After surviving an ill-fated interaction with the business-end of a car, I have spent the past decade or so working on my recovery through writing and a Creative Writing degree. I have been writing genre fiction for years, and have been in class for such ominously categorized writing for a few years longer.
When not working on one book, I am brainstorming another at my usual drink at my local Starbucks while theorizing about interdenominational deities, buildings maps, and how to calculate the time it would take to get from one side of the world to the other using historically accurate modes of transportation.
I have short stories ranging from the tales of the sons that Zeus made with a turkey, a woman started World War I happen by her ordering a popular Bosnian soup for lunch, and a house party that God once had with giants from Jötunheimr and an ancient Canaanite god.
I am working a novel about talking animals and a world that is broken in half because two deistic trees fell in love with a very smart bird. I have one one about a hyper-conservative warren a barren rabit and her brother. I have few more about a the conspiracy behind Henry VIII's Dissolution of the Monasteries in the 16th century, and about a dissapearing tower south Herefordshire.
My stories all in separate states of completion, but at any given time, one of them is being worked on, while others are being thought about and planned, or brainstormed at McDonald's on New Years Eve.