​

     The Nunes family relocated quite frequently for various reasons, never really settling roots anywhere in particular. Although, he did frequent certain areas of Ontario for a great deal of his youth, including Belleville, North York, North Bay, and Scarborough in his later teens, there was never a solid place to rest his head and call home. A constant change of schools and friendships took its toll on his childhood, though there were some positive attributes included with the ever-changing life of a social vagabond, particularly adapting to make new friends on the regular. This helped sort out some of the social issues he had dealt with in early childhood.  

​

     The few constants were his immediate and extended family. Steven's father, George, was considered a work horse in his field, and build like a brick house; a roofer at the top of his game in the GTA. His dad spent much less time with him than he wished, but the family of four never lacked financially. Back then, he was known to his son as "The big guy on the couch" the running joke being that he only ever watched the beginning and end credits of every film, far too exhausted to keep his eyes open long enough to watch a full-length film in its entirety. One of his more cherished memories was one particular summer night when his father was suffering from heat stroke, which is common in the roofing industry. The feeling of this horrific condition is comparable to having your brain boiled in your skull, according to the author. Steven woke in the middle of the night to find his father on the kitchen floor, curled up and shivering below the only functioning air conditioning unit in the house. He covered his father with a thin blanket, and lovingly kissed him on his forehead. In that moment, the boy felt the intense heat radiating from his skin, like a living furnace, though somehow shivering like it was the coldest of arctic conditions. Only then did he realize just how hard his father worked to provide for his family, and the often gruesome sacrifices which come with fatherhood.

 

  Throughout the years, though they have had their differences, George remains the main guiding light in his son's life, and a powerful source of faith and compassion.  

​

    Steven's mother, Deborah(Debby) was a career bookkeeper for most of her career, though she dabbled in childcare and later administration positions, but in her later years acquired a teacher's degree. She had made many great sacrifices herself, scarcely a moments rest between eight-hour shifts, cooking and cleaning, and all the other relentless duties of a responsible mother. During the busy roofing seasons, Debby was busy taking her children to theme parks, countless planned trips and activities with family and friends. 

    Steven's mother was the first to put a paint brush in his hand, as she herself dabbled in the arts, mostly painting ceramics. This early exposure would set him on an artistic path for the remainder of his life, a fact for which he is quite thankful. A self-proclaimed momma's boy, a badge in which he wears with pride, the author would keep her with a unique place in his heart, all his life. His most cherished memory, however, occurred much later in life: the day she danced with her son at his wedding, to the tune of "Because You Loved Me" by Celine Dion. Debby had been there for the crucial parts of his life, many not so glamorous, and some down right shameful; but she never looked down on him, nor judged him for his many mistakes, but simply encouraged to do better.   

​

    Steven's relationship with his sister, Jennifer, however, can only be described a grim—even complicated and complex according to the author. Though he admittedly looked up to her in his early childhood, the siblings never really found themselves on the same page for more than a fleeting moment. Though there was a fierce love between them, they just never got along the way siblings should, the author revealed with a distant glare. For the most part, they remain polar opposites; one the street-savvy, creative and spiritual type, and the other the atheistic, bookworm, science type. "We are pretty equal in stubbornness, I find; two side of the same coin, really. One side is practical, the other non-practical." Though they found themselves united every so often, their personalities would clash like milk and lemon juice. Nevertheless, blood is blood, and there's nothing he wouldn't do for her, if Jennifer were ever in need, he assured me. His most cherished memory was the day she showed up for his first book signing. Though the theme of the book was highly spiritual, a debate in which they regularly locked horns, the fact she was there regardless of her own beliefs meant the world to him. The author refuses to get into detail when it come to specifics of their arguments, summing up the relationship as such:

    "Jen and I just clash, but if she ever needed me, make no mistake, I'd be on the first plane out of Pearson. I wouldn't skip a beat."

    Jennifer and Debby later relocated to Calgary, Alberta; a move which shattered all hope of being together long term, as their absence extracted a heavy toll on the author's life. His sister has a daughter now, her birth the first and last time all five members of the Nunes family would most likely be in the same room for the foreseeable future. Saphira is sadly missed, her uncle missing the most important moments as she grows, like a searing hole in his heart that still burns when the wind blows. The subject brought tears to his eyes during this interview, before he insisted quite persistently that we move foreword.  

