Thornton Sumner was born in Seattle, and was educated at the Northwest College of Art, in Poulsbo, Washington. Before becoming a full-time writer, he pursued a number of odd professions which included: ballroom dance instructor, timberman for the Department of National Resources, and freelance artist painting murals and portraits. He currently lives with his cat, Diallo, in their apartment in Seattle.

Dune

Of all the books that have shaped me as a writer, Dune stands above the rest. Others — Tolkien among them — influenced my love of invented languages and mythic backstory, but only in Frank Herbert’s work do I hear a kindred author’s voice each time I return to it. His world‑building is vast yet intimate, his ecology and politics intricately layered, and his weaving of philosophy and religion feels effortless within the sweep of an epic.

What astonishes me is how Dune rewards the reader on so many levels at once — the surface narrative, the cultural depth, the spiritual undercurrents, the psychological nuance. Each rereading reveals something new. That is the effect I strive for in my own work: stories that continue to unfold long after the first pass, offering fresh payoffs every time they’re revisited.

Watership Down

This is another book I never tire of rereading. Richard Adams elevates what could have been a simple story about rabbits into a profound exploration of survival on an epic scale. It carries an emotional depth, a sense of community, and the quiet heroism of ordinary lives that is hard to find in genre fiction.

The influence of this book on me is especially clear in my use of Tapu, a trickster hare within Batu mythology. Tapu is a direct homage to El‑Ahrairah, the folkloric hero of Adams’s world. There are many such intertextual threads woven throughout my writing, each one a small tribute to a master storyteller whose work showed me how myth, culture, and narrative can intertwine to create something enduring.

The Sandman

Neil Gaiman’s Sandman series is the kind of work that makes me want to stop creating fiction and simply read it. The worlds he builds, the characters he shapes, the mythic  threads he weaves together — they’re so nuanced and alive that I sometimes wonder why I bother writing when something like Sandman already exists.

But that question circles back to the reason I’ve spent more than seventeen years building my own epic. For all the authors I’ve loved, voices like Gaiman’s are rare. It takes endurance to sift through the endless noise of fiction to find the few works that resonate on a deeper level.

I’ve never encountered anything quite like what I’m attempting with the Batu saga. And, now that I think about it, I wonder if Gaiman felt the same way when he began Sandman — that sense of stepping into a story only he could tell. I’d like to think so.

Lost Horizon

There’s something timeless and serene about what James Hilton achieved in Lost Horizon. This is the novel that gave us the word Shangri‑La — a symbol of a peaceful, hidden paradise untouched by the noise of the modern world. Hilton’s blend of adventure, mystery, and quiet philosophical longing captures that universal desire for something beyond the ordinary. In many ways, that longing has shaped my entire life.

Yes, placing my own peaceful tribe within an isolated valley paradise has become something of a cliché, even before Hilton did it. And cliché is death for an author. But Hilton proved that it’s not the trope that matters — it’s the execution. And now it’s my turn, taking an old archetype and making it my own.

Einstein

I’ve been fascinated by physics and quantum mechanics since my teenage years, but my deeper interest in Albert Einstein began after reading The Private Albert Einstein by Peter A. Bucky. The book’s collection of interviews revealed a man whose insights reached far beyond theoretical physics, inspiring a profound respect for his way of seeing the world. As an artist, I’ve found his aged, expressive face endlessly compelling — I’ve drawn and painted him more than a dozen times. Having painted since childhood, I’ve always admired how Einstein transcended the boundaries of his own discipline; that same spirit guides me as I strive to paint with words through my fiction.

Tiger Cub

This painting, done in acrylic on linen, was a study in fierce cuteness — a reflection of the relationship I share with my cat, Diallo. The texture of the fur, the vivid intensity of the cub’s gaze, and the pulse of energy behind it all mirror her own wild spirit. There’s something both unsettling and comforting in that look: a reminder that love and ferocity often coexist, and that if I were to die in my sleep, she’d probably eat me — and somehow, I find that oddly reassuring.

Love Bites

This acrylic-on-canvas piece is one of my attempts to push beyond simply replicating what I see. My tendency toward photorealism has been the bane of my entire career as an artist. Though many clients still appreciate it, for me it’s become a creative dead end. In an age of Photoshop and A.I., technique alone no longer feels like enough. Creativity has become king.

In this painting, I reached for something more imaginative: a surreal meditation on the lengths one may go to rescue their loves from the monstrosities of life. Yet even here, the technique is still stuck in the mud of realism. This struggle for creative expression beyond what I see right in front of me has only ever achieved its ultimate expression in writing fiction, where I can finally stretch my creative wings in ways painting never allowed.

Some people say a picture is worth a thousand words, but I’ve come to believe the best pictures are painted with words. It is only through words that the audience is included as active participants in the process of imagination.

Jayson’s Starry Night

This photo shows a painting I recently finished for Jayson, the young man holding it. We share a love for Vincent van Gogh, and after he saw a replication I did of one of van Gogh’s self‑portraits, he asked if I could recreate Starry Night — but with him standing in the foreground. As with all my replications of famous works, I approached it with respect for the original: same scale, similar materials, and the same deliberate, patient brushwork. This one was painted in oil on canvas at 29 by 36 inches.

