Welcome
I’m so glad you’re here. Let me share a little about my journey—from navigating the corporate labyrinth of finance, marketing, and advertising to writing MAXIMUS PRIME.
For years, I was politely (and not-so-politely) informed by “Creatives” that creativity wasn’t part of my job description. Apparently, their genius was a members-only club, and I wasn’t on the list. My favorite part? Watching copywriters agonize over a single sentence while I casually offered, “It’s just words—choose them wisely, string them together, and try to make people care.” As you might imagine, this didn’t make me any friends. So, I took their advice to “get lost” quite literally—and wrote a novel instead.
Keep reading, and I’ll tell you how I went from buttoned-up boardrooms to building a universe where anything is possible. Spoiler: it involves chaos, caffeine, and a lot of unsolicited experiences.
Welcome to my origin story.
"Nobody is going to buy your stupid little book.
How can you write a book when you don’t even read?"
– Sarah Kooluris, my wife and the love of my life.
I Mean...
Any married man knows there’s a unique genre of encouragement that only a wife can deliver. Mine? She looked me dead in the eyes and said, “No one is going to read your stupid little book. How can you write a book when you don’t even read?”
Now, at the time, she wasn’t wrong. I wasn’t exactly curling up with Tolstoy at night—I was more of a “skim the back of the cereal box” kind of guy. But still… ouch.
Fast forward two years, and here we are. Since that lovely pep talk, I’ve gone full maniac—devouring books, studying the craft, learning what makes a sentence sing (and what makes it suck), building characters with actual depth, and obsessing over voice like it’s a lost art. I’ve basically turned into the guy who reads craft blogs for fun and argues with himself about POV like it’s a moral crisis.
Huge thanks to my beta readers for putting up with drafts, red pens, and existential texts that read like “Does this scene work or should I move to the woods and start over?”
And I’ve learned one big lesson: not all advice is worth taking. “Your first book is throwaway.” “Quantity over quality.” “Just get it out there.” Yeah, no thanks. I didn’t write this to toss it in the void.
This is the story I’ve wanted to tell my whole life. The only one. And I’ve bled over every paragraph trying to make it worthy of your time.
So yes—she was right. Then. But now? I’m proud to say this stupid little book just might prove her wrong.
Here’s how it all started:
My Story...
I was born in 1976, a scrappy Gen X kid raised in the wilds of Westchester, New York—back when outside was still a place of adventure, not just a backdrop for your phone. We didn’t stream life; we showed up for it. Whether it was a new episode of MacGyver or an unsanctioned BMX race, you had to be there—or risk social exile.
My siblings and I roamed our suburban kingdom until my mom clanged her infamous cowbell from the back porch. That was our curfew bell, but it might as well have been a call to arms. We'd leap fences and dodge sprinklers just to make it home for dinner. Not bad for a town that thought it was fancy.
Indoors, we had video games—but no YouTube walkthroughs or in-app purchases. Beating The Legend of Zelda took grit, patience, and the occasional hand-drawn map passed around at lunch. That kind of earned joy shaped me. Still does.
My dad, a pharmaceutical exec, measured success by the evolution of driveway cars and always thinks he knows a faster route than Google. My mom, now 83, runs her own art gallery and refuses to slow down. Together, they've spent a lifetime trying—and failing—to rein each other in. Thank God for that.
My twin brother and I changed schools more often than outfits, in our parents' eternal quest for “academic excellence.” We eventually landed at Salisbury Boarding School in Connecticut, which appears—only slightly fictionalized—in my book.
Professionally, I’ve done the corporate dance: banking, advertising, consulting. I’ve cosplayed as a grown-up for 25 years.
I met my wife Sarah on Match.com. She messaged me because she liked my dog. I assumed she was a catfish. She wasn’t. She’s brilliant, fierce, and the strongest woman I know. She’s also the muse behind every strong female character I write, and she still puts up with me—a miracle in itself.
We live in Westchester with two boys and two dogs. Our oldest son has non-verbal autism. We’ve never had a traditional conversation, but every gesture he makes feels like a gift. Technology—once something I resented—has become his voice. It’s a daily reminder that progress is rarely linear, and that human connection can emerge in the most unexpected, beautiful ways. When you learn to love the hardest thing you've ever faced, life has a way of revealing its deepest blessings.
This book has been simmering for decades. I finally wrote it during COVID, fueled by caffeine and Sarah’s eye-rolls. “Who writes a book when they barely read?” she asked. Fair point. But she cried when she finished it, which told me I got something right. And yes—the book’s “Sara-without-an-h” is named after her. I dropped the ‘h’ so she couldn’t say, “I told you so.”
In the end, this book is a love letter—to the ’80s and ’90s, to the beautiful mess of growing up, and to the real stuff we sometimes lose in a world obsessed with the fake. Writing it wasn’t easy. But nothing worth doing ever is.
Let's prove Sarah wrong!
"I am never wrong."
– Sarah
