I was born in April of 1946, arriving with the first of the baby-boomers. I would describe my childhood as uneventful, but my parents might have felt otherwise. I possessed a normal boy's curiosity along with a keen interest in science—a dangerous combination. My parents were understanding when a homemade rocket prematurely ignited, blasting a crater in my wooden desk and setting the curtains on fire when the rocket swished about the room. They were less understanding when my pet Cecropia silk moth laid eggs on my bedroom wall. The eggs hatched the following spring releasing hundreds of creepy-crawly caterpillars into my bedroom.

They must have been ecstatic when I left for college in 1964. I had a vague notion of becoming a science teacher, but the notion of having fun in college was not vague. After two years as an alleged student, I had a GPA of 1.67. The draft board declared this insufficient progress, and in 1966 Uncle Sam came with chain and shackles and dragged me off to the Great War (WWII & ½). With my alleged scientific knowledge, the military assumed I would make a fine medic. That might explain why, at the height of the Tet Offensive, I found myself with the 4th Infantry Division, curled up next to a burned-out schoolhouse in downtown Pleiku. That was not my vision of school employment.

I returned to college in the fall of 1969 with all my limbs and the greater part of my brain still intact. This time I earned A's and B's—same I.Q. with an attitude adjustment. I received a B.S in chemistry from Michigan State University in 1971. A year later I received a B.A. in psychology. An additional year at Grand Valley State University provided a teaching certificate, which allowed me to teach high school chemistry and physics for two years while slowly going broke. It was time to return to school for a real education.

In 1977 I graduated from Western Michigan University's physician assistant program. I began my medical career at Marquette Branch Prison, which at the time was Michigan's only maximum-security prison. My brothers explained to friends I was doing time in prison. I preferred thinking of myself as a government agent. Like writing—it was a matter of viewpoint.

I received my parole after fifteen years and then transferred to a mental institution where I tenaciously clung to my I.D. badge; it was the only qualifier separating me from the patients. After fifteen years in prison and one year in a mental institution, I was ready for the big time. I began working in small rural hospital’s emergency room until December of 1999 when life as I wanted to know it came to an abrupt halt; I was diagnosed with vocal cord cancer. This shouldn’t happen to someone whose sole smoking experience consisted of one cigarette behind the woodshed.

If I were lucky perhaps I would survive with a permanent tracheotomy. I could hold an electronic vibrator to my throat and make noises like Darth Vader. I assumed the entertainment value of this skill would be short lived. To avoid welfare, I searched the Internet for money-making schemes that didn’t require conversation. All I found was writing. Little did I know writing was a preoccupation and not an occupation.

Thanks to two excellent surgeons at the University of Michigan, my tracheotomy proved temporary. They surgically removed the cancer, and then rebuilt my vocal cord. I have been cancer free for over ten years. My voice is breathy, and I give a good imitation of the Godfather, but I can talk! The administrators and staff at the hospital were more optimistic than I had been; my job was waiting for me when I recovered. In the spring of 2006, I retired from gainful employment and took up writing full time. I can now devote my energy to filling cyberspace with short stories and editors' in-boxes with prospective novels. Hopefully, you will find time to read some of the short stories.