloy, a sequel to Do No Harm, a Paranormal/Psychological thriller, and my first not-so-cozy Mystery. I have eighteen folders of just potential Linc Malloy plots. So many words, so little time. Cursed with a restless mind, I started writing at an early age. In elementary school, I started a lab notebook of what I collected and observed in the swamps, fields, woods, ravines, and beaches of western Washington state. I read every How & Why Wonder Book published through the 1960s, and to my parent’s chagrin, filled my room with rocks, bugs, plants, and fossils. I built tree forts, hung rope swings, and dug holes to China. I kept a pet bullsnake and a chipmunk. My bedroom had a wall of bookshelves. One entire row was dedicated to the Colliers Encyclopedia. I made it about halfway through before I discovered girls and motorcycles. In my late teens, with the precarious state of the Cold War, I figured we would blow ourselves up before I saw thirty, so I descended into what my parents termed, “ The Decade from Hell,” an anger and angst haze of sex, drugs, and rock and roll. It wasn't actually a full decade, but somehow, through the haze, I managed to stumble through a Bachelor of Science in biology. I made many, many mistakes. Did too much of this, too little of that, and have the scars to prove it. One afternoon in my mid-twenties, I woke up hungover and dehydrated realizing I might truly make it to thirty. With this epiphany, I put all the nonsense behind me except girls—even motorcycles after a horrendous crash—and got serious with my life. Took a risk, got a loan, and started over, earning a BS in computer science. Together with my biology degree, I was in the right place at the right time with the right knowledge base to dive into Seattle’s burgeoning biotech revolution. I have always had a restless, ranging, and raging mind—and a penchant for alliteration. Through all the turmoil, risks, and resultant measure of success was a compulsion to put thoughts and feelings into words—to tell stories. Poetry and teenage angst led to short stories and aborted novels in my thirties, volumes of business documents in my forties (even business documents tell stories), and eventually to completed novels. Along the way, I’ve done a lot of things—pilot, carpenter, fisherman, mechanic, scuba diver, photographer, beekeeper, homebrewer, competitive shooter, bioinformatist, IT exec, coffee roaster, husband (twice—one stuck), and kayak angler. These experiences, my local knowledge, and meticulous research bring authenticity, accuracy, emotion, and action to my storytelling—or so I’m told. These days, when not writing, I may be flying my tiny airplane above the Pacific Northwest and beyond, fishing Puget Sound from a yellow Tupperware kayak, homebrewing, and roasting coffee. On occasion, I may stoke a fine cigar, tip an old bourbon, or quaff a young, robust stout. I hope you enjoy my work.