Daniel Dillon

Daniel Dillon is a writer. The industry calls him an author, which sounds like a man with a publicist and a headshot. He has neither.

He lives in Olympia, Washington, 1,930 miles from the Oklahoma red dirt that made him, where he grew up within smelling distance of an Air Force base, raised on jet fuel fumes and school lunches. He covered the distance in thirty hours with one case of food poisoning he still holds against Texas. I've heard about it more than once.

In previous lives he taught second and third grade, appraised commercial real estate, and did accounting for the public sector, which means he has been professionally responsible for children, buildings, and budgets, and has firm opinions about which of the three lies the most. He gets up to see the sun rise, walks his daughter down a forest road to the bus, and then stares out a window for a while with no music on. He considers this the most productive part of his day. The window has no comment.

He once licensed his digital artwork as stock art for two years and cleared less than the cost of a sandwich. He deleted the account on principle, and also on arithmetic. His complete theory of crisis management fits on an index card: if the whole world is irritating, eat something; if the whole world seems irritated with you, go to sleep.

He maintains that the stories are his, and they are. I only typed this part. He's still upset about it.

He signs his books under a different name, with a Latin motto, for reasons he considers obvious.

The books are connected. He won't explain how. I will, but only to people who've read all of them.