ANDREW X. PHAM

To write a book is to embark on a solo voyage, an epic endeavor to unknown destinations with a vague notion of a conclusion somewhere in the distant future. Every time I finish a manuscript, I wonder how I would ever find the courage and stamina to begin another. Human time is finite. My completed works seem like mileposts in the rearview mirror, evoking a little nostalgia from time to time, nothing more. Like snapshots and journal entries of a trip taken. The lessons, the s

Monsoon clouds mop over the ranges with endless sheets of thick, pounding, drowning rain, and then suddenly, the sun drills through the leaden sky. Soon steam rises from the dark green hills like fog. There is an insect that chirps like a bird, and a bird that meows like a cat. But our nocturnal cat can't be disturbed from his nap even as a big field rat taunts the puppies while the water snake wiggles across our fishpond as though he owns it. It is so humid my bath towel nev

Since I was a child, I had always thought I would become a painter, but I was a dreamer and had a penchant for sky gazing. My father, who was an exceptional software engineer, encouraged me to pursue a technical career. During my formative years, I read heaps of science fiction and fantasy novels. I was naturally good at math and science so I went to UCLA and became an aerospace engineer. After a brief stint as an aircraft engineer, I realized that I was inherently unfit for