I'm a strange person.
I have two novels to my name and they have nothing in common. One's a meticulously researched story/exposé set in the byzantine world of public relations. The other's a multi-part science-fictiony suspense epic about super-powered people on an alternate Earth. Even I can't believe they're from the same guy, and I'm that guy.
When the initial idea for The Flight of the Silvers first roared its way into my brain, fifteen years ago, I consciously ignored it. I was determined to be a serious writer, the kind who appealed to readers who used terms like "oeuvre" instead of "Team Edward." So I pushed the idea to the back corner of my psyche, between my old phone numbers and my repressed memories of Star Wars: Episode I. And then I wrote Slick.
Make no mistake: I loved every minute I spent on that book. It was a serious comedy, one that had much to say about truth and cynicism in a modern media age. The story was pure me from cover to back, and I was incredibly lucky to find a champion at Random House who appreciated the novel for what it was.
But I still wasn't satisfied. Every time I went back to my inner muse for a new book idea, she pushed that damn Silvers story on me. Excuse me, musey, this isn't what I asked for. I'm looking for the literary equivalent of a three-piece suit and you're giving me a Spider-Man costume.
I dawdled in this quandary for two and a half years, unable to move forward or back, until fate gave me a push in the right direction.
And by "push in the right direction," I mean cancer.
I won't burden you with the details of that fun summer. Suffice it to say that modern medicine saved me and the experience realigned my whole concept of "not dying," a thing I'd been doing all my life with little fanfare until I got sick. The cancer altered my perspective on a lot of things, not the least of which was The Flight of the Silvers. I finally acknowledged that the story wouldn't go away until I finally wrote the damn thing. So I stashed away my old pretensions, cracked open the Macbook, and started writing.
Now that it's done (at least the first book), I can tell you the funny part. The Flight of the Silvers, for all its supernatural conceits, is the realest story I've ever written. The characters jumped out at me in a way they never did before. The Silvers are all confronted with their mortality on a daily basis. They've turned not dying into a full-time job, and they face their threats in ways that are heroic and otherwise, simple and otherwise.
Once again I was lucky to find a publisher who appreciated the book for what it was. It may have armageddons and flying cars and enough temporal manipulation to make your brain bleed, but in the end, The Flight of the Silvers is all about the people. I've fallen in love with each and every character in the story, even the bad guys. I can't put them down. Good thing for me I've already sold the sequel.
But wait, this is a bio page, so...okay, I'm Daniel Price. I was born in 1970. I live in Glendale, California. I'm a strange person but I tell the stories I want to tell, and that's pretty darn nice.
I love hearing from readers, so please feel free to contact me. You can also find me on Twitter, for some reason.