My stories, articles, essays, and poems have appeared in hundreds of magazines, newspapers, literary journals, and anthologies world-wide. I have also published six books.  I am most noted for my first book, Fragile Hopes, Transient Dreams and Other Stories, a Southwest Kansas saga, which was chosen during Kansas sesquicentennial year, as one of “150 Best Kansas Books.”

My books are:

Fragile Hopes, Transient dreams and Other Stories

17½ Big Steps; Stories From the Yucatan Peninsula

Cul de Sac

Caribbean Sunrise


James and Jack (released December, 2016)

In Progress" is a memoir, entitled Headwinds (Working title).  (Excerpt on "Works In Progress" page).   Also underway is an autobiography which I add to as time allows.  This I plan to publish as a bildungsroman.

And that, my friends, is me “up to date.”  You’ll find more about the books, as well as other stuff, on my website and




Criticized for having too little information about “me” on my website, particularly what excuse I have to represent myself as a writer, I decided to start a blog of sorts about where I am, where I’m coming from and where I’m going—not necessarily in that order—for the benefit of those who might be interested.

First of all, good, bad or mediocre, my work speaks for itself.

I don’t profess to be a “great” writer.  But as a dedicated scriber/scribbler, and considering the quality/quantity of work I’ve put out over the years, I think I’m safe in signing myself off as a bonafide writer/author.

A question often asked is how or when or why I became a writer.  I didn’t “become” a writer. I was born a writer.  I don’t remember when I wasn’t writing.  I don’t know where my writing genes came from.  To my knowledge, no other member of my family, immediate or in the distant past, has shown the slightest interest in putting pen to paper.  I’ve been told that, from the time my chubby hands could negotiate a pencil, my favorite pastime was sitting with pencil and paper deeply engrossed in scribbling.  I wrote my first poem when I was five, a silly, poorly composed, rhymed thing which I still have, forever preserved, in my grandmother’s commonplace book.

For the most part, I lived with my grandparents until I was eleven.  Grandma was a great teacher; she instilled in me a love for the Bible (Grandma was very religious) and a love of reading.  She loved poetry and though she never wrote any herself, I think she hoped I’d turn out to be a poet.  When I was born, Grandma and Granddaddy bought me a “Birth” day present—The Books of Knowledge.  I still have the complete set—well worn—in the original case.  As a child, I spent hours daily, lying on the floor in the living room, one or more of the books open before me.  I virtually devoured the stories and poems, but I also spent a lot of time on astronomy, French and geography.

Grandma and The Books of Knowledge must have educated me well because I skipped both the second and the fourth grades.

However, I evidently used all my stored knowledge in my earlier years because once I became a fifth grader—although I still got lots of A’s—I was just an average student.