Prescott Harvey (left).  Writer.  Family man.  Americana.

Prescott Harvey (left).  Writer.  Family man.  Americana.

I was born in the scrub oaks of Oregon, where the choices ‘round the campfire were Old English or Wild Turkey. Youth was mind expansion via brain cell reduction: A moon-howling, LSD-tripping, cow-tipping wasteland. It was there I learned to think different, if not straight.

I was tempered in suburbia, at a college half-heartedly devoted to the liberal ideal. Where the hippies were well-funded, and the frat parties paint-by-numbers. It was there I learned to think straight, if not different.

I was refined by the midwest, with a Minnesotan wife and family who could nip my wanderlust, ground me in time and place, and show me what it meant to be truly human. It was here I learned to be American.

I come equipped for adventure, with experience guiding rafts, sailing the Pacific, surviving the wild woods, and navigating a White House Christmas party.

I have The Craft: a point of view on adverbs, a moderate appreciation for Strunk & White, and an obscure Thesaurus with a coffee-stained cover.

I have friends in high places, low places, and everywhere in between. I know what they want, how they talk and, most importantly, how to talk to them. Which is why I'm hired to write.



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