They say write what you know. I’d argue this is only part of it.

For me, storytelling isn’t about inventing thrilling plots or creating compelling characters—it’s about taking the threads of my own experiences and weaving them into something that feels real. The fine line between truth and fiction? It’s where my stories live.

The Rivers That Run Through My Stories

I spent countless hours as a teen on the Rogue, Illinois, and Applegate Rivers—hiking, fishing, floating, exploring the currents that shape the landscapes and influencing my imagination. Water, with its quiet power and untamed energy, draws me to this day. It’s no coincidence that water plays key roles in my books.

Applegate Lake became the foundation for The Rogue River Incident. I remember watching the lake fill for the first time, swallowing old roads, tree stumps, and forgotten history. That idea—the secrets hidden beneath the water—stuck with me. Years later, it found its way into my novel, where the lake doesn’t just serve as a setting but as a force, holding its own mysteries.

The Roads That Took Me There

My father’s business trips were my first introduction to life on the road. As a kid, I traveled with him all across Southern Oregon, sitting in the cab of his 18-wheeler—watching, and listening to him talk with ranchers. Discussions I didn’t understand. I listened though, and stored ideas. Those experiences, the towns we visited, the people we met began to shape how I observed the world.

I didn’t realize it then, but those road trips were early training for character development. I learned how people carry their history with them, how small-town diners hold secrets just as deep as any big-city back alley. Today, when I create a character, I pull from those moments—the way a store clerk’s hands move when they talk, the way a farmer’s voice carries over the hum of a tractor, the way an old bridge creaks under the weight of too many winters.

A Photographer’s Eye for the Story

My time in the Air Force as a photographer sharpened my ability to see the world in a different way. I learned to focus on details—on lighting, on framing, on the way a moment tells a story before anyone speaks. Photography is about capturing truth, but also about finding the angle that makes it compelling. Writing isn’t all that different.

When I describe a scene in my books, I see it first as an image. The way light filters through towering pines. The mist rising off an early-morning lake. The way a river cuts through the landscape, hiding what lies beneath. These aren’t just descriptions, they’re snapshots of my own memories, translated into fiction.

The Characters Who Carry My Stories

Southern Oregon is a character all its own—the land, the people, the history. My deep roots in communities like Dairy, Bonanza, Klamath Falls, Grants Pass and beyond gave me a front-row seat to the kinds of stories you can’t make up. The rugged independence of a small-town mechanic. The quiet, knowing glance of a fisherman who’s seen one too many winters. The wary edge of someone who’s lived in the woods for too long.

My characters are built from these impressions. They aren’t exact copies of real people, but they’re shaped by them. Every person I’ve met, every conversation I’ve had, every place I’ve traveled through—it all lingers. A lot of it finds its way into my books, sometimes subtly, sometimes boldly.

Truth in Fiction

So, do I write what I know? Yes. But also, no.

I take what I’ve lived—the places I’ve been, the people I’ve met, the lakes I’ve camped next to, the rivers I’ve drifted—and I stretch them into something new. Something that feels real because, in a way, it is.

The fine line between truth and fiction isn’t a boundary I try to avoid. It’s the space I write in.