Quarter-Century: A Premature Memoir (An Essay)!

July 2nd, 2019.

The earth has carried me in its orbit around the sun twenty-five times.

My gratitude to the earth and the sun.

On this tiny blue world which has had countless civilizations rise and fall and ninety-nine percent of its species die out, I happen to be here, sucking in air for the moment.

Isn’t that cool?

It’s a moment I call life. Life is a fractal phenomenon of countless other moments, a collection of them. Within the bounds of my moment, I’ve witnessed the civilizations which have rose and fell within me. Sometimes they’re realized and I say, “Ah! Today, I am born again.” Sometimes they go unrealized and I groan, thinking, “Not this again!?”

To wake upon a planet teeming with life and with loved ones nearby, ready to help you up when you fall down. What more can a person ask for?

I am blessed — not in a superstitious sense, but by the holy Brownian motion of reality. Like a shook-up snow globe, the flakes have landed just so. I am happy with the snow globe.

Today, I sit here in the chair, typing away, reflecting on where I am and where I’m going. I proposed to the love of my life, Tessandra Voje, a week back or so. She has agreed to share her moment with me. We plan on getting married next year, sometime in the fall. Her daughter, Rosemary Voje, bright and funny young lady I am glad to know, sometimes calls me ‘Dad’. She’s been calling me Dad more and more lately and dang, that feels really good.

I’ve just written a novel, my first one, and am in the process of shaping it into something readable for the public. It will be a finished product within the month. I’ll be sending it out to publishers. I’ve been writing “seriously” for the past two years and have collected a wonderful amount of rejection slips. Dozens and dozens…

Two ‘maybe’ letters from editors have popped up in my email inbox though, and I figure ‘maybe’ letters are a good sign that things may be slowly turning around.

My dream is to write, become published, and get paid for it.

I may not have the last two things down yet, but I sure have the first one. Writing is a light in the pitch dark. The pen is a third eye, the one which allows me to perceive reality in a clearer and happier way. If I didn’t write, I’d probably have to pay a lot of money talking to a shrink! A lot of writers say that. I don’t imagine they’re lying.

I write every day and have an aim to be prolific, to write not just one book, but dozens within my lifetime. Any agent or publisher out there looking to write a contract with a strange fiction writer, consider yours truly!

I think about things that’ve happened within these past twenty-five. I am curious about the young, expressive boy that walked in the sun and was in love with horror movies and wearing masks and costumes. I know that boy still exists somewhere. To this day, I love horror movies, and I love wearing masks – a mask is an identity. Today I am playing the identity of a writer. I’m getting pretty good at playing the part. Tomorrow, who knows what I’ll be?

I read this great line from the Tao Te Ching:

“He who defines herself, cannot know who she really is.”

Isn’t that great? I try not to define myself. I put on masks with a curious joy and say, “Ah, there’s something mysterious beneath this mask! What could it be? Is it really even there? Hmm.”

I think of turning 21, when I lived on Knowles Ave, in and out of the bars, trying to fall in love with people. During those years, the moon was brightest. I stood under the moon, on the warm street, smoking cheap cigarettes, looking like a pale skeleton, and knowing that I was young but not knowing quite what youth was. There was no room for intellectualizing youth — I was youth.

And I am youth.

I wish youth the best. When it leaves me, I promise not to cling. In another forty years, when I’m an old man, with hair falling out, hunch-backed with a cane, I’ll say, “At last! I’m in my prime.”

And I am prime.

I remember picking up the guitar, old dusty friend, and deciding on a whim I should do something with my life. So I taught myself to play guitar, harmonica and sing and I became a performing singer-songwriter. I wrote an album or two worth of songs, one of