David Morgan is more an
idea than an actual person. Created in a sterilized 1980s laboratory with
gleaming white walls, he was marked for greatness, bound to be a beacon in the
sea of humanity, leading the masses to an everlasting epoch of unequaled love and
prosperity. Under the flickering glow of a long fluorescent tube, he was taken
pain-staking care of by a classified team of anonymous doctors, who watched, if
not lovingly, at very least proudly, as he grew from idea, to germ, to bouncing
baby boy. Nourished on the best things money can’t buy and taught at the feet
of the greatest philosophers yet to be born, David Morgan grew into a man. And
became a writer. And the doctors were all canned.
Or David Morgan was born
in California, but only lived there for a short time before being whisked away
to spend his formative years in Virginia Beach, Virginia. He played a lot of
soccer, but only when he wasn’t parading around the neighborhood with his
brother. He excelled in school right up to the point when he realized that the
world would, in fact, not end if he didn’t complete his homework, and then he
did okay. Above all he was nice. Or so he would have you believe. But what he
won’t tell you, is that he once sent a friend hurtling down a dirt path on a
bike, instructing him that on this part
of the trail you have to go as fast as you can, and then David watched in
delight as said friend jumped the edge of a small cliff and ended up hanging
inches above a dirty creek, only separated from the stinking water by a dense
patch of foliage. He won’t tell you about that.
David lives with his wife
and daughters in a house. He is severely outnumbered at home in the gender
department, but he thinks that’s pretty cool. David writes from the warm
tropical beaches of his mind, but looks forward to a day when he can write from
the warm tropical beaches of Hawaii’s reality.
If you can’t get enough of
David—and who can?—there’s more available here:
You can also contact him
at davemorganbooks@gmail.com
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