Science Fiction Author
Born to write thrilling science fiction novels; forced to write blog posts for marketing purposes. Stories and essays about technology, fatherhood, work, and never trusting authority.
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Vinestead engineer Ken Barnes has been shot, and he wakes in a digital hospice built from his own memories—a place to settle his affairs, say his goodbyes, and die with dignity. Except something inside the hospice is broken, and Ken's peaceful farewell is curdling into a torment he can't wake up from. Now he has to reach the outside world, or face a fate worse than death.
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President Duke argues that anyone who transferred into a synthetic body stopped being human the moment their original brain died. I've been thinking about this argument for years, and I still can't find a hole in it.
A farewell to my friend and canine writing partner. If you've recently lost one of your own, this one may be worth skipping.
Thirty years ago, you could answer that question with whatever lie you wanted. That was what made the internet awesome.
Technology has grown far beyond the cookie-cutter experience of your grandparents and into a realm where knowledge rules and strength is no longer determined by the size of a man’s muscles but by the size of his brain.
Welcome to Friday Footnotes, a new series intended to fill the void when I've spent too much time writing fiction and too little time writing a new thoughtful blog post for you.
The bar around him was an amalgam of familiar set pieces: the long bar with multi-colored bottles on the wall behind it, the pool tables in the distance with their clacking balls, and a small dance floor with only a handful of people gyrating to a song he couldn’t hear.
Writing is a lonely profession, but there are times when you need someone else to help answer the difficult questions like "how many movie quotes are too many?"
Pamela Koehne-Drube over at Novlr wrote a great framework for expanding a short story into a novel. It's like she was reading my diary.
He’d wanted to take her to a fancy restaurant in Corpus Christi, but with her last class of the day letting out at 7:30 p.m., she’d balked at the six hour round-trip just to eat raw shrimp from a champagne glass.
They say all is fair in love and self-publishing, which is why I have no trouble throwing money at anything that might remotely help me sell more books... even if "anything" occasionally means accelerating the heat death of the planet.
There is a small subset of people in this country who don't recognize the comedic genius of Pauly Shore's work in the 1990s, and if you happen to be in that camp, I'd like you to stop reading right now, as I don'
I know, I know... House of Nepenthe isn't even out yet, and here I am talking about Book 9 of the Vinestead Anthology. Believe me, I wish I had the marketing instinct to build up excitement for my longest and most ambitious novel ever before it hits shelves,