When the third Dead Land book is complete, this will mark my tenth novel. I'm also working on the draft of an eleventh. It's been almost ten years since I got the call from an editor at Kensington telling me they wanted to buy Cruel Winter. The years have flown. My youngest son is twelve. My oldest just attended his junior prom (and nearly brought his mom to tears by asking for a dance - we were chaperones). This year my wife and I will celebrate our twentieth wedding anniversary.
I'm not where I want to be in terms of a writing career, but I'll get there. Might not be this book or the next. Or the one after that. But I'll keep writing them because I can't stop. At 41, the knees aren't what they used to be, I have gray in my beard, and some nights making it to ten o'clock without dozing in my chair is a Herculean task. But I'm okay with that. I like to think as time has gone by I've become slightly wiser, and a better writer, as well.
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