​

   In his youth, extended family was everywhere, as both his parents were baby boomers—five grandparents, fifteen uncles and aunts, and an ever-growing litter of crazy cousins and their offspring. As such, there were never any shortages of loving relatives to ease the general theme of the lone outsider, as there were open arms at every turn. In the presence of family, there was never judgement or any reason to explain himself, and he rarely did. His most cherished memories were visiting with his cousins Sheena and Lisa and Aunt Betty, and extended stays at Aunt Wendy and Uncle Rob's place in the Canadian Military areas of Ontario, with his cousins Deryk, Nathan and Jason. His Uncle John spent the most time with him, introducing him to hard rock and metal, talking about girls laughing to the early hours of the night. His daughter Lily would in turn become a fierce presence in his life, ever aiding his own personal growth. Aunt Suzie played the fun role in his life, her children Adam, Sabrina and Aaron hold a particular place in his heart.

    Home was never a tangible place to Steven, but simply where the heart lay in the moment, and his heart was always with his family. 

​

    Something rather peculiar suddenly occurred in his childhood, and then . . . everything changed. Mere weeks after his twelfth birthday, a strange supernatural event would shape his future in ways he could never have imagined. When asked about the specifics of this event, the author seemed to stare into oblivion for a moment. "By the pricking of my thumbs." he grimaced with a slight rasp in his voice, lowering his brow in deep thought before shaking his head back to the real world. "One day I'll write about it, perhaps in a memoir, but that's between me and the Almighty, I'm afraid."

    During his youth, Steven dared not reveal the specifics of what he describes as a terrifying encounter with dark phenomena to anyone close to him, as he was positive he would end up in a straight jacket, convinced no one would believe him, and certainly no one could possibly understand. And so, he kept the worst of himself quiet, the horror of this memory echoing through his mind whenever the noise quieted; his thoughts his own personal prison. As such, he never felt safe while he was alone, developing a fear of the dark and enclosed spaces, and anything that went bump in the night. It wasn't until his adult years when he finally revealed what happened to his parents, and a select few trusted loved ones. 

​

   What followed was a lifetime of severe night terrors, personal torment and religious confusion; some of which remains a struggle to this very day. A misled understanding of the afterlife would leave him in a constant state of guilt and paranoia, as it was made clear by certain members of the church that he was being punished for something he couldn't possibly understand—a bit much for a child who wanted nothing more than to play with his friends and draw. Complex questions would render the average pastor baffled, and it didn't take long for him to realize that the so-called professionals in religious institutions didn't really know how to handle such heavy subjects. In fact, it appeared they were more scared of these "entities" than he was. When speaking of the demonic, there seemed to be no one with the guts or knowledge to act. And so began a life long journey down a seemingly endless rabbit hole, trying desperately to understand that which cannot be unexplained. The goal today is as it ever was, according to Steven, to figure out why these terrible things had occurred, and ensure it could never happen to any future offspring. 

   "Preachers love to talk about the good shit, Sermon on the Mound and whatnot, but bring up the dark side, and suddenly the conversation turns vague, and eerily indifferent. You'd be surprised just how quickly men of faith will shut down a conversation almost immediately."

 

Teenage Years

 

    Steven became utterly lost in a world from which he constantly felt isolated, not quite understanding how everyone else seemed so normal, yet he felt trapped in a world of spiritual confliction. Grades dropped significantly, as there wasn't much beyond the arts that interested him; his common place of peace and reflection. He began smoking at the age of thirteen, drinking at fourteen; then began a downward spiral of bitterness, regret, and misguided intentions. Memories of the strange supernatural encounter grew like a tumor in his head, and uninterrupted sleep became scarce. When teachers spoke in class, and assignments were due, a blanketed depression replied. 

 

    "I just always thought, "Why does any of this matter? Why are we so concerned with book reports and whatnot, when there are eyes that watch us while we sleep, hiding in the shadows?" I'd look around at other kids in class, thinking: "There's got to be someone else; why is it just me?" A confusing time in my life, my childhood. More than anything I feared my mind was slipping—delusional, or worse. There was no literature on the subject available, and I wouldn't speak of the encounters to my family; and so I was alone." Steven shrugged with a huff of despair. "It wasn't until the internet came along when I finally realized I wasn't the only one."   

