Let’s start with the basics. My name is Mark Tufo, although finding yourself on my website probably gave that away.

I’ve been making up stories since I was a kid. Becoming an author people actually read took a little longer, a trip to the garage, and a wife who refused to let me hide behind my excuses.

Years ago, I went into the garage looking for a doohickey to fix a whatchamacallit. Instead, I found the handwritten pages of Indian Hill, a story I’d started in college and then completely forgotten about.

I dusted them off, brought them inside, and promptly forgot whatever I was supposed to be fixing.

“What’s that?” my wife asked.

“An old story I started in college.”

“Are you going to finish it?”

“I guess.”

Not exactly a stirring declaration of artistic ambition, but it was a start.

I finished it. Then I wrote another. Both would probably still be sitting on my hard drive if Tracy hadn’t asked what I planned to do with them.

“Absolutely nothing,” I told her. “What if they’re not good enough? I don’t handle criticism well.”

“Stop being a baby.”

And there you have it. My publishing career began with encouragement, marital honesty, and a mild insult.

We published one story, then another. Readers found them, told their friends, and somehow the characters who’d been living in my head found homes in other people’s imaginations.

More than a million Amazon copies later, I still lose sleep over releasing a book. I want you to laugh, worry, stay up past your bedtime, and care about these characters as much as I do. You’ve given me the chance to keep telling their stories, and I don’t take that for granted.

Thank you for stopping by, for reading, and for being part of this adventure.

Welcome to my world.

Please note that we cannot be held responsible for lost sleep, suspicious noises, or additional blankets purchased for hiding purposes. Any emotional attachment to fictional bulldogs is entirely understandable.

Enjoy!