I was sitting in a hotel room in Santa Fe, there for . . . I think I was doing a Percival Everett thing, along with Gerald Vizenor and I forget who-all. Been a year or two, or five or six. Anyway, Ellen Datlow got hold of me last-minute, said she needed a story yesterday for Nightmare Carnival. So, instead of trying to find a movie theater, which I my usual protocol, I burned up the afternoon writing a story, going pretty much a hundred percent off the cover she showed me:
Well, it didn’t have that audio wrapper on it, but that’s the image. So, I thought: Why kill a clown? Then I wrote the story. And now it’s over at The Dark:
is the NYT bestselling author of 35 or so books, +350 stories, some comic books, and all this stuff here. He lives in Boulder, Colorado, and has a few broken-down old trucks, one PhD, and way too many boots. More