Greetings! I typically write fantasy fiction of many shades (urban fantasy, high fantasy, historical fantasy) but have been known to dabble in other spec fic genres (science fiction, horror) and dip my toe in cross-genre work. The current novel-project is a high fantasy buddy cop story with blood-magic, memory-trading dragons, and serial killers. My short fiction tends to fluctuate, but lately, there’s been a lot of dead people—ghosts, zombies, vampires, and the like, and I have a soft spot for dragons and immortals of any kind.
I live in Chicago (and the city forms a base for much of my UF) and I’m currently working toward my MFA in Popular Fiction at Stonecoast in Maine.
Current New Thing:
“Fetch you what?” I sputtered. My voice echoed off the tile walls of the Resurrection Hospital morgue. Of the three of us present, I was the only corporeal one and, as such, my voice was the only one capable of physical interaction with our surroundings in the cutting room. “You can’t be serious!”The ankou grinned. It was wearing my dead brother’s form again, dressed in the same old ragged jeans, black t-shirt, and jacket Kennett had worn on the night of his death, and the expression was a mocking imitation of Kennett’s humor. On Kennett, that smile would’ve made me groan, anticipating another brilliant idea that would somehow end up with me on the other side of Chicago, fifty dollars poorer, trying to hogtie a gutted mattress to the roof of my car. On the ankou, it just left me suspicious and a little sickened.I glanced over at Teddy’s ghost to my right. He was still faded slightly at the edges, that blurring that most recently severed spirits suffered from, but his core essence had strengthened in the last few minutes since the ankou had bound him to my curse. He wore a pair of gray pajama pants, a t-shirt dotted with holes, ragged slip-on shoes, and a parka, all an exact copy of what his corpse in the chiller room now wore, though sans the blood and dirt.For sixty-two-year-old Theodore O’Byrne—or Teddy, as he insisted I call him—had taken his dog for a walk and never returned home. The victim of a hit-and-run, he’d died en route to Resurrection. His ghost, for the most part, had been more concerned about the safety of his dog than the fact that he was dead. After confessing I didn’t know his dog’s fate one way or the other, he’d fallen silent, and remained as such right through the ankou’s manifestation. Which was rather impressive; the ankou was anything but subtle.Teddy’s eyebrows rose in a silent shrug. Clearly, he wasn’t going to be of any help…—Fragarach, Neon Druid, pg. 76
Current Long-Form Projects:
Still chugging away at the current novel. According to the outline, I’m just starting the final act of the initial draft. I have *consults notes* sixteen more scenes to go, give or take.*
Querying the previous novel, a very noir-ish urban fantasy set in Chicago with blood-drinking, marrow-eating immortal draugr, shapeshifting werewolf-esque people, secret societies, humans with sucky superpowers, assassination plots, and political backstabbery.
Editing an urban fantasy novella (by chance, the companion story to the short story in the excerpt above—huh!). More ankou, magicians, and ghosts in the near-northwest suburbs of Chicago.