It still surprises me— maybe even more than it surprises my wife—that I’ve taken up writing after spending forty years as an architect, preserving historic buildings across California. Some of them were irreplaceable—structures that, if lost, would have left a hole in the heart of their towns. I came to see architecture not just as the shaping of space, but as the quiet storytelling of place.

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Before that, I served in the U.S. Navy during the Vietnam War, trained as a combat photographer. Through the lens of a military-issued camera, I learned how to see—not just what was visible, but what lay beneath. Bearing witness in that way left its mark.

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And somewhere between architecture and writing, I trained for and completed the Ironman Triathlon. It was grueling, humbling, and strangely clarifying. I discovered something essential in the long swim, the wind on the bike, and the sound of my own breath during the run.

My turn to writing came later in life, shaped by discipline, observation, and the hunger to make meaning. I studied the craft during four unforgettable summers at Esalen, learning under Cheryl Strayed. Her guidance—and the creative energy of that Big Sur coastline —deepened my commitment to writing stories that are both emotionally honest and structurally sound.