Yesterday Yosemite Rising officially hit the shelves.
So I wrote a short post instead of actually being able to promote the book. Instead of filing it away, I’m just going to share it:
One of the first things I was asked after releasing Yosemite Rising is if I watched a lot of Freddy Krueger movies when I was young.
The answer: No. I was more into Friday the 13th. It’s what knots my stomach when I’m swimming in a murky lake. I grew up in southern New Jersey and cedar trees stain the water brown. So I avoided swimming in any pure water sources as a child.
I was as surprised as everyone I know, to find out my stories fall into horror. R. L. Stein was the author who first made me feel the need to be in line at the mall bookstore before it opened on release day. I soaked up his Fear Street series like there was no tomorrow.
Twenty-two years later, I’ve found my way into that bookstore, waiting for some unexpected customer to pick me up. With any luck, I’ll suck them in and they’ll keep coming back for more.
It’s been a journey to discover and accept the fact that I write horror—one of those unexpected gifts.
As more people ask me what went wrong in my childhood, I remind myself of what went right.