Why Romantic Fiction?
My writing journey began almost before my reading journey.
As early as first grade. Walking the halls of Clendenin Elementary—which was once, if memory serves (and if memory can be trusted to reach that far back), Big Sandy High School—I was already scribbling stories and sketching crude little comics inspired by the sci-fi programs I loved.
Then, somewhere around second grade, I discovered media tie-in novels. They were meant for readers a bit older than I was at the time, but the librarian let me check them out anyway. That was all the permission I needed.
That love of stories—both reading them and trying to tell my own—followed me into adulthood. I always fancied myself a writer of science fiction and fantasy.
In reality, I was someone very good at starting things… and far less consistent at finishing them.
Then single fatherhood happened, and even starting became a luxury.
Fast forward a few decades—yes, a few—and in 2025, I had what I can only call an epiphany. Years too late, maybe. Or maybe right on time.
It was something writers have been saying for as long as there have been writers:
Write what you know.
After more than half a century on this earth, I’ve come to know a few things. Not through expertise, but through experience, through mistakes, missed chances, small victories, and the occasional stroke of luck.
I know what it means to carry regret.
I also know what it means to hope anyway.
And somewhere along the line, I was forced to admit that emotional, slice-of-life stories about impossible romantic connections have always been a bit of a guilty pleasure of mine.
Put all of that together, and I didn’t so much find my niche as wake up to it.
Or maybe it found me first… and refused to let me go back to sleep.
Now, Beyond That Starry Sky does have a near-future technological thread woven through it. That piece matters. It shapes the world and the way the story unfolds.
But make no mistake, this isn’t a science fiction novel.
It’s a story about regret and missed chances.
About hope and connection.
About the quiet, persistent human desire to be truly seen—and what we’re willing to risk for even a glimpse of that.
May is just around the corner now.
And I truly hope that when readers step into this story, something in it lingers with them… long after the final page.
Until next time…
As early as first grade. Walking the halls of Clendenin Elementary—which was once, if memory serves (and if memory can be trusted to reach that far back), Big Sandy High School—I was already scribbling stories and sketching crude little comics inspired by the sci-fi programs I loved.
Then, somewhere around second grade, I discovered media tie-in novels. They were meant for readers a bit older than I was at the time, but the librarian let me check them out anyway. That was all the permission I needed.
That love of stories—both reading them and trying to tell my own—followed me into adulthood. I always fancied myself a writer of science fiction and fantasy.
In reality, I was someone very good at starting things… and far less consistent at finishing them.
Then single fatherhood happened, and even starting became a luxury.
Fast forward a few decades—yes, a few—and in 2025, I had what I can only call an epiphany. Years too late, maybe. Or maybe right on time.
It was something writers have been saying for as long as there have been writers:
Write what you know.
After more than half a century on this earth, I’ve come to know a few things. Not through expertise, but through experience, through mistakes, missed chances, small victories, and the occasional stroke of luck.
I know what it means to carry regret.
I also know what it means to hope anyway.
And somewhere along the line, I was forced to admit that emotional, slice-of-life stories about impossible romantic connections have always been a bit of a guilty pleasure of mine.
Put all of that together, and I didn’t so much find my niche as wake up to it.
Or maybe it found me first… and refused to let me go back to sleep.
Now, Beyond That Starry Sky does have a near-future technological thread woven through it. That piece matters. It shapes the world and the way the story unfolds.
But make no mistake, this isn’t a science fiction novel.
It’s a story about regret and missed chances.
About hope and connection.
About the quiet, persistent human desire to be truly seen—and what we’re willing to risk for even a glimpse of that.
May is just around the corner now.
And I truly hope that when readers step into this story, something in it lingers with them… long after the final page.
Until next time…
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