​

    The steady drop in grades assured he could not attend a normal high school, but a BTI (Business Technical Institution) This school was where they sent the troubled kids to learn trades rather than a career based on intellect. This was certainly not due to a lack of intelligence, however. He would excel in Mathematics, English, History and the Arts, much higher grades than average, in fact. Yet the academic damage had been done, and there was no turning back.  

​

    Living in an underprivileged neighborhood was like living in a war zone at times. Steven was no stranger to police sirens, local drug raids and gang violence at his school. He had spent years being jumped, mugged and robbed on his way to and from school, and coming home with black eyes, bruises and cuts was the norm. One such assault put him in the hospital, beaten so mercilessly that his own mother couldn't recognize him. The doctors were amazed, however. Though the assault included several broken liquor bottles smashed over his face, kicked mercilessly with steel toed boots, he didn't break a single bone—not even a minor fracture.  

 

    "I'll never forget the day I walked through the door of the apartment, after the hospital, when the bruising swelled. My mother turned to me, standing broken in the doorway, an unfamiliar man where a boy once stood, and said to my father "That's not my son." She wasn't wrong. I never cried so hard in my life."  

​

    Often times the violence was race related, as Steven was a minority in a gangland area. The experience made him tough yet vulnerable, wise but naïve at the same time. During the assault, a few of the assailants were carrying guns, one in particular flashed before the mayhem ensued. However, they were miraculously never used—a vision which haunts him to this very day, consistently wondering if one small factor would have been different, whether he was meant to die that day, only fifteen years old. More than anything, he gained street smarts and humility, accepting that he was unequivocally alone, with the exception of a single friend, Antonio. Though they have parted ways since, Steven would never forget his fierce loyalty and friendship when all else seemed lost. 

​

    "After the incident, I was convinced I should have died. My days of being quiet and not speaking up were over. I vowed to never let anyone push me around again. I learned how to fight, and walked back into that hell hole of a school, amongst these gangster pieces of shit with a confident grin, just waiting for them to make a move . . . but they never did. Everyone knew who I was, and what they did to me that day. To the outsider I was fearless, but under the surface, on a much deeper level, I simply no longer cared if I lived or died. Inside my own head, I was a dead man walking—a ghost of my former self. There's a subtle freedom in survival, I have to admit. After a life or death situation of that magnitude every day forward felt like a gift. I was forced to grow up fast and hard, no longer caring what others thought of me."    

​

    Steven's first real experience with love, he discovered, was a new distraction from the nightmares which plagued his dreams nightly, and the threat of physical violence all around him. Sarah was a girl he'd known in his youth, before the mayhem began. She was a beaming and pleasant reminder of normality—that there was still beauty in what he perceived as an ugly world of viscous animals. He never revealed his true self to her, and didn't want to either. He liked the way she looked at him; accepted in her seemingly normal life; her family the picturesque example of humble happiness. The couple was on and off again for the majority of his childhood and his early and late teens, but regretfully, the relationship ended in turmoil. However, he never really forgot about her. Sarah had a way of helping him feel like a normal kid when he needed it most, a refreshing break in an abnormal existence.  

​

    The Nunes family, in Steven's early to mid-teens, began really sinking themselves into the Salvation Army church, and though he made many friends amongst the children of the congregation—some lifetime relationships, family turmoil was just around the corner; private matters in which the author refuses to publicly discuss; but he did say this much: 

​

     "God was present there, I have no doubt about that. But in the end, the church tore our family apart. So, it's a touchy subject in our family. Let's just say I learned first-hand the difference between church and God; two very different things."  

​

     Steven's distain for organized religion is reflected heavily in his works; his experience with what he refers to as "wolves in sheep clothing" is quite obvious, if you have a knack for reading between the lines.   

​

    The conflicted teen later moved in with his Uncle Paul, on his paternal side of the family, attending the other BTI on the northern side of Scarborough, but didn't last long. Paul treated him well, and spoke to him as an adult, which he truly appreciated. His uncle and his marauder friends had a habit of pranking him on a regular basis, which brought a humble smile to the author's face during this interview.

 

    "Living with Uncle Paul was an overall great experience, now that I think about it. He's a good-hearted man with a tough exterior, who influenced me much more than I have revealed to him over the years. I should probably remedy that."

