I’m often asked how an airline pilot/ex-USAF jet jockey ended up writing
romance. “Easy,” I say. “Too little time on the ground coupled with way too
much time to think!” Trust me, nothing aids plot-hatching and character-
developing like fifteen straight hours stuck in the cockpit with lukewarm
coffee and a sky so black you can see every star in the Milky Way. I do six to
eight Pacific crossings in a month. On any given day, you can find my body
clock hovering somewhere between Tokyo and Sacramento. Ouch. Perpetual jet lag.
But on the up side, the sights, smells, and tastes of the exotic locales I
visit, and the conversations I have with people I’d never normally meet,
provide the most amazing material to weave into my stories. With a little
imagination, a dank high-walled alley in Taipei, ripe with the stench of
sewage, garlic, and moped exhaust becomes the lower deck of an ill-maintained
19th century sailing ship. A Chinese restaurant where I nibble on pickled jelly
fish, stir-fried fungus, and sautéed morning glory transforms into dinner-for-
two on a distant planet.
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