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When I broke into print twenty-five years ago, I did so as a historian, tracing the potato’s social and political influence on the Western world. But my first love was fiction, and today, I’ve done what I dreamed of as a teenager more than a half-century ago: I’ve published a novel, Lonely Are the Brave (Cynren Press).

I feel as if I’ve climbed a mountain that grew taller as I tried to reach the top. That’s because Lonely Are the Brave is the fifteenth or so novel I’ve written; with each, I hoped I’d gotten to the summit, only to discover I hadn’t. But now I’m there, and the view looks magnificent.

I’m delighted. Excited. Glad I didn’t give up.

If you’d like to know more about Lonely Are the Brave, here’s the premise. A war hero returns to his Washington State logging town in 1919 grieving his late wife, and when he decides to remain home with his infant daughter, he hears a rumor the child isn’t his.

Most bookstores in Seattle carry Lonely Are the Brave, and so does bookshop.org.

Thanks for reading.


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