 

    In order to escape the BTI schools entirely, Steven decided to move from one relative's home to another, attending a regular secondary school in Belleville, two hours east of the city. This was a small harbour town of 70,000 at the time, free of the noise and bustle of big city life. He slept on couches at his Uncle John's one bedroom apartment, then his uncle Tom's, then on an actual bed at his Aunt Suzie and Uncle Ben's house just around the corner. Then finally, he stayed with his Aunt Wendy, almost a seven hour drive away in North Bay, Ontario. This was the last attempt to graduate high school, but in the end, he would drop out, and later obtain his GED. 

​

     "Reflecting on those days, I remember just how much my aunts and uncles really tried to help me get on track. I love them so very much for trying, and I just wish I wasn't such a screwed up kid back then. I hope they know how much I truly appreciate what they tried to do for me. Now that I'm grown up, I think of our time together with fond memories, even though I probably angered them quite a bit. I'm just grateful I got to know them so intimately, which is a priceless reward in the grand scheme of my life."

   

Adulthood

 

   More than anything, beyond any and all ambitions, Steven wanted to be a father. In preparation and anticipation, reflecting on his own time in the big city, he reasoned Toronto was no place to raise children. At the age of nineteen he then joined his parents and sister in moving permanently to Belleville, closer to his mother's side of the family. He worked as a bouncer at a local country-themed night club, Little Texas, a waiter at Swiss Chalet, a factory worker at Proctor and Gamble, a call center agent, and many more positions before deciding to finally seek higher education.

 

    "Of all the jobs in my twenties, Little Texas taught me the most about human behavior, without question. After the violence in my youth and countless brawls in my teens, bouncing was no sweat at all. I'd take a drunk farmer any day over a gun flailing gangster with something to prove. In the years I worked there, I had only engaged in a handful of serious, life-threatening conflicts. I was exceptionally good at sensing a problem before it happened, a sixth sense somehow feeling the tension in the air thicken the atmosphere, and learning how to defuse a potentially dangerous situation. You'd be surprised how much you can learn from watching drunk people, as alcohol has the unique proclivity to remove all pretenses, and reveal the true self within. Most aggressors don't really want to fight, but are usually conflicted with something that happened in their past, which I can certainly relate. At their core, most people are good, and when you point that out to an angry drunk person, more often than not, they will back down."   

​

    Attending Loyalist College, his plans for study were grand, but he reluctantly allowed a particular guidance councilor to convince him to seek a different course of study than he felt compelled to acquire. Though he had aced the entry level exam with flying colors, the erratic grades of his high school transcripts would not allow Steven to seek a career in architecture—his passion before the dream was shot down in flames. Upon graduation, he realized the entire college experience was a complete waste of time, effort and money, as he had gained nothing out of his education that interested him. He had a diploma, but could do nothing with it. The purpose of the course was to make money, not to love what you do; the stark difference between a job and a career. From that point on, he vowed never to let others guide the path to his own future.   

​

     "So many of us just do what is expected, not realizing that the system was not meant to emphasize your strengths, but exists solely to make money. My college just wanted their tuition money, and could care less about their student's passions or talents. I can draw close to photographic realism, yet they thought me suited for a career in welding and millwright. I tried so hard to care . . . I think I lost a bit of my soul taking that course."   

​

     Steven then obtained his AZ commercial driver's license, and began employment at the Toronto District School Board, travelling a lengthy commute with his father every morning and afternoon. There he would learn first-hand the true hearts of men. Though the pay was more than respectable, he simply could not justify the very little work he was ordered to do on a daily basis. Often threatened by coworkers to slow down, to stretch the work as far as possible, he could take no more. Reasoning that every day that he got paid top dollar for only a few hours work was like stealing from the School budgets, and in turn, the students themselves, he resigned; never to return after years of guilt and shame.  

 

     "I remember hearing about budget cuts, sports and music programs being cut across the entire board, yet there I was, working an hour a day and getting paid for eight. It was like snatching a musical instrument right out of an innocent kid's hands. I couldn't look myself in the mirror, and suddenly lost respect for those around me who boasted how easy they had it; like the students were chumps, and they were getting away with it, the slippery pricks."   

​

    Finding peace in working with his hands, Steven would then seek employment in other fields. Though he made much less money and worked much harder and longer hours, he could rest his head at night knowing he did the right thing. A great disdain for his fellow man ensued. 

 

Career

 

   Through the years, Steven would keep up his ongoing studies and art projects whenever he could spare a moment. He recalled many incidences where he would fall asleep with a paint brush or pencil in his hand. His girlfriend at the time commonly found him passed out in front of his laptop, or with a book in his hand, relentlessly educating himself as frequently and fiercely as his mind would stretch. A thirsty mind, when paired with innate creativity, is simply unquenchable, according to Mr. Nunes.  

