By 17, I Was Submitting To Publications

If I Wasn't Dead Already, I'd Said I Was Having A Heart Attack.

He Made A Small Sigh, As He Swallowed The First Blood, Then His Mouth Closed Over My Earlobe, Mouth Working At The Wound, Tongue Coaxing Blood From The Wound. He Pressed His Body The Length Of Mine, One Hand Cupping My Turned Head, The Other Playing Down The Line Of My Body. Maybe It Was Just Blood, But I Never Stroked My Steak While Eating It.

Now That I'm Being Very Successful, Publishers Are Trying To Mainstream Me, But I'm Unabashedly Genre. It's What I Like To Read, What I Like To Write

I Could Have Just Said I'm Good At My Job, But I Didn't. Didn't Want The Police Thinking I Was Holding Out Information When I Wasn't. "i've Got One Advantage Over A Normal Homicide Detective, I Expect It To Be A Monster. No One Ever Calls Me In If It's Just A Stabbing, Or A Hit-and-run. I Don't Spend A Lot Of Time Trying To Come Up With Nice, Normal Explanations. It Means I Get To Ignore A Lot Of Theories.

I Got Out My Jar Of Ointment. I Knew Animators Who Had Special Containers For The Ointment. Crockery, Hand-blown Glass, Mystical Symbols Carved Into The Sides. I Used An Old Mason Jar That Had Once Held Grandma Blake's Green Beans. Larry Fished Out A Peanut Butter Jar With The Label Still On It. Extra-crunchy. Yum-yum.