I’m a writer. I love to write.
I love stories. I love reading them, and I love telling them. I’m basically a liar who reads. Or a reader who lies. I’m not sure which is worse.
A story has to move me, and whether it makes me cower, cuddle, or curse, I need that emotional kick. To that end, I craft the best damn stuff that I can, writing tales of terror where Bad Things Happen To Good People. Raised by wolves, I grew up with a love of nature and music, science and history, with thrillers and horror novels feeding the dark side of my seriously disturbed imagination. I talk to my characters, talk often, and most times they listen. But the real fun starts when they tell me to take a hike and they Open That Door anyway. Idiots.
I have lots of heroes—some real, some not—that taught me what amounts to a whole darn lot. I owe them a great debt. I’d send them some thank-you money, but some of them are, unfortunately, unavailable. And I wouldn’t want to play favorites.
Mozart taught me to listen.
Newton taught me to see.
Mitch Albom taught me to say so much in so little.
Clive Barker taught me to imagine—and then to imagine more.
Stephen King taught me the art of the story—how to lie your ass off and make them believe.
Frank Darabont taught me that the heart is enduring.
Sean Penn taught me to put my soul into my work.
James Cameron taught me that magic is real.
The Three Stooges taught me to laugh.
Jean-Luc Picard taught me to be a better human being.
And if I learned one thing from all of them, it’s this—keep your foot on the gas and your eye on the road. You’ll get there.