 

   It was in the winter of 2010 when he had sunk himself into the popular Demonata series, by horror/fantasy author Darren Shan. The fiction books were a welcomed vacation from his more serious studies. Steven had just finished the tenth installation of the series when his girlfriend heard a commotion from the living room; he had tossed the book across the room in a fit of anger. It was an atrocious thought, that fans would devout that much time, effort and money into an authors work, only to have him take the cheap way out, with no satisfactory ending. Stating that he could have wrote a better ending to the series drunk and half asleep, her response was simply: "Then why don't you?" 

 

      "CHALLENGE ACCEPTED!"  

     

      What began as a plight to prove his point would end in what he proclaims to be destiny. So began the first chapters of what would later be dubbed "The Awakening" the first work of full length literature he would ever attempt. He had received top praises for his short stories in high school, his English teachers quite impressed with what they proclaimed to be an advanced ability to set a descriptive atmosphere, and the merging of a fierce sense of imagination and  creativity, though he'd never considered this a viable career option until this point. Steven would work long, cold and tiresome hours removing snow for a local landscaping company in the harshest winter conditions, only to return home to continue writing. He was an avid reader, but was genuinely shocked with just how easily the story flowed when writing his own manuscript for the first time. 

​

     "It was like the pages were writing themselves."   

 

     The story began to take on a life of its own, as he would often confess that he would sometimes complete a paragraph, reread it, and not remember typing what he had written. In the back of his mind, he wondered if there was another force at work—something he couldn't quite understand, reminiscent of his youthful days of strange supernatural occurrences. Cluttered thoughts could travel no other route than the eerie events of his past. Suddenly, the trauma of his childhood, the night terrors and absolute isolation became a powerful muse, allowing the worst of himself to be disguised as fiction on the very pages on which he typed.    

​

     Years of pent up aggression, angst, heartache and spiritual torment, like a floodgate, were released all at once; and in writing he finally found a sense of peace. The relentless study in parapsychology and demonology, countless years trying to solve his own personal mysteries finally began to make sense, as a supernatural story of angels and demons played out harmoniously with every chapter. Writing had become the only therapy he ever needed, as it allowed a doorway outward, finally finding the courage to face his personal demons.   

​

    A few months later the original manuscript was complete, and Steven felt a sense of pride that he had accomplished something great, if only for personal satisfaction. There was no real plans to publish his work at this point, as he had seen the 400+ page manuscript as more of a personal challenge than a possible career, though the thought was like an itch he couldn't quite scratch. It wasn't until his mother read the manuscript in full, and insisted that others simply had to read it, that he decided to take it to the next level. It was Debby's faith in her son that gave him the confidence and courage to publish.   

​

     A determined mind spent months researching how to get published, discovering the lengthy, complex, and seemingly impossible process of finding an agent to represent his work. Somewhat depressed that the world of literature was teeming with so-called professionals, yet so few had the time to give his work a first glance, there was a serious road block ahead. Without help, the road to traditional publication was more than an uphill battle, but nearly impossible without a PHD or a degree in literature.

 

    "J.K.Rowling, a huge inspiration at the time, was no scholar. Like me, she was simply a good story teller with an agent who had the courage to take a chance. Her imagination wasn't corrupted by the literary system. Harry Potter was a national phenomenon—theme parks, trillions of dollars worth of revenue, countless jobs created around the world, inspiration of the masses to read again, all on a single creative idea which did not require a PHD or a BA in literature. Though many similar ideas followed, the world has not seen it's equal, and more than likely never will; not because the world lacks good story tellers—far from it, but simply because there is seemingly no bravery left in the literary world. I've personally read hundreds of books in their entirety, and only few stand out in my memory, all of which were authors with an abundance of imagination, and very little credentials. Education can sometimes hinder the creative mind, where free thinkers are unfettered by such restraints, and I have yet to be proven wrong."    

 

    Steven went with his gut instinct, relying on a genuine belief that the beauty of art, in any form, will be recognized in itself, if it is passion which guides the project. Draining his assets, the entrepreneurial author put his money and faith in the hands of his future readers, and self-published his first book, The Book of Neophyte: The Awakening. Tension had never been higher or more foreboding. For the first time in his life, his twisted and morbid thoughts were exposed to the world, letting complete strangers into his mind, and hoping and praying for the best possible outcome. Sleep had never come with more difficulty in those days, as he would admittedly suffer through many more night terrors than relive his own personal exposure. However, the first time he held the hardcover in his hands, the new author was never more sure that this was more than a simple art project, but fate.   

