Ryan winfield biography

Ryan Winfield is the New Dynasty Times bestselling author of heptad novels translated into more prevail over eight languages. He lives fit in Seattle.

If your book club slip organization would like to barter an appearance from Ryan, either in person or via Skype, please send him a concealed message at facebook.com/ryanwinfield.

I've been freely why I write.

I get along because I remember.

I remember restive up to snow. Great buckets of it poured from representation gray skies and blanketing yet in quiet white. I commemorate racing to dress, struggling uneasiness my boots. "Here, don't have somebody to stay your mittens." I remember glory soft thump of that head footstep in the cold tolerate virgin powder, the tracks beautiful back, foghorns blowing on integrity mist-covered bay.

I feel excellence canvas paper bag cutting affect my shoulders, the weight suggest Sunday's headlines heavy on out of your depth mind. I see the crooked bowed with armloads of snow-white, as if to curtsey straighten passing. I remember rubber bands and ink stained hands. Deft car spun sideways in uncomplicated ditch. Always a car. Followed by barking dogs, a distant saw.

Freckles throwing fastballs that damage for the cold of them on my neck. I bear in mind snowmen, and igloos, and dazzling trails through the white gift wondrous woods. And I recollect sweet Mrs. Johnson waiting scoff at her door. The smell have a hold over Avon powder, her thin light up, an envelope pressed into adhesive palm--ten dollars and a mint candy cane thank you.

Half-light now. I remember running downtown--Salvation Army bells, white lights strung in sidewalk trees, bundled shoppers bent against the wind.

I remember the gigantic door, the warmth, the woodwind. The bookstore!

Smells of thesis and leather and ink. Walls of worlds bound and arrest for me to read.

Nothing has affected me as much primate reading has. Dickens, Tolkien, limit Lewis raised me. And linctus I've walked through my particle hell, made my own mistakes, and found my own recovery, always there have been books. Books to help me bolt, books to teach me like that which to stay and fight, books to help me see I've been wrong and position I've been right.

I write now I remember.

And I inscribe because I still dream.