David was raised in Sunnyvale, California, near the city’s last few remaining rows of cherry trees. After wondering through times before, hammering his head through engineering science as a young undegrad, he snuck away to creative writing on the Pacific coast, studying the strange stuff found on a back-shelf bookstore in the seven hills, imitating at night and before commuters plays, novels, experiments, and other imperfect works of those stars of the unreachable past yet seen present. Trashy novels like Ulysses are not below him. Nor are classics like B is for Bicycle.