 

    Though the work of the publisher's editorial staff and design crew left much to be desired, this did not detour him from spending countless hours and limited funds on advertisement, merchandise and peripherals to appear as professional as possible to potential readers. All the chips were on the table, but the cards had yet to be dealt. It was only a month later that his efforts yielded positive results, as The Book of Neophyte began to steadily climb the charts.   

       

     Steven e-mailed, wrote countless letters and spent every available minute looking for anyone who could help him promote his book. It wasn't until he gained the attention of Fearless Fred from 102.1 The Edge in Toronto, when he truly felt he may have something, after all. Sweating and nervous, he conducted his first big radio interview with upwards of 2.4 million listeners during a Friday afternoon commute. The sleep deprived and nerve-wrecked author had never been so apprehensive, but his endurance had payed off. After this monumental interview and grand exposure, e-book sales skyrocketed in record time, almost overnight.    

​

     He had accomplished what many had insisted was impossible: The Book of Neophyte quickly rose to the #2 spot on diesel books, the biggest e-book site in the world at the time, just below the Aragon series. The reviews were in, and the book was making some serious noise. However, over the span of its steady run, the numbers didn't quite add up. The literary title had spent over a year and a half on the bestsellers list, yet the royalty cheques he received were laughably small. Regardless, the publishers had, at bare minimum, put the book on the shelves of every bookstore across the globe, and albeit slightly discouraged, Steven continued work on his second installment.  

​

     Ideas for many other stories of different styles and genres kept him awake at night, knowing that he would have to prioritize his work. In order to succeed, countless ideas would have to wait on the backburner until the Neophyte series could be picked up by a traditional publisher. iUniverse had not fought for his royalties when Diesel books went under a few years later—a loss of a calculated $27,000 worth of much needed revenue, stolen by the shameless website. This money would have allowed him time to write, and a workable budget to hire the best of editors and marketing professionals, but with the theft of these crucial royalties, Steven found himself back in the world of manual labor, saving and scrimping for the funds to proceed in the years to come.   

​

      With this serious lack of financial backing, the author took the loss harshly, but never stopped writing.   

 

      "The Neophyte series alone is a ten book project, and until I get the first one off the ground, this complex story won't see the light of day. It's a shame, really. I have upwards of thirty and counting viable ideas for future books, but I can't budge without help. Designing websites, learning Adobe Master Suite, studying formatting at great length, ebook and video production was all an attempt to do everything myself. I don't have a marketing or design team. I am an island in the world of literature. When I put my mind to it, I am relentless at following through. Tell me it's impossible, and watch me prove you wrong."   

 

     Steven helped launch his father's roofing company, Loyalist Roofing Services, designing the logos and website. Joining George on the rooftops, he worked hard in the blistering sun during the day, and wrote books in the dark of night, often regardless of sun stroke or physical exhaustion. He learned first-hand the torture of sun stroke, and shivering out of control even though his skin was on fire. "It was a surreal experience, unable to keep my eyes open on the couch . . . I had become my father . . . the big guy on the couch." Again, he found himself falling asleep at the keyboard, unable to type more than a few paragraphs before passing out in his chair. Regardless, he pushed forward, and soon enough the second installment of the series, The Order of the Golden Dawn was complete, but he lacked the money to self-publish a second book. His publisher had cleaned him out, and without the funds that were rightfully earned, it was back to square one . . . breaking his mind, body and soul.   

​

    "Make no mistake; when you read my works, know that it's more than just a story. Many parts of my books were written half-asleep, my skin on fire from heat stroke. What you are reading is my blood, sweat and tears, so tread carefully."    

​

     Saving and scrimping, working tirelessly until his eyelids could no longer pry themselves open, he began writing the third installment while constantly on the lookout for a proper editor to revamp The Awakening, and properly edit The Order of the Golden Dawn for publication. 

