It was a bitter night, even by late December standards.

The first snow of the season, the pure white shadow of Jake Frost, some believed almost certainly but a tick & a tock of the room’s feature piece, an ancient grandfather clock, away.

Mercifully, the spite of winter was kept largely at bay by the ongoing efforts of a smouldering fireplace & brass lamp sat atop its mantel, their combined glow guiding my fingertips as they motioned, back and forth across the weathered face of the family typewriter, the trusted relic clicked enthusiastically whenever the right keys were happened upon.

Little did I know then that what started out as simple Chapter One would end here with VanGore.

Perhaps I am guilty of embellishing, just a little, the finer details of that night some ten years ago when I began to thrash out what would become my first novel, the first book VanGore will publish, but that is one of the luxuries afforded a writer. Embellishment, accentuation, reinterpretation of the mundane, the ordinary and the everyday into something greater than the sum of their parts,

like a magician and an ordinary pack of playing cards perhaps.

Magic then the writer's trade, VanGore the writer's stage, one built on the shared dream of three brothers, C. J. McDonagh, E. J. McDonagh & T. C. McDonagh who spent their childhoods daydreaming and adulthoods writing of places that have never been, heroes we wish existed and creatures we hope never will.

Stick around and let us share all of the above and so much more with you, for the only greater gift than having a story is sharing one.

C. J. McDonagh