When people ask me about the inspiration behind The Future is Now and its predecessor The Past is Present, I often find myself returning to the same answer: the St. John Valley of northern Maine, where I grew up. This isn’t just geographical nostalgia—it’s recognition that small-town life shaped not only my storytelling but my understanding of what it means to be human.

Here are five ways that growing up in a place “at the edge of the map” made me both a better writer and a better man:

1. Small Towns Teach You That Everyone Has a Story Worth Telling

In Van Buren, population 1,000, you can’t dismiss people as background characters. The mechanic who fixes your truck also coaches Little League, volunteers at the fire department, and maybe struggles with demons you never see. The waitress at the diner might be putting herself through nursing school or caring for an aging parent.

This intimacy with the full complexity of ordinary people became fundamental to my writing. When I created Evan Cross—ex-convict, skilled mechanic, devoted father—I drew on this understanding that labels never capture the whole person. The man who made terrible mistakes is also the one who can diagnose an engine problem by sound alone, who lights up when his eight-year-old son visits the homestead.

Growing up small taught me that heroism and failure often live in the same heart. This makes for richer characters and, I believe, more compassionate living.

2. You Learn the Power of Quiet Moments

City life rushes past in a blur of noise and motion. Small-town life teaches you to find meaning in the spaces between events—sitting on a porch watching fireflies rise from tall grass, the comfortable silence of working alongside someone you trust, the way light changes over familiar fields through the seasons.

These quiet moments became the backbone of my novels. Some of my most important scenes happen not during dramatic confrontations but in laundry rooms, garden beds, and workshop corners. The scene where Gabe discovers evidence of Evan’s dreams carries more emotional weight than any car chase ever could, precisely because it honors the profound intimacy found in ordinary domestic moments.

Small towns teach you that transformation happens not in grand gestures but in the accumulation of small choices, daily kindnesses, and the courage to stay present with another person’s unfolding.

3. Community Accountability Shapes Character

In a small town, your reputation follows you everywhere. This can feel suffocating when you’re young, but it also creates a web of accountability that shapes character in profound ways. You can’t easily reinvent yourself by moving across town—everyone knows your history, your family, your mistakes.

This social reality became central to Evan’s journey in The Future is Now. His return from prison isn’t just about personal redemption; it’s about rebuilding trust within a community that remembers who he used to be. The scene where Danny Pelletier visits the workshop carries tension precisely because it represents the collision of Evan’s past and present selves.

Living under this kind of scrutiny taught me that authentic change requires consistency over time. You can’t just declare yourself transformed—you have to prove it through a thousand small actions until the community gradually adjusts its understanding of who you are. This is both terrifying and liberating, and it makes for compelling storytelling.

4. You Understand the Sacred in the Ordinary

Small-town life moves with the rhythms of seasons, harvests, and natural cycles. You notice things that urban dwellers miss: the exact day when maple buds begin to swell, the sound of geese returning north, the way snow changes everything into something both familiar and mysterious.

This attunement to natural cycles deeply influenced my spiritual perspective and my writing. Gabe’s Buddhist philosophy isn’t abstract—it’s grounded in the practical wisdom of someone who has watched countless seasons teach their lessons about impermanence, interconnection, and the beauty found in accepting what is.

The homestead in my novels isn’t just a setting; it’s a character that embodies the possibility of living in harmony with natural rhythms rather than fighting against them. Small towns keep you connected to these larger patterns in ways that make both writing and living feel more authentic.

5. Proximity Breeds Both Conflict and Compassion

When you can’t easily avoid people, you learn to navigate complex relationships with patience and nuance. The neighbor who annoys you is also the one who plows your driveway in blizzards. The classmate you clash with becomes the person who helps you move years later.

This forced proximity taught me that most human conflicts aren’t between good and evil but between different forms of woundedness trying to heal. Even my antagonists—like Layla in the novels—aren’t villains but complex people making choices from their own histories of pain and protection.

Small-town life showed me that sustainable relationships require learning to hold multiple truths simultaneously: someone can be both frustrating and valuable, both limited and lovable. This nuanced understanding of human nature makes for more authentic storytelling and more peaceful living.

The Larger Truth

What strikes me most about growing up small is how it prepared me to write about love—not the Hollywood version, but the kind that sustains real relationships. The love between Evan and Gabe isn’t built on dramatic declarations but on the accumulation of small acts of care: doing laundry, sharing coffee, creating space for someone to become their truest self.

Small towns teach you that love is less about finding the perfect person and more about choosing to see the person in front of you clearly, with all their contradictions and possibilities. They teach you that home isn’t a place but a web of relationships built over time through shared work, mutual support, and the radical act of staying present with each other’s growth.

These lessons shaped every page of my novels. They’ve also shaped the man I’ve become—someone who values depth over drama, presence over perfection, and the quiet heroism of choosing love even when it’s difficult.

The St. John Valley may be at the edge of the map, but it’s at the center of everything that matters: how we treat each other, how we build meaning from ordinary moments, and how we create the conditions for authentic transformation.

In a world that often feels fragmented and rushed, small-town wisdom offers something essential: the reminder that we are all interconnected, that our stories matter, and that the most profound changes happen not through grand gestures but through the daily choice to show up for each other with open hearts.

That’s the truth I try to capture in my writing. It’s also the truth I try to live.

Key themes: creativity, discipline, storytelling, gratitude