This will be short.
There’s a whole lot to say, but most of it isn’t nice. And you know what Mama says about not sayin’ nice…
On May 20, 2024, my ten-year anniversary of writing professionally, I quietly made the decision to quit writing. I never made any public announcement, other than by accident during a virtual book club meeting, where it was my own book being discussed.
Some have joked that retirement sure has kept me busy, while pointing toward the handful of releases that have come out since I quit. Something to consider is these were either prior obligations I had to fulfill or publishers who had yet to release my work that was in their hands. I believe the limited chapbook To Be a Ghost is the only thing I "officially" came out of retirement for. And no I’m not counting the three children’s books I released last year with my wife. Anyway, in a normal writing year, I release two to three books and several short stories in various anthologies, as well as a pile of stuff written for the following year.
Over the next year or so after my decision, the news slowly leaked. I got messages and emails filled with questions, curiosities, and say-it-ain't-so’s. Some people were grieving. Some were encouraging. Some even begging. It made me feel bad. It made me feel good. But none of it made me want to come back, because I had grown too tired of sharing space with stupid people. I felt like a fly on the wall, consistently shaking its head at the atrocities around him. I’ll spare you the details. If we’re close, you know my gripes. You know my convictions. You know where my literary interests wandered, as well as my life interests.
So, what’s important now–the whole reason for these words–is I’ve started building a nest in a different literary corner, up high on a branch I never knew existed but had been dabbling in for years–wearing a skin that makes me feel the most like myself.
There are two books I’ve written that show my skin the best: Skullface Boy and The Same Deep Water as You. They were the most fun to write, and they’re the most like me.
When I look at the books on my shelves, pointing out every one I’ve read, it turns out that literary fiction has been my favorite. The Secret Life of Bees, Mary Jane, Some Kind of Hero, The Painted Bird, Gun Love. Slice of life, dirty realism, and southern goth are at the top of this list as well, with authors like Ron Rash, David Joy, Raymond Carver, Flannery O’Connor, Joe Lansdale, and Larry Brown.
These are the authors I’ve been building the nest with, and it’s where I’ll be lounging, pen in hand.
A book I wrote before I quit (Avonwood Exodus) will be out at the end of this month, then I’m finishing up a novelization for a bad 80s movie. After that, I plan on getting comfortable in this nest made with Raymond Carver’s shoelace, David Joy’s flannel, Larry Brown’s cigarette lighter, and Ron Rash’s belt. Maybe a lock of Flannery’s hair and Lansdale’s laugh.
So if you were ever hoping for more work from me, I’m over here getting started. Just don’t expect horror, or even its next door neighbor. That’s not me these days. Funnily enough… this is how the skin sheds.
There’s a whole lot to say, but most of it isn’t nice. And you know what Mama says about not sayin’ nice…
On May 20, 2024, my ten-year anniversary of writing professionally, I quietly made the decision to quit writing. I never made any public announcement, other than by accident during a virtual book club meeting, where it was my own book being discussed.
Some have joked that retirement sure has kept me busy, while pointing toward the handful of releases that have come out since I quit. Something to consider is these were either prior obligations I had to fulfill or publishers who had yet to release my work that was in their hands. I believe the limited chapbook To Be a Ghost is the only thing I "officially" came out of retirement for. And no I’m not counting the three children’s books I released last year with my wife. Anyway, in a normal writing year, I release two to three books and several short stories in various anthologies, as well as a pile of stuff written for the following year.
Over the next year or so after my decision, the news slowly leaked. I got messages and emails filled with questions, curiosities, and say-it-ain't-so’s. Some people were grieving. Some were encouraging. Some even begging. It made me feel bad. It made me feel good. But none of it made me want to come back, because I had grown too tired of sharing space with stupid people. I felt like a fly on the wall, consistently shaking its head at the atrocities around him. I’ll spare you the details. If we’re close, you know my gripes. You know my convictions. You know where my literary interests wandered, as well as my life interests.
So, what’s important now–the whole reason for these words–is I’ve started building a nest in a different literary corner, up high on a branch I never knew existed but had been dabbling in for years–wearing a skin that makes me feel the most like myself.
There are two books I’ve written that show my skin the best: Skullface Boy and The Same Deep Water as You. They were the most fun to write, and they’re the most like me.
When I look at the books on my shelves, pointing out every one I’ve read, it turns out that literary fiction has been my favorite. The Secret Life of Bees, Mary Jane, Some Kind of Hero, The Painted Bird, Gun Love. Slice of life, dirty realism, and southern goth are at the top of this list as well, with authors like Ron Rash, David Joy, Raymond Carver, Flannery O’Connor, Joe Lansdale, and Larry Brown.
These are the authors I’ve been building the nest with, and it’s where I’ll be lounging, pen in hand.
A book I wrote before I quit (Avonwood Exodus) will be out at the end of this month, then I’m finishing up a novelization for a bad 80s movie. After that, I plan on getting comfortable in this nest made with Raymond Carver’s shoelace, David Joy’s flannel, Larry Brown’s cigarette lighter, and Ron Rash’s belt. Maybe a lock of Flannery’s hair and Lansdale’s laugh.
So if you were ever hoping for more work from me, I’m over here getting started. Just don’t expect horror, or even its next door neighbor. That’s not me these days. Funnily enough… this is how the skin sheds.
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