M. L. Hollowell

His writing is realistic.

That might sound funny to say about an author whose books are populated by ancient vampires, telekinetic teenagers, deadly doppelgangers, killer cars, psychic serial killers.

But he grounds it all in the real world.

At heart, his stories are about real people.

Average, down-to-earth, run-of-the-mill Joes and Janes like you and me.

I know there are a lot of extreme writers out there.

The Edward Lees, Poppy Z. Brights, David J. Schaus, esoteric, sinister, downbeat, Lovecraftian, Thomas Ligotti types, writing about some guy moping around a foreign city.

That's just not who I am.

I haven't even been to Europe.

Actually, I'm taking a break from teaching to concentrate on my writing.

I've completed 400 pages of a novel.

It's called But, B-U-T dot dot dot.

Though I may have to change it, as while its meaning is clear when the title is read, every time I tell people what it's called, they get the wrong idea.

It's about a struggling writer who returns to his hometown after making a go of it in New York, that he's haunted by some mysterious event that occurred when he was living in the city.

It's loosely based on my experience, though of course I don't have a sinister secret in my past.

It's not autobiography.

I had mixed feelings about making my protagonist a writer, but King does it all the time.

The Dark Half, Salem's Lot, The Shining, for Christ's sake.

Maybe Butt will be my Carrie.

If I can get through this impasse, this sense I have now that everything I write is a joke, that I'm a fraud, that I know what a good writer is and I'm not it, and anybody who says otherwise doesn't know what they're talking about, or they're just placating me.