Borrowed Tales follows a lonely, troubled man whose vivid barroom recollections force him to confront the unsettling possibility that the memories defining his life may belong to other people. What was the inspiration for the setup of your story?

Sam’s life was shaped from pieces of my early years. Although the story is about ninety‑five percent fiction, certain moments from my past inspired the emotional backbone of his journey. For example, my cousin and his girlfriend used to take me cruising down Main Street, and that simple memory became the backdrop for Sam’s innocent yet troubled youth. Several of his experiences are shaped by real fragments of my life, reimagined to serve the story’s deeper themes.

Why did you choose Leo’s neighborhood bar as the central setting and framing device for Sam’s stories?

Leo’s represents the kind of quiet, familiar establishments I’ve visited over the years. I wanted a place where Sam could sit, listen to music, observe people, and let his mind wander — not a loud, crowded bar, but a “Cheers‑like” environment where everyone knows each other.

Routine and structure were essential for Sam. After years of being told what to do and when to do it, that rhythm became ingrained in him. Leo’s offered the stability he needed to process the memories he believed were his own.

Music frequently triggers Sam’s recollections. What role did particular songs or musical eras play in shaping the novel?

Music has always been a powerful anchor in my life. I often remember events based on the songs that were playing at the time. Even now, I prefer writing in a small bar where one drink lasts for hours. It was during one of those writing sessions — while working on Olivia — that the premise for Borrowed Tales emerged.

Music pulls memories to the surface: where I was, what I was doing, and often a smile that comes with it. For instance, whenever I hear “I Want You” by Savage Garden, I’m transported back to Kuwait, lying on a cot outside my tent, hearing that song for the first time.

Sam’s memories, however, were different. His were learned, not lived. Anyone who has dealt with psychosis knows how convincingly memories or alternate realities can present themselves — as real as the air we breathe.

How did you approach balancing the novel’s humor and sexually charged episodes with its darker themes of abuse, crime, incarceration, and trauma?

I intentionally kept most of the sexually charged moments in the early chapters. I considered explaining their origin upfront but ultimately chose to reveal the truth behind Sam’s memories much later. That delay allows readers to initially see Sam as a reckless womanizer, someone who took advantage of the women he encountered. In reality, being incarcerated so young meant he had no real sexual experiences. He simply absorbed the stories of others — repeated over and over, year after year.

Trauma is rarely discussed openly, yet it shapes people in profound ways. I drew from my own experiences to frame Sam’s mindset. As I wrote, the stories expanded naturally, each keystroke adding depth. All my books carry a significant thread of trauma because I want readers to understand that emotional wounds come from many environments — not just war zones or dangerous neighborhoods. Real people, from all walks of life, carry lifelong scars that shape them and everyone around them.

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