Hey, It’s Me, Andrew
After surviving an accident with the business-end of a sedan, I have spent the past decade or two working on my recovery through writing. I have been writing genre fiction for years, and have been reading genre fictions for years more.
When I am not working on one book, I am brainstorming another over a Caramel Macchiato at my local Starbucks and researching the shape of magic. When I am not studying the speed of historic forms of transportation, I am theorizing about inter-dimensional deities. When I am not writing a story, I am planning one, or brainstorming one.
When I am not outlining the life of a fictional fox with a troubled past and a complicated relationship to time, I am staring out the window wondering whether crows really do have names for each other. I believe in quiet places, loud characters, and the importance of coffee that’s just a bit too strong.
I live somewhere between the Pacific and a stack of notebooks I keep meaning to organize. My favourite stories are the ones that seem silly until they suddenly aren’t, the ones that let you laugh before they leave you thinking. I write to heal, to remember, and occasionally, to answer questions no one has asked yet.
And if not something that consequential, these books are about more interesting versions of myself.
I’ve always been fascinated by folklore—the kind passed down between generations when no one is quite sure who made it up first, or when exactly it stopped being “made up” and started being true. That’s where I think the best fantasy comes from: that strange, unsettled space between memory and imagination. Between myth and something more private. Sometimes, all it takes is the right character saying the wrong thing at the right time for an entire world to split open.