I love Literary Fiction. For me, there's nothing better.

If you can't shape the world you live in, create one. Shape it with the deepest philosophies you know, and weave characters into a tapestry of magic and mystery. Where some of it's true, and some maybe should have happened but didn't. Except, in your story, it did happen.

That's why I write, and it's where I found love, pressed  between the pages of a dream. It woke me in the night, and I couldn't put down my pen anymore than I could stop myself from falling. And sometimes my pen moves with the freedom of a man falling so far he'll run out of breath from screaming. Because if you've screamed all you have into the void, and you're still falling, it's time for reflection. It's time to write.

We all hit the ground at some point. But writers make a story out of it. Where we write doesn't really matter. It could be under a bridge, between homes, or on the way from one experience to the next. Sitting at a truck stop on your way across the country, or pulled off into a mountain park on a motorcycle (thank Mac for this amazing battery life).

My first book, Avtandil's Quest, is a great example. I wrote the first 20 or so chapters on my phone, standing on a balcony in Batumi, Georgia. It was winter, and we had an unusually strong snow that year. I typed and tried voice to text for weeks, freezing my ass off, chain smoking, and drinking beer.

But I was alive. I was creating, and breathing a different kind of life into something worth every trial and tribulation I withstood. That was one of the happiest times of my life, but ultimately tragic. Yet the tragedy of those and other experiences birthed things I could never have created without being forced to see through the pain and the tears. Were it not for the clarity of vision my predicament offered me, my books might never have been written.

That's the short part of my writing. Stick around, and we'll get to the rest over pages.