I grew up on a small blueberry farm, in a little town called...BIG BEAVER. (Insert Joke) Every traveling softball game, I had to endure teasing. With the words, "Big Beaver" scrolled across my chest, well, it was a given. My parents were oblivious to this torment. Back on the farm they were busy clearing brush and planting bushes. When I got bored, or bugged them too much, they slung a whistle around my neck, and told me to blow if I got into trouble. I explored 64-acres with my little sister tagging along. I loved to scare her with tales of water-well-trolls, shale-mountain-monsters, and old-oak-ghosts. My stories and characters come from this time of pure freedom.

Site Map