I feel in many ways like I’ve been waiting my entire life to write For Rye. It is a release of nihilistic anxieties; a war cry, of sorts. On Monday we enter release week, and on Friday the 9th For Rye is released. Talk about the end of a journey.
Today I’d like to speak to you solely and completely about a certain little nightmare I birthed onto the page some three or four years ago. That nightmare was the first piece of horror fiction I ever wrote: my debut novel, FOR RYE.
And here we are, rolling and tumbling through 2021, scrambling for that light at the end of the tunnel we’ve all been promised. Let’s forget about such arbitrary numbers; there may be no finish line awaiting us out of the global mess of 2020’s pandemic, but rather a winding path through the trees, leading us out of this creepy, crawly forest of misfortune one step at a time.
Fear not; begone ye petulant quiverings, for this year of such dread-inducing shitness is but a month away from resolve.
