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I’m not a professional writer. Never have been, and I doubt I ever will be. I’m not trying to scale Shakespearean heights or pretend I belong at the same table as Ian McEwan or Penelope Fitzgerald. They are in another league entirely.

I write because, at some point, not writing became harder.

I’ve lived a little. I’ve run businesses, crossed borders, started over, watched people reinvent themselves, and collected stories from the places I’ve called home. Somewhere along the way, I began to notice how the large movements of the world, where politics, money, fear, history, and ambition eventually find their way into kitchens, bedrooms, marriages, and silences. That idea shaped much of my early writing.  The early books weren’t exactly what I wanted them to be. I think of them now as training, and I owe a sincere apology to the brave souls who read them.

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Then came The Canadian Fall, a psychological thriller set in Ontario, and for me, it marked a real shift. The writing became slower, deeper, less concerned with what happens around people, and more interested in what happens inside them. 

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False Orbit followed, and for a long time, it was the book I was proudest of. It begins with a man who tells his daughter he is going to Mars because he cannot bring himself to tell her he is dying. But at its heart, it is about grief, guilt, love, and the impossible bargains people make when they are trying to protect someone they cannot bear to hurt.

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Code Camp 20 was an experiment with technology, law, punishment, and redemption. It is imperfect, but I have real affection for it. Some books are like that. You know where the stitches are, and you love them anyway.

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The Cost of Almost is about a man who has spent fifty-seven years choosing “almost” over “actually.”  Almost brave, almost honest, almost happy, and what happens when that lifelong habit finally comes due.

 

And then came The Lucid Hours.

I wasn’t sure I could write this one. It is more restrained than anything I have done before, and in many ways it asks more of the reader and more of me. It is about Margaret, a woman who has given her life to a marriage and to a man who is slowly disappearing into dementia. It is also about what remains, what returns, and what can no longer be hidden when the mind begins to let go.

The readers who have found it have been generous in ways I did not expect. Some have written to me. Some have said things I will carry for a long time. That matters more than I can easily explain, which is inconvenient, considering words are supposed to be my side of the business.

So that’s me. A regular person with a laptop, an imagination, and a stubborn belief that the right story can still find the right reader at the right moment. If you’ve read this far, thank you. Truly.