I write in fear.
A storyteller tormented by a cataclysm fiercer than any conflict residing in the heart of my most intrepid hero.
Every word I write, every character I create, every plot I conceive—escapes out of the bottomless, endless abyss of my autistic soul.
The whirlwind of my imagination exists in this abyss—a void that traps and holds my vision and creative imagination, refusing to release the spirit of my stories without a battle of unspeakable dimensions.
It is because of this conflict that I am fearful.
For so long much of my life has been seized and held captive by the irresistible force of this interminable void.
Even now, after so many years of intense pressure and ache, I am compressed smaller and smaller into an emptiness of what once was, and what will be.
I am the same, unchanged by the spectacle of yesterday, unaltered by the vision of tomorrow.
Yet, within the clarity of a merciless vortex, I spin violently, moving at the speed of thought, warmed by an eternal light, destined to war against the only enemy able to defeat my invincibility—time.
Only by the grace of God do my stories manage to escape. Only through his mercy is my imagination able to defeat such a violent fury.
I am joyful that my stories not only abscond such a cold prison, but they manage to gain life and take on significance in the minds of others.
I am the American Storyteller—a warrior poet who carves and engraves the words of honorable worlds, never before imagined, out of an icy reality absent of warmth or touch.
The fear I write and create with is the dread of the unknown lost, the lonely plea in the melody of the whip-poor-will, the cry of the starving child.
As my fingers tap the keys of my typewriter, their urgency increases. My fingers tap the keys stronger, more frequent, until, at last, they pound on the keys the meaning of my life. The implications and values residing in the echoing depths of my imaginings desperately claw to escape the endless void of my rage.
Often, I wish my mind could be free of such a ferocious abyss. I wish autism’s cold vacuum did not encircle me and imprison my fresh creativity, holding captivity my incalculable singularity.
I suppose I am a miracle—a traveler who has navigated across, and through, impossible places and arrived at a destination where Life and Truth tell an ancient love story across the Way of an infinite universe.
It is here—in the finite substance of my soul—where I tell a story of yesterday and today, of hero and villain, of unrelenting romance in faraway castles.
It is here—in the mortality of my flesh and blood—where I write military romance books, romantic fiction books, political romance novels, and even baseball romance books.
If I am to live with the curse of autism, then let my stories of love and life be my treasures, and my military romance and thriller novels be the cures for my disease.
I am the Great American Storyteller—and I have a story to tell.