Richard Wyndbourne is a resident of the Northleft Coast of the US of A since first he earned his own bread and vino; now here, now there. Seattle is where he presently hangs his hat. A sometime scholar of history and society, historical theory is his chiefest design. A graduate of The Evergreen State College, he is a Greener in all senses; wiser thereby, if unfit for a drone’s life therefore. To speak of callings, he’d best put ‘gym rat,’ ‘wordsmith,’ or ‘trekker in the Mountains of Imagination’ on the shingle. What most do with life, family, and career have sifted through his fingers like colorless talc: You too would find them hard to grasp if you reached for the stars. He whistles while he walks, and he walks on.
Through the generation just preceding Richard Wyndbourne has read---and written---more poetry than fiction by far, while even so the seventh art has come first with the use of his stray time. He has your acquaintance, and you his, since he is now an accidental novelist. Yes, a figment of words waylaid him in a weak moment, and though he fled from that iridescent specter he was pursued and overcome, and a keyboard thrust into his smiling fingers to tell of Great Tyrri. Apart from that series now begun, the six best books you’ve never read are each one-third done on his laptop. To find the freedom to finish any amongst them, he’s written the one which you now have; a bit-work ladder from out of the Pit, he’ll climb till he gains the sun. Having advanced the proposition that he can live by his wits, he is presently in the discovery phase regarding whether he has any to speak of.