I write short stories. Sometimes there’s a twist. Sometimes it’s just life.

I’ve also written five books, with a new novella—The Clockmaker’s Son—on the way.

Illustration of a NASCAR race with a Toyota Camry race car in front, bearing a message thanking team members, and a NAPA race car behind, on a racetrack filled with spectators.
“Green flag dropped.

He went.

Engine roared—raw and full-throated. The whole thing rumbled through his chest like a second heartbeat.

His fingers stayed loose on the wheel. He’d learned not to strangle it. You strangle it, you overcorrect. You overcorrect, you lose it.”
— The Last Lap
Silhouettes of two people sitting on a bench at sunset, with a guitar case beside them, and one person reading a book.
“The first time Sam saw her, she was sitting on the bench like she owned it. Pale blue cardigan, paperback in her lap, and a thermos beside her. She wasn’t doing anything in particular—just watching people go by like it was the best show in town.

He sat down stiffly, guitar case bumping his knee. She turned a page in her book but didn’t look up.

“You play?” she asked.

He glanced sideways. “Yeah. ”
— Heard