Monsters seek me. I do not hyperbolize; it is truth.
Some monsters, the ones that hide beneath beds or skulk in closets, can be shooed away with children’s songs and stuffed talismans. But real monsters—the ones born of human mothers and fathers—leave scars and parasites that can’t be cured with cootie shots.
These monsters know you. They see your form quake beneath layers of everything meant to protect. They hear your racing heart and shallow breaths as they inhale your fear; the aroma of burnt tires mingled with ass smells sweet like home-baked apple pie. They lick their lips in anticipation of how you will taste when finally allowed to feast upon your soul—innocent or bitter, both an orgasm for the mouth.
And then they wait.
Until you are alone.
To climb inside and make you scream as they nibble on your brain for a midnight snack.
I know—I’ve felt them chew.
At night I walk the nightmares with these monsters and in the daylight I share their meals. We talk of religion and politics, of trauma, violence and death—all the topics etiquette would have us shroud in silence. As I listen to their stories, the heartbreak and choices that led to the life they have now, I wonder what makes us different. Our lives so similar that when I look in the mirror I can’t distinguish between what is me and what is them. Between the angel and the demon.
And so I write of monsters and darkness and the gritty parts of life in hopes that I might find redemption in the darkness. Beauty in the chaos. I have the audacity to speak aloud the whispers that were meant to be secrets and, regardless of how much others may squirm, I will continue to shine a light into those dark spaces.
So perhaps monsters don’t seek me after all. Perhaps, now, I am a seeker of them.
I’m a writer of urban fantasy. I travel the pages of life pursuing my heart’s desires and encourage others to do the same. I believe imaginary characters and make-believe worlds can offer greater insight into the human condition than a history book full of facts. Stories inspire us to live, not just breathe… to have joy, not just contentment… to love, not just endure.
I graduated from college in 2002 but didn’t turn to writing as a career until late 2008 when a real-life monster forced me in a new direction. Afterward I broke down (see also: PTSD), couldn’t work (see also: good-excuse-to-pursue-more-fulfilling-activities), and began to write (see also: JOY).
While I’ve lived all over the United States (and for a brief time in Canada!), I currently can be found clicking away on my keyboard near Salt Lake City, UT.