about

C.R. Dickinson was born in Upstate New York in what is referred to as the Finger Lakes region. A large expanse of farmland and pockets of forest portioned off by long, thin lakes in central New York State. Not city. A distinction he’s found necessary to make as he’s traveled the country and noticed that most people tend to forget there’s an entire state connected to that city on the coast.

He had spent six years working for various farms on the rolling—and rocky—but fertile land in this little-known agricultural hub. The long hours and longer workweeks that ran from Sunday to Sunday gave him ample time to ponder life’s great mysteries. . . or curse out a piece of machinery that happened to break for the umpteenth time that day. He’d be the first to admit that the work was hard, and the pay could always be better, but the views across those valleys with the sun setting over the distant ridgelines were worth more than any six-figure salary.

It was in these fields, puttering around on tractors twenty years his senior, where the seeds that would grow into The Gift of Life were first planted (pun intended). As he would drive around in circles all day, never leaving the same field, his mind would wander to distant lands and distant planets, envisioning the technology it would take to reach them. Or for those who were already there to reach here. By the end of the day, he’d have a rich source of ideas to pull from once he got home, took a quick shower, had a quicker dinner, then worked his second job at the writing desk through the night and into the early morning before finally hitting the bed so he could get up and go back to his day job.

Though he doesn’t work on the farms anymore, stories still build inside his head like a rolling storm cloud. Its thunderous bark calling to him in the deepest recesses of his minds, so he cannot help but drag himself to his desk every day to put more words on paper and breathe life into more characters and worlds yet to be known.