Blake Hamilton grew up wedged between two brothers. He was the middle child - the boring one, the neglected one. At least that’s how he felt. But his mother called him her Peanut Butter and Jelly Boy. “Because,” she said, “you are the best part of the sandwich.” 

This meant Blake’s brothers were just bread. He loved that, even if he knew it wasn’t true.

In his second grade lunchroom, Blake wrote his first short story while chomping on tater tots. It was titled “The Children's Home”. The plot went thusly:

BOY has no parents, BOY goes to orphanage, BOY is miserable, BOY gets adopted, BOY lives happily ever after! 


(Thanks to a certain aforementioned mother, this story has survived the ages.)

At this point in Blake's early life, the course of his future was unknown. He could have become a competitive arm wrestler, or a keytar player, or a marine biologist who hates fish, or so many other things. But, because Mrs. Soloman framed “The Children's Home” in blue construction paper and displayed it beside the blackboard for the entire class to admire, Blake’s life was forever changed. 

“I will not arm wrestle for money, or play the keytar, or study plankton samples,” he decided. “But perhaps I will write about them, and a great many other things besides.”

Blake now lives in New Jersey, where he is surrounded by girls: his wife, their daughter, and a feckless tabby. Occasionally, he picks up a camera and tells stories using motion pictures, but he remains happiest with a pen in his hand.