Saturday, March 24, 2018
I feel honored and damn proud to have my short story "Twenty Dollars" included in the latest issue of Cowboy Jamboree Magazine. Click over and check out this great collection of stories. http://online.anyflip.com/oajk/izxj/mobile/index.html
Tuesday, December 12, 2017
It seems the fine people over at Cowboy Jamboree Magazine have accepted one of my stories and will be running it in their spring 2018 issue. I couldn't be more thrilled.
If you enjoy a little down and dirty grit lit, click over and check out their latest issue. http://www.cowboyjamboreemagazine.com/
Saturday, November 11, 2017
"An excellent story of southern back-woods justice," is what one Amazon reviewer had to say about my short novel, Moonshiner's Justice. The story of Frank, Raymond, and the rest of the Jamison family was once merely, as some of you probably remember, a standalone short story called Faith, Love and Moonshine: An Appalachian Tale. After five years of thinking and wondering, I expanded their experiences and adventures, brought in new characters, and created what is now Moonshiner's Justice. I spent many early mornings at the kitchen table before going to the day job writing, re-writing, and refining what finally came to be this book. For those who haven't checked it out, I hope you give it a read. And for those who have read it and supported me along the way, I thank you kindly.
Tuesday, August 1, 2017
The Fourth of July had come and gone and Foster couldn’t bring himself to the task. This had been his and Tessa’s tradition. Except for when their kids were young, it was a moment he and his wife had shared with no one else. But now she was gone and the children were grown and had moved away many years before.
From his back porch rocking chair, Foster gazed out to a clear starry horizon, the wishing lantern resting in his lap. His old hound lay beside him on paint-faded boards. A loyal friend and once a fine tracker, but like Foster, the dog had also retired from his formal duties.
Foster leaned up from his rocking chair, extended a hand that was once used for hammering and sawing, a hand that had helped build many fine structures in all of Southern Indiana, patted ol’ Dylan on the head, and stood.
Down the steps, across the manicured backyard, Foster walked to the edge of the hill where the old home place sat and looked beyond as far as his ancient eyes could see. Overlooking the horse pasture, out there to the twinkling speckled sky, he saw memories from long ago. He saw a shy young man of sixteen asking a girl of fifteen to accompany him to the annual spring dance. She had said yes in her delicate, soft voice. He had walked her home and wanted to kiss her goodnight, but didn’t have the courage. He would gain that courage eventually. In the backseat of a station wagon, going on another family vacation, he saw four impatient children who couldn’t wait to arrive at their destination. He recalled his daughter’s wedding day in this very backyard where she once ran and played as a child. He would never forget their father-daughter dance together.
He concentrated on one particular star and thought of his sweet Tessa, so frail and weak, lying on their bed, looking up to him with love and affection, telling him everything would be okay. He agreed with her even though he really wasn't so sure. She was his world and all he’d ever known.
Foster spread the chute of the wishing lantern and lit the wick. As the chute filled with the hot air that would send it up and away, he thought of his life now and the question that kept haunting him: how would he ever be able to go on? He was unsure but deep down knew that he would. He would for Tessa.
The chute expanded and Foster felt it becoming lighter. Eventually, it took flight and slowly gained altitude. The lantern rose higher and higher and Foster felt a cool summer breeze on his neck. He watched and waited. It floated over the pasture until it reached the farthest tree line where it too resembled a twinkling star.
Just before the lantern disappeared, Foster closed his eyes. Then he did what he and Tessa had always done together.
He made a wish.
Friday, May 5, 2017
I’ve finally pinned down a release date for my upcoming book. HARD LUCK will be released on July 11, 2017. This book is a mix of seventeen stories that weaves through the realms of dirty realism, contemporary realism, and the often gritty country-noir genre. If you’re into sex, drugs, crime, and a touch of humor here and there, (Sounds like a tearjerker, doesn’t it?) this book might be for you. With all that said, I’m giving away several Advanced Reader Copies. If you would like a PDF copy of your own, shoot me a private message with your email address and I’ll send it to you as soon as I can. Simple as that. Many thanks and I hope you enjoy the book.
Saturday, April 8, 2017
Saturday, February 25, 2017
I wake up every morning around six. I make coffee, maybe cook breakfast, and try to squeeze in a few words before I venture off to the day job in my 1998 Ford Ranger, which I’ve been driving since 2006. The truck has no heat or ac and needs a universal joint replaced, all of which I cannot afford to have repaired. During the day I’m a home maintenance technician, which is a fancy, politically correct way of saying I’m a maintenance man—more specifically, a maintenance man for two apartment complexes. It’s far from being a glamorous gig, but it’s an honest one, and it pays the bills and allows me to continue my writing endeavors.
I’m not embarrassed by having a day job. It doesn’t make me a failure as a writer, or inferior as an artist. In fact, if you are one who works your ass off at a full-time job, helping to provide for your family, and are still striving to fulfill your writing dreams, or any dream, I admire you. I really do. I’ve held many jobs throughout the years. I’ve called myself a machinist, a metal fabricator, delivery driver, and when I was fifteen I bagged groceries, and all the while I made time to write. It’s a disease, writing, I’m sure of it, but a disease of which I hope I’m never cured. I am a writer, an artist, that’s my job, my life’s passion. My writing doesn’t pay all my bills, but it's what I do and it’s who I am.
If you’re a writer then you know you can never stop writing. I couldn’t if I tried, no matter how many other jobs I had. On the days I don’t produce words, I feel a lingering gloom. It’s an emotion that will pass only when I place pen to paper or fingers to keyboard. If, one day, destiny calls and I become a fulltime writer and I’m able to work from the cozy confines of my home, I will consider myself very fortunate—but I’m a realist. If I’m forced to continue waking at six in the morning to head to my day job, then so be it. I’ll continue writing just as I have all these years, with conviction, obsession, and psychotic impulses that are out of my control.