I write things that disturb.  Keeping the glee and the humor intact, of course.  But something creeps in, getting under the skin…under the toenails.  Like a sliver.  Like one of those mystery pains that shoot through to the bone when you least anticipate it.

Yes, what I write can often disturb…though not always.  Sometimes I write pure fun, pure joy, pure intrigue — nice contemporary mainstream stories that keep you turning the pages, but never make your nerves twinge.  Right now, though, it’s a creeping discomfort, not too far near the edge, but unnerving enough to make you look over your shoulder when a child enters the room. …Is it him? …Is it her?

My writing buddy, on the other hand, one Diane Oliver, writes stuff that makes even me grab for the “pink stuff” in a vain attempt to stave off the nausea.  All for naught, though, I tell you, as I bolt for the toilet, retching. The woman’s got a knack.  Makes one’s skin crawl right off one’s body all by itself.

Recently:

• They Work Very Hard
• Treading the Dangers of Fiction
• Infighting About Grammar & Punctuation
• Scary Writers
• New Novel, Chapter Two
• To the Book Store
• New Novel Amid Chaos
• Raw Gore, Explicit Cruelty, Debased Sex in Novels
• Back from Summer Hiatus
• Self-Publishing IS Better