my literary dna

I’ve always loved poetry. The way each line unfolds, or pivots, or lands can be powerful when it finds its mark. And the shorter the piece, the less margin for error. In truth, I’m still harnessing all of it. And always will be.

The term arrived holds no meaning for me. After studying under such a gifted author and following the careers of many other greats, I would be pontificating if I allowed myself to feel as such. No, I will always be pushing myself. It’s part of who I am. It’s ingrained.

My approach toward the craft comes from a lineage of writers whose philosophies interpret darkness not as spectacle but revelation. And my inherited sense of dread is most powerful when it whispers rather than screams.

It's an instinct I rely on. One built from the slow-burning tales I read as a boy: Stoker and Shelley, Poe and Lovecraft, M. R. James and Campbell, Jackson and Matheson, King and Barker, Straub and Bloch. They all made horror an ideal bone structure for me.

And then Koontz, who was by no means an innocent bystander, gave my narration its pulse.