I’ve been exploring the darkened recesses
of my imagination for almost as long as I’ve been putting crayon to paper.
(I’ve found a pretty comical hand-written account of the Nuclear Apocalypse
from when I was barely ten years old.) And despite attending an engineering
university, I continued my wayward anti-conservative ways in college and
created abominations such as the comic strip Spudman (where a
super-hero potato made lousy jokes and saved fraternity parties by
sacrificing himself to make vodka) and a variety of tasteless short stories
whose sole intent seemed to repulse.
But
fortuitously, the combined results of age, the dementia brought on by the
Engineering profession, and a few English Literature courses at nearby
Rutgers University corralled the surreal and ghastly images galloping around
in my head and herded them into novels that entertained as well as repulsed.
And though I’ve leaned toward the macabre images that are more common in
nightmares than reality, I have insisted more on plot than gore and more on
suspense than mindless violence. My novels are not only harrowing tales of
evil and woe, but also touching stories where you will cry for each innocent
as they are bludgeoned or lose their heads. And don’t worry about rooting for
the bad guy, these are only stories anyway; aren’t they?
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