Mark Stallings
AUTHOR

Mark Stallings

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I came to Colorado by way of everywhere, or everywhere that mattered when you were a military kid and home was whatever place had your boxes in it that year. Then Colorado happened. Mountains. Thin air. Pikes Peak hanging there like some enormous stone god keeping an eye on the whole ridiculous operation. I was a teenager when I arrived and apparently forgot to leave.

These days I live in the foothills with my wife, two children, and an ever-changing parliament of dogs and cats who contribute nothing financially but retain considerable influence over household policy.

Before the books there was technology. Lots of technology. Human-machine interfaces, systems talking to people, people yelling at systems, several companies founded along the way, and enough years spent making computers do unnatural things that eventually I discovered something even stranger:

Making things up for money.

So now I write.

I sling words into the void and fabricate people who never existed, wars that never happened, worlds nobody has visited, and occasionally someone sends me money because they enjoyed being lied to for several hundred pages. This seems like an excellent arrangement and I intend to continue until somebody stops me.

When I’m not abusing the English language, I shoot competitively, drink craft beer, ride motorcycles, and play games with friends—activities that, considered collectively, suggest I may have misunderstood several important lessons about responsible adulthood.

But the mountain is still outside.

The dogs still want something.

And there are more stories to tell.
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