The first book I wrote, NO SONG BUT SILENCE (which I presume is terrible, and am afraid to look at), I wrote sitting at the end of my parents’ living room couch in Alaska, a word processor balanced precariously on the arm while I typed away.
Sixteen years and sixteen novels later, I’m sitting at the end of my own living room couch in Ireland, a laptop computer balanced on precariously on the arm while I type away.
The more things change, the more they stay the same.
ytd wordcount: 212,000
miles to Minas Tirith: 508.7