Why I write about ordinary people pushed to their limits.

I’ve never been drawn to superheroes with perfect timing or polished edges. My characters are ordinary people — the kind you might pass on the street or sit next to at the pub. People who get things wrong, lose their tempers, and still try to do right. The reality is that people are flawed. And yet, that’s where the truth lives.

Part of it comes from what I believe: every person is created in God’s image. Our culture tends to worship wealth, power, and celebrity. But I’ve learned that the powerful aren’t usually better people — they’ve just had help, or luck. The real stories worth telling are in the quiet corners, where no one’s paying attention.

In my books, the characters live there. Ray, the investigator who can’t stop chasing the truth even when it hurts him. Heather, the publican who holds her broken community together with pint glasses and patience. Rachel, trying to change things from inside a system that keeps breaking. They’re all flawed, but they still hope what they do matters.

I write them this way because the world makes it hard to hold onto your values. It’s easier to keep your head down, not make waves, let small compromises stack up. But stories like these remind me — and maybe the reader — that it’s still worth standing by your principles, even imperfectly.

The tone of my books reflects that. The plots don’t race — they plod, steady and procedural, one small step after another. The characters get knocked down, but they keep pressing on toward the goal. Hope isn’t a grand rescue; it’s survival with purpose.

In a world flooded with outrage and noise, I think it matters to tell quieter stories. Ones that don’t try to fix everything — just the patch of ground right in front of them. That’s what Ray does. That’s what I want my writing to do.