Looking back, I never had a chance. I was born and raised in Livingston, Montana, a defiantly literary little town where journalists and novelists constitute an unhealthy percentage of the population. Worse, they had the gall to inspire me and steer me down this grimy, pitted road called writing. Under their spell, I started scribbling words at a young age and then never stopped. Somewhere along the way, I began arranging those words in a way that occasionally pleased an editor, who then would give me money, likely laundered. I'm told this is called a job. Please don't tell anybody or ask any questions, because it's the only thing I've ever wanted to do. But if you must know more, click below to see who's been complicit in this racket.