: About Me

I finished my first short story in the womb. It was written on a papyrus-like weave I constructed from the few bits of fiber and hemp my mother swallowed as a teenager. I had nine months, but like most writers, I procrastinated. I knocked the entire 42 pages out during 16 hours of contractions. It was an emotional time for both of us. I was delivered at 9:38 P.M. on a Friday and the short story came at 10:30. They did what they could but were unable to save it. Too many run on sentences, disjointed thoughts, and the grammar was (understandably) quite horrible.

These days I write as often as I can, preferring for some reason small, enclosed spaces like my closet. I usually have the feeling that something really, really big is about to happen right as I am finishing a story. And as soon as I finish one I always spin around, having had the feeling that someone is about to slap me from behind. I'm not sure why. Someone told me once it was Freudian behavior, but I have never smoked a cigar, ever.

So I write today as I wrote then. Furiously, under pressure and time constraints, and with love all around.

My passion is ...

Bacon

I know too much about ...

too little.

My parents always told me ...

stop that!

My favorite memory ...

has been erased by the government.

Why I write ...

the voices tell me to.

What I am reading/watching/listening to ...

If it has to be all three at one time, then it would have to be a Chinese B-movie dubbed in English.

My first job ...

lasted about a week.

My inspiration ...

Stephen King and Buster Keaton

Creative Writing > Short Stories Short stories: The house in the forest

9 of 55

March 6th, 2009 We huddled together near the fire in middle of our living room. For a while, we had been able to use the chimney because the smoke and the heat from the fire had kept them from entering the house that way. We would just close the flue when we were done and leave the embers to smolder. But they soon became accustomed to the heat and we would see little glowing pieces of the fire emerge onto the hardwood, leaving a burnt little trail behind them as they moved slowly across our living room. It was surreal. Now, our mid-March fire was resting on a few concrete blocks set under ...

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