​

     It was during this time that Steven had parted ways with an old flame and fell head over heels in love with a woman that would soon become his wife. She would support his creativity and push him in ways he could never imagine. As fate would have it, Lesley was not only a fan of his work, but quite gifted in the field of editing and literature, a fresh copy of the newest Chicago Manuel always within arm's reach. Suddenly, new life was breathed to the series, and fresh ideas began to take shape. Finally seeing the big picture, he realized that it takes more than mere passion to drive success, but many loyal and loving supporters like his parents, extended family, and those who have relentlessly stood by him, no matter how many times the world of literature chewed him up and spit him out. It was through his supporters, these wonderful people, that he was encouraged to continue—to finish what he had started. He finally understood that success doesn't happen overnight, for it is the journey which carves who we are, and no literary professional would ever tell him different. Unfortunately, something much worse was waiting around the corner, an obstacle of monstrous proportion. 

​

     Disaster struck in early 2017 when a workplace injury took Steven's ability to perform basic manual labor. The damage was severe, reportedly permanent, and remotely located at the crux of his neck and shoulders. After countless tests, MRI's, acupuncture, electrolysis, physical therapy, and extensive medical examination, it was concluded that if he continued physical labour, a wheelchair would be his final destination, and permanent paralysis suddenly became a real possibility.  

​

    Steven hit rock bottom, falling into a new and destructive world of painkillers and downward spiraling depression, but one thing was abundantly clear: he was not meant to be on the roof; he was meant to create. According to the author, God had taken his ability to work for a reason: to keep writing, and rely solely on his creative mind to succeed. The large pay cheques and long hours at work had put the books on the backburner for years, and his dreams were gradually slipping away, one shift at a time. He had been told all his life that he was wasted as a physical laborer, "and apparently, the Big Guy Upstairs agrees."  

 

    Lesley and his new daughter Hailey provided the ultimate inspiration to push forward. His injury—even the circumstances of his marriage and new family were clear signs that something had to change, and so he put all his focus and faith in making it in the literary world. Lesley's day job was in the healthcare field, and she was trained and quite accustomed to dealing with severe injuries, they both found it no coincidence. It had become abundantly clear he was meant to write. Since then, he has revamped the Awakening, complete with a new title, "First of the Fallen", designed the covers, website, formatting and marketing strategy himself, and simultaneously written two other books to completion. 

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     Steven continues to push relentlessly toward his goals. With the love of his family and support of his loyal fans, the ongoing battle for publication rages on with no clear end in sight—a constant distraction, pulling the attention from his work. When he isn't hard at work writing, the author doubles as a freelance paranormal researcher and respected demonologist in the field, as well as a practicing photographer. He has since solved the mystery of his childhood trauma, and is devoted to helping others with similar problems fight against a darkness few could possible comprehend. He has performed the rituals of the Roman Rites on several occasions, and instructed others on how to protect themselves, bringing a unique investigative approach to the field of paranormal research. Mr. Nunes sincerely believes there is a core to every paranormal event, and getting to the bottom of these issues is the only clear path to salvation, and his own experiences with the demonic are no exception. Each case he takes on, the victims grant permission to share the details of said investigations, which he plans to write a full length book on his experiences as a demonologist, doubling as the world's first paranormal strategy guide ever released to the public. The collective works promises to shake his readers to the core, with the permission of countless clergy members, renown Vatican Exorcists, and foremost experts in the paranormal, and parapsychologists from around the globe.   

 

      "If I had a dollar for every rejection letter, I could make a career out of rejection. This is not failure, but a demand for a higher personal standard, learning and adapting as I go. I have grown numb to insults, expecting the same fake sympathy from every agent and publisher I query, but I will never stop. I've sacrificed too much, devoted too much time—surrendered my dignity, and forfeited my own body for this. Writing is more than a career goal, but a lifelong passion. A bit of advice to my readers: if anyone knocks you down for following your dreams, let them wallow. Do not hate them for their narrow mind or lack of belief in your potential, but pity them. These type of people will never know anything beyond settling for the mundane."  

 

    "Never let anyone tell you how to live your life. We all end up in the ground at some point, and material possessions, money and titles of prestige cannot follow you to the grave. So do it YOUR way, and never compromise your morality or integrity to appease the status quo. One day, my wife will find me with my head pressed against my keyboard, only I won't be sleeping. That is my only clear future, whether published or not. I wear this badge of fate proudly, knowing I never sacrificed my dreams, nor played the game of life their way. Nobody controls my destiny but the Almighty Himself."  

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This biographical interview was conducted by Franklyn R. Welch of the Montreal Society of Paranormal Research.