It took longer than I expected, especially since I was deep in the final edits of my Wings of Providence manuscript at the time. But the look on Jayson’s face when I finally delivered it made it all worthwhile.

Sailboat Racing

Racing sailboats on the Puget Sound is electrifying. The competition is fierce as you navigate around buoys, shifting winds, and the ever-changing currents. I always work the foredeck as the crew’s bowman, which is where all the action of boat handling takes place – and where they say all the real sailors can be found. There’s a real adrenaline rush as you take down and put up sails, where speed is everything and you push your boat for every second. Then at the end, the satisfaction of crossing that finish line on a clear Seattle day is unbeatable.

Aside from the racing itself, you’re also surrounded by these stunning mountain views – Olympics on one side, Cascades on the other. I absolutely love racing, every time giving me a chance to connect with the water and the city in way that’s just magical.

Mountain Hiking

The upper photo was taken during a climb to the top of Mount Dickerman. Hiking in the Cascades is like stepping into another world. Just a short drive from Seattle, every trail opens up to towering peaks, alpine lakes, and endless forests. The air is fresh, and every ascent feels like a quiet journey of self-discovery – whether I’m summiting a peak or just lingering beside a waterfall.

The lower photo was taken during an expedition just recently up at Lake-22. The hike is a perfect blend of challenge and reward. Starting in a lush forest, the trail winds alongside a babbling creek, gradually climbing until you’re surrounded by dramatic cliffs and old-growth trees. When you finally reach the lake, it’s like a hidden gem – the still waters that aren’t iced over mirroring the jagged peaks above. It’s a place where you can truly feel the power of the mountains, but it’s also a place where you can just sit and soak in the silence as time slows down.

Hot Air Ballooning

For someone who is afraid of heights, I have a funny way of showing it. From seeking out views from atop the Sears Tower in Chicago, the Empire State building in New York, a helicopter tour over Manhattan and around the Statue of Liberty, and sky diving over Snohomish Valley – it seems like it’s the fear of heights that makes it all so much fun.

Hot air ballooning is another animal altogether, testing my fear of heights in a way none of my other adventures have. And yet, it’s also the most magical. Hot air ballooning from Snohomish Valley to Woodinville is like drifting into a dream. As the balloon rises, you see a patchwork of farmland, misty rivers, and distant mountains, all bathed in a golden morning light. There’s a quiet stillness up there – just the soft burn of the flame and the world unfolding beneath you.

Bird Watching

I spent most of my life thinking of myself as a dog person. I liked cats well enough in passing, but after owning one decades ago – a less‑than‑positive experience – I wrote them off entirely. Cats, I insisted, don’t need you, don’t love you — at best, they use you for furniture. And then came Diallo, and my opinion changed forever.

Diallo was an accident, in that I had no intention of having her – or her, me. Rather, she came like any wild thing might, whether I willed her or not. She needed help and a temporary home, so I offered one. That “temporary” arrangement has quietly become an indefinite one. As it turns out, having a pet who is largely self‑sustaining and doesn’t demand constant attention is ideal for a writer. Even her rhythms match mine, asking for affection just when I need a break. Otherwise, she’s content to perch on the piano, tracking every bird in Pioneer Square from our ninth‑story window.

By the very nature of her independence, she’s become the perfect companion.

My Co-Author

Though she doesn’t believe me when I tell her, Diallo was actually named after the protagonist in my manuscript, Wings of Providence, not vice-versa. I’ve tried explaining to her how the character in my story is ten years older than she is, but it turns out cats don’t view time the way we humans do. They live entirely in the present, with no concepts for past and future. So, for her, no matter what I say, the fictional Diallo was named after her. And that’s just the way it has to be.

Diallo – the one with fur – has also taken to sitting quietly on my writing desk as I work, watching every move my fingers make over the keyboard with her critical gaze. She has a way of letting me know if she has a problem with what I’m writing by batting at the cursor flitting to and fro across the screen beside her. Or simply sniffing at it, as if finding what I’m writing to be questionable. Though maybe she  just recognizes her name there on the screen and is curious what I’m writing about her.

She is a curious kitty. Makes me wonder how many lives she’s burned through before we found each other.

A Mutual Love For Piano

My history with the piano goes back to when I began taking lessons in the first grade. Though my love for the piano didn’t begin until high school. Finding an old upright in a dark corner of my school’s music room, it became a routine for me to go there during my lunch hour to play moody adagios that mirrored my teenaged angst. As an adult my relationship with the piano blossomed into a full-blown romance.

It became a deeply sensual thing for me, where I approached every piano I encountered like I would a new lover. Each one has their own distinct personality. The one in the photo is still a new one for me and I’m taking my time with it, calibrating the weight and action of each key in turn. Black and white, like Diallo – the pattern of the keys establishing a strong visual impression of formal elegance. As in its sonic range of drama between soft and loud. Subtlety and power. The vibration of strings being struck by their little felt hammers send tremors through the keys, up my fingers and down my spine – grounding me in goosebumps.

I’m pretty sure Diallo loves the feeling as well, as evidenced by her leaping to her bird watching perch whenever I sit down to play.