I love stories.

I listen to them. I watch them on TV, videos, or movies. I read them.

And I write them.

I’ve written almost every kind of story there is. Mystery, romance, confession, science fiction, fantasy, paranormal, horror, and every other kind I can think of and garnered a couple prizes and ‘best-selling’ author designations along the way.

I’ve written short stories, novellas, and novels.

In the process I’ve learned that my favorite stories are science fiction and paranormal. Preferably the two combined.

My stories are always clean, they are always either contemporary or near future, they always have at least a slight romantic element, and they always end happily. Always. Guaaranteed. (Okay, two short stories, ‘The River Boy’ and ‘Down From The Mountain’ have endings that might not be considered completely happy. Maybe just somewhat happy. You decide.)

Check out the covers below and see what you think. And have a happy, happy day.



Horseradish is symbolic of my inability to grow anything.

I sell fudge and fudge-filled banana bread at local venues. Farmers’ markets and similar places. At such venues, I meet a lot of farmers and they are all wonderful people who are more than willing — even eager — to share their expertise with a klutz like me.

As soon as one very nice farmer learned that I like horseradish but prefer it when it’s pure horseradish and not diluted by anything at all — which means it can’t come from a store and must be processed by someone who only grinds it and nothing else — she said she’d give me some plants for me to grow myself so I could process it exactly how I wanted it.

I told her I’d kill it. She said that was impossible because horseradish is pretty much a weed that grows wherever it’s dropped. Not even planted, just dropped.

So I took the plants she gave me home and carefully planted them on the edge of the yard, just a yard into the field. And I watched those plants. And I watered them. And I did everything I could think of to make them grow.

Guess what? They died. They didn’t even make it through that first summer. Often when I try to grow something, it lives a year or two before croaking. Not the horseradish.

So now I buy my horseradish in the store and pretend that’s the way I like it. And I’ve never had the courage to tell that nice lady farmer that I managed to kill her gift.


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