I write stories. Stories about faeries, and gangsters, and faerie gangsters. Stories where the dead have second thoughts and second chances, where AIs teach morality to sleeping humanity via role-playing games, where the tissue-thin curtain between the real and unreal flaps in the breeze. Plus that one short about Christmas at the porno theater I worked at once, but memoir isn’t usually my thing.
Thus I will spare you stories about the time working in the medical research lab, the years in graduate school assuring incoming freshmen and freshwomen they did not know how to write as well as their high school teachers told them, or the third of my life spent dressing funny and hitting my friends with sticks. What’s past is past, and what happens at Pennsic stays at Pennsic. Unless it’s communicable.
For details on what of the above you can get your hands on right this second, see the Read My Stuff page, thataway–>
With the exception of vacations and a brief sojurn to Lincoln, Nebraska, I have
lurkedlived in the St. Louis area my entire life. This was not my plan when I was younger, but one must be flexible. The last seventeen years I’ve written for a Big Impressive Company in a variety of capacities, and for myself when I can.
I have a very patient wife who doubles as a crackerjack proofreader (see, journalism school does teach you something) and a son who thinks it’s cool that I write stuff, even if he’s too young to read most of it right now. That’s why I wrote a screenplay about middle schoolers, among other reasons. But he’s still as supportive as a
twelve thirteen-year-old can be, bless him.