I think it is little surprise that I create when I am in pain. I think that’s as valid a motivation to create as anything.

There’s a genuine sense of connection, and that everlasting sense of a missed connection which lingers on the periphery of recent death.

It is a story which encourages you to slow down and appreciate not the great works of heroes and villains, but the small moments shared on the journey towards those great works.

Through the lens of a Cruise-led slick spy thriller we are woven into an apparently misfit bunch of disgusted and disgruntled officers…

…the appeal of anything set in the Star Trek universe does not rely to some degree on a sincere, unabashed cheesiness backed with a core of almost saccharine sincerity.

…caution and comfort in equal measure, a cathartic release and a sympathetic ear ready to tell a joke over a wine tasting of longing and regret.

This year… we leave you the future, and if you die, you die star-brilliant.

There is a pain to the world not even her characters seem prepared to fix.  This is without mentioning the monsters, the conspiracy, the constant fighting and ever-present danger of surrendering to one’s darker impulses.

Lecarian’s Fang is a novel of dragons, shapeshifters, spirits, magic, and the undead. What begins as a story of outsiders—a core which it never loses—quickly develops into a tale of love and loss, of fates greater than its characters can imagine, and of an exciting world offering promise, threat, and intrigue at every level.

I think, at the end of the day, that’s the effect any creative—cook, writer, painter, singer—desires from their work.  To see the effect it has, to know it connects, that the sympathetic drive that leads us to share our unique perspectives on the world is not in vain but is, in fact, appreciated and understood is an endlessly rewarding blessing.