I learned to write before I could crawl, and I'm still not sure which is the more useful skill.
Drawn to the seamier side of human nature, my focus in fiction has always been thrillers, where my feelings of betrayal, revenge, bitterness, greed, paranoia, jealousy and madness find a socially acceptable display case.
Though I believe the drawing power of fiction comes from a universal human craving for clarity, justice, and fairness (things that seem to exist outside our imagination sparingly and only accidentally), I haven't yet managed to write a happy ending.
Despite all this, I still can't imagine doing anything else with my life.
A native of Upstate New York, I now divide my time between Manhattan and rural Pennsylvania, which of course is not as good as multiplying it.
No matter what modern angst ails you, there is always the curative power of surreal, modern, short fiction.
If Rod Serling and Patricia Highsmith had a bastard child (and who's to say they didn't?) and that bastard started writing... well, the feverish results might be much like these unforced "Confessions."