I listen to stories told in accented American, on lips burned by crack pipes, sun and dust, and steal them away to that liars place where fiction happens. I do hard jobs from time to time, as it suits me. I am, or have been, a cowboy, firefighter, art teacher, artist blacksmith, EMT, wilderness survival teacher, silversmith, and possibly a jewel thief.
Because its there. Wait... that's why I'm a climber.
I'm fascinated by the world within the world, the interstices hidden in the unspoken and unsaid. The best way I've found to explore the unsaid, and say the unspeakable, is through writing. Using the word to make clear the borders and boundaries, that what lays between may be discovered.
I came from a unique place, a place and lifestyle themselves interstitial. I've seen things most people haven't, and done things most wouldn't dream of. My voice rises from the dust of my upbringing and my lonely culture. I'm driven by an arrogant belief that this gives me an insight that's worth reading. I write to express my concept of the foreign, strange and distressing that hides below the surface of everything else.
And for a million other reasons.
Authors: Cormac McCarthy, Frederick Busch, Ed Abbey, Hunter S. Thompson, John Steakley, Heinlein, Steven Graham Jones, Richard K. Morgan, Charles Bukowski, Stephen Bodio, Robert Service, Norman Maclean, Henry Lawson, Larry McMurtry, Bertolt Brecht, Rudyard Kipling, S.A. Bailey and a few others...
Books: The Road, Blood Meridian, by Cormac McCarthy. Armor, by John Steakley, A River Runs Through It, by Norman Maclean, Querencia, by Stephen Bodio, and no few others.
No one has written on Morgan Atwood's wall.
No one has written on Morgan Atwood's wall.