Isham Z. Tinman

When I first started writing, I wanted a pen name, but Mark Twain was already taken, so riverboats were out. I kept looking and eventually found Isham Z. Tinman, which looked good to me, especially with the Z kept silent for reasons known only to the alphabet.

Several non‑human pals agreed with that choice, while the human ones politely stepped back, though they did insist: “Isham” sounded like a processed meat. My wife of forty‑five years studied the name and the black‑and‑white photo I paired with it and said the picture looked like a mug shot and the name sounded like a man who sold things out of a van, then asked if I had a second family.

Isham writes two kinds of fiction. The short stories are absurdist and comic—the kind best read in the time it takes to finish a commute or a cup of coffee, with results that are difficult to explain and even harder to unread. The novellas take a different angle: science and technology pressed against history until the setting cracks open and something unexpected walks out.

Somewhere behind all that is a man with no dots to connect—Thomas Steven Inman, educated at Duke and the University of Virginia, and at a preschool that escapes his memory. He writes as Isham Z. Tinman when he needs adventure. Or escape.