You see, I’m not a professional writer—never have been, and probably never will be. I’m not out here trying to scale Shakespearean heights or bump elbows with the likes of John le Carré or Robert Ludlum. Those guys are in a league of their own.

I’m just having fun and testing my limits along the way.

I’ve always been drawn to interesting stories. Spy books! Oh, they had me hooked. The secret machinations of world politics, those shadowy dramas behind closed doors? That’s my jam. And who doesn’t love a good conspiracy? I sure do.

But life, as it tends to, had other plans. There were bills to pay, deadlines to meet, routines to keep—you know how it goes. Time passed. And somewhere between “mission accomplished” and “what next?” I found myself with a little space to breathe. That’s when the idea hit me: maybe I could write a book.

Well, fast-forward and here we are—five books later.

Now, I’m not claiming to be a literary sensation. Let’s not kid ourselves. But I’ve lived a bit—run businesses, crossed borders, picked up stories from the places I’ve called home. And somewhere in that mix, I started to understand how the big headlines on TV ripple into real people’s lives in the quietest, strangest, and sometimes most powerful ways.

That realization sparked my first three novels—The Playground Diaries trilogy. It starts in Cyprus (a place close to my heart), sweeps through a crumbling Ukraine (a place I know well), and ends in London, which, for me, has always been a kind of moral compass for the modern world. It’s part fiction, part personal history, and one hundred percent mine.

Then spring came around. The mood shifted. I cracked a grin, sat down, and wrote two completely unserious books: Roger This, Roger That and Roger? Not Again! The Roger Gates series is my love letter to the absurd. Honestly, I wrote them for me. And yes, I still reread them from time to time, because why not? They're like old inside jokes with myself.

People have opinions about those books. Oh, they do. Some readers hand out two stars with gusto. Others email me saying “Best book I’ve read in years.” Are they right? Probably not. But they felt something—and that’s enough for me.

Then came The Canadian Fall. This one marked a shift. A psychological mystery set in  Ontario, it’s slower, deeper, and laced with emotional complexity. It’s a book that doesn’t scream—it lingers. I was testing something quieter, something more human, and judging by the response, I struck a chord. It’s not a loud book, but it sticks with you. And that matters.

Which brings me to False Orbit.

This is the one. The book I’ve poured the most heart into. The book I’m proudest of —not just among what I’ve written, but maybe even what I will write in the future. False Orbit begins with a man who leaves everything behind, including the daughter he loves, for what the world thinks is a mission to Mars. But that’s not what this story is about. It’s about grief, and guilt, and the impossible choices we make for the people we love. It’s about coming home, even when you think you’ve gone too far.

I don’t know if it’ll win awards or sell millions. But I know this: it’s the best thing I’ve ever written.

So that’s me. A guy who writes because he can’t not. A guy who’s made peace with not being famous, but still hopes to land in someone’s top ten. If you’ve read this far, thank you. Truly. I hope you find something in my stories worth holding onto.

And if you didn’t? Well, thanks for giving it a shot anyway.