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Letters to the Universe: Essays on crime, craft, and the middle way, 2014-2023

“Are you only going to write about prisoners?” a cellmate once asked while making a face like I forgot to wipe the toilet seat. Yes, I realized after mulling his question. Yes, I am. What else was I going to write about? Aeronautics? High sea piracy? The mating habits of the common draccus? I had spent my life playing poker in dayrooms, pumping parlay tickets on rec yards, doubling back in chow hall lines, doing pushups in the box . . . By the time I hit my mid-thirties I had a PhD in prison life. Who was better equipped to tell these stories than I was? And more importantly, who was going to if I didn’t?

If you’ve ever read any of the novels, you are probably aware of the fact that I don’t write about innocent people. I write about everyday people who find themselves in these hopeless places. That’s who I see when I set down this pen and poke my head out the cell door. Everyday people. Sons, brothers, husbands, dads, Americans. Very few monsters, just a bunch of grown children—inmates and guards alike. And although the narrative thread of my stories must inevitably wind through a prison at some point, what I’m really writing about is love and longing and redemption. The human experience. The universal story. 

(Cover image by Bobby Marko of wefoundadventure.com)