Man, was at the gym long about 11:15 yesterday, just having a good time reading a JS Breukelaar collection and sweating on various torture devices, when I got a call that maybe I could clean up and drive into my office on campus (like, MILES away) by noon, to talk to the newspeople for a segment that afternoon? Answer, always, when media calls: “Can’t talk right now, I’m already going to that place you told me to be at.” So, I made it, it was great talking zombie stuff, and, though I didn’t get to watch it live—was in-transit to an early screening of the new Halloween (which was an hour away…)—I do now (thanks to Andrea Rogers) have that handy link up there.
Too, after the talking, they told me to just sit at my desk and look busy, make some keyboard sounds the mic could pic up. But I of course, being a writer dude, immediately forgot I was pretending, and just took off finishing the scene I’d been already in the middle of. The lights and cameras and stuff all went away. Really? I’ve always figured I’d be a good bid for that Harlan Ellison “write a story in the window”-trick. Because why not. Writing’s writing, right?
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