About

Stories are uniquely equipped to build empathy because they let us see inside someone else’s mind. That’s why I write about ordinary people shaped by hard choices, deep ties, and the quiet struggles of everyday life. The problems they face—social disconnection, mental health challenges, and losing a way of life—are the same ones so many of us face today. And like us, they keep going.

While earning my MFA in Creative Writing, I explored everything from dark fantasy to contemporary crime fiction to personal essays, but the people and problems remained the same. While I was in school, I built a sustainable writing habit, sharpened my storytelling skills, and learned to edit with intention. I also gained a deeper understanding of how the publishing industry works. Before I graduated, I had self-published a short story collection and placed work in Flyover Country Literary Magazine, Down in the Dirt, and Blanket Gravity Magazine.

I noticed a shift when the people around me started taking my writing seriously. They shared their own stories and their desire to tell them. I founded a local writing group while still in school and helped several members get published. Today, I continue coaching writers through the writing and publishing process—both in workshop-style classes at a local college and in one-on-one sessions.

Before writing, I masqueraded my way through a tech career, but the truth is, I never fit in. It wasn’t the work. I was good at the work, but I never got comfortable in the cubicle-farm, yes-man culture. The only reason I ended up there was because my daughter was diagnosed with leukemia at four. I was broke, desperate, and uninsured, working a low-paying job. Computer skills had always come easy to me, so when I needed a steady paycheck and health insurance, tech was the easy choice.

But what I really wanted to do was create. I’d gone to college once before, in my early twenties, and studied music and English. By then, I’d already lived a dozen lives: factory lines, warehouses, retail stores, bakeries, restaurant kitchens. I spent whole days checking the seals on saltine cracker packages, disassembling pallets, making TV antennas, and unloading trucks. That work was demanding, often monotonous—but it taught me how people talk. It gave me an ear for dialogue and a deep respect for the stories of folks who don’t often see themselves on the page. I leaned into those experiences starting with my earliest writing.

Those jobs reflected the values I grew up with: hard work, follow through, and straight talk. No BS. No mealy-mouthed double-speak I later found that made it so hard to fit in to white-collar offices. That’s why I work so hard to write direct prose. I want the language to reflect the world I come from.

I grew up in rural Iowa, Illinois, and Missouri in a family of blue-collar men: truck drivers, roofers, and machine operators. Even when they weren’t earning a check, they were building or producing something. They hunted, fished, fixed what was broken. I learned how to fish before I could write a paragraph. I had my first shotgun before I wrote my first poem. Those early years nurtured my love of nature and wide-open spaces, something that still runs through much of what I write.

I live with my exceptionally creative wife and youngest daughter in a house full of half-finished art projects. In my free time, I like to be outdoors fishing, kayaking, or walking along the Mississippi river near our home in southeast Iowa. I grew up with a deep connection to the land, and I still feel most like myself in quiet, open spaces.

Another reason I may feel so at home in solitary places is that I’m autistic. I try not to bring attention to it, but it’s shaped a lot of who I am—from my quiet, introspective nature to my intense hatred of bell peppers. Growing up, I had a hard time deciphering unwritten social rules, subtext, and my own emotions. I still have trouble with that last one. But I learned stories are a map through those hazy parts of life, and writing helps me find my way.