I was born in Long Island, New York, and although I grew up in Pennsylvania, I always thought of myself as a New Yorker. I began telling stories at an early age, and my wild imagination frequently got me in a good bit of trouble. Once, I told my nursery school teacher I burned our house down for fun. She was understandably alarmed.

In middle school, I self-published an underground newspaper called "The Bathroom Bomber", featuring slanderous stories and dirty jokes. Mostly dirty jokes.The short-lived publication had a decent circulation, a dozen or so classmates willing to part with their lunch money. I remember printing the pages on a stencil duplicator, the sweet smell of purple mimeograph ink flooding my nostrils. I might have been addicted.

After high school, I went to college for architecture to become a respectable artist. After five years, I dropped out to pursue fine art, moving to a dingy loft in Manhattan and painting enormous canvases. A few found their way into galleries. One hung at the Hirshorn Museum of Art. Still, writing was the underpinning of everything I did.

In 1990, I picked up a Kodak 16mm camera and shot some experimental films. Before long, I was writing screenplays, and filmmaking became my life for almost twenty years, much to the regret of my parents. But after writing over forty feature-length screenplays and several television shows, I decided to embark on my first novel. My creative soul finally found what it was yearning for, and I haven't looked back.

I'm usually found huddled over my laptop by the window in a cozy coffee shop, or on the back of a motorcycle, searching for that perfect endless, winding road.