They stared at each other, wanting each other, drawn to each other, but their silent shout of love went unheard in the roar of misunderstanding, and the clatter of culturally ingrained beliefs.

Illness and accidents were mysterious manifestations of the war of the spirits, fought on the battleground of the body.

The other mammoths were as protective of the dying as they were of newborns, and they gathered around tying to make the fallen one get up. When all was over, they buried the dead ancestor under piles of dirt, grass, leaves, or snow. Mammoths were even known to bury other dead animals, including humans.

I had tears coming out of my eyes. And it was the characters that got me there.

I started writing to please myself, a story I would like to read, and that is still true.

I can't tell you any more than any other writer can tell you why they write, and I don't know what my influences are.

My fiction is reviewed by the mainstream press, by science fiction periodicals, romance magazines, small press publications and various other journals, including some usually devoted to archaeological and other science material.