P.D. Hillman is a barstool philosopher with several blues guitars, a sharp tongue, and a past full of startup pitch decks, biometric scams, and cannabis tech ventures that smelled like money—and weed. He writes thrillers about fractured genius, broken systems, and the unpredictable beauty of minds that burn too fast. His stories are dark, funny, and just grounded enough in real-world chaos to be dangerous.

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Before writing fiction, Hillman worked as an executive recruiter for tech startups, VCs, and government-adjacent organizations. He’s watched billionaires measure ego at conference tables, sold machine-learning sensors to weed farmers (who stored them in paint buckets), and spent years navigating the line between brilliance and madness. His novels come from that edge.

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When he’s not writing or recording music in his garage, Hillman teaches his two grown sons the sacred art of “dad lore”—advice only offered when asked, stories you can’t verify on Google, and rules like: “Don’t sleep with anyone you wouldn’t proudly walk down the street with in the morning.” He’s the kind of dad who wears both hats—bro and parent—and lets his kids choose which one shows up.

Hillman lives near the beach, drives a sand-filled truck, and believes people take themselves too seriously. He doesn’t. He’d rather play a sad song with a dirty joke in the third verse and remind you that judgment is just self-cruelty dressed up as clarity.

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And if you're lucky, he might freestyle a love song about Barbie on your birthday.