For as long as I can remember, I had a knack and a liking for the creative arts. I loved drawing, photography and writing. I also loved music but to say that I’m tone deaf would be like saying that mashed potatoes and fillet mignon are a decent meal choice. Excuse me, but no! Mashed potatoes and fillet mignon are an AWESOME meal choice. That being said, I can’t reproduce a note even if the fate of the world depended on it. Moving on!
I always wanted to write. To this day I remember walking with my grandfather down the street and telling him that I wanted to write a story. He looked at me, smiled and said ‘good luck, never give up.’ There are plenty of memories that I still have of my childhood, when I would look at the huge library of books that my parents owned and wish to add my story to the number. My entire life I had a plethora of stories and concepts spinning inside my head and not nearly enough skill or patience to put these ideas to paper.
Many times I tried, many times I failed. Until, one night, probably eighteen hours into my workday, loopy and tired, I gazed upon my disoriented and frustrated coworker and Bimbly the Halfling Wizard was born.
Chronicles of Bimbly might have started as a product of an exhausted and delirious mind, but thanks to the overly positive and encouraging feedback from my family, friends and coworkers, Bimbly lived on. Four years later I have three books and a fourth one on the way. I am writing this story because I always wanted to and because I finally discovered a platform for my ideas. Not so secretly, I am writing this for my son from a basic desire to leave behind some kind of legacy.
What influences my writing? Everything. I get my ideas when I see my wife do something funny in the kitchen, or from when I see my son plopping himself onto a large pile of blankets. I get my ideas from watching people do what people do. Sometimes, there is nothing funnier than a true story just because it is true.
I think the first story that has completely enthralled and captured me was The Three Musketeers. Then there was King Arthur, Robin Hood, Conan, The Hobbit, Lord of the Rings, Dune, Hamlet, blah, blah, blah. Then Game of Thrones came about. Thanks George R R Martin for ruining an unbelievable number of stories that I could potentially have enjoyed. The unpredictability of the Song of Ice and Fire has completely dominated my mind since (SPOILER) Ned Stark got his head lopped off (/SPOILER). Here I was, a grown man, staring blankly at my book because I didn’t know how I could recover from such a shocking end. I didn’t want to go on. My favorite character was dead and food tasted like ash in my mouth. Boy, did that ending teach me a valuable lesson on story telling. No, no, no. I am not comparing myself to George. The man is a genius and I bend the knee to his superiority. All I am saying is that not a single other book, perhaps with the exception of Howard Pyle’s Robin Hood, has taught me the value of unpredictable storytelling like The Song of Ice and Fire.