When I’m not writing freelance articles, delving into long-term contract work or attempting to update this blog more than once a week, you’ll find me pounding away at my current novel involving a mysterious cemetery, a forgotten house and a Northeastern town reluctant to face its bloody past.
I chose the Northeast because that’s where I grew up.
The rural northeast calls me on humid August days with deep green grass, where heat-scented blueberries hang heavy on the bushes, and where roadside Queen Anne’s Lace waves when I drive by.
Most of all, the Northeast calls me in the fall after frosts tinge maple tree foliage to bright red, yellow and orange hues, evenings bring a sharp promise of crisp apple cider and warm sweaters, and when the first snow storm of winter is so close, I can taste the metallic tang on my tongue.
Even though I haven’t lived there for years, the Northeast is my taproot.
The history fascinates me, although I admit I don’t read as much of it these days as I’d like. Specifically, I’m intrigued with how people react to the grand, sweeping events forcibly shaping their lives, how they rise to the challenges or drown beneath them. Drilling down further, I like discovering the odd, forgotten kernel of history, wondering what if, and then building a story around it.
There are a lot of odd kernels out there. Some I’ve read about, some I’ve seen first hand, and some I’ve discovered in old cemeteries. I plan on writing about as many of them as I possibly can so they’re not forgotten.