Next…
I’m stepping away from a career I’ve loved for a long time.
That surprises people.
But there’s something I’ve been building in the margins—early mornings, long beagle walks, stolen hours in my bunker—and it’s a passion I can’t ignore anymore.
I’m writing.
Not dabbling. Not “someday.”
This is the work now.
Here are some pull quotes from the draft of my next work, to be published in October:
"The undead are not morning people."
"Just: hand, knee, hand, knee…south, south, south. It would be three hours before I could walk again. Three days before I could speak. Three weeks before I could remember what I'd done."
"I’m not prey. And I’m not sure how much longer I can pretend to be.”
“I felt something crack in my chest. Not my ribs—something deeper. The realization that this was still possible. That somewhere in the chaos, someone was still unraveling it through reading. Still trying to understand. I yearned to be part of it. I tipped my head and scanned the spines of books piled down the center of the table. “
This novel is told in first person, as a recovered transcript of his travels. It follows a narrator who shouldn’t exist—an intelligent mind in a body that’s supposed to be empty—trying to hold onto himself while everything else slips.
It’s not really about zombies. It’s about identity. Memory. What remains when the structure of a life is gone.
If that grabs you, I can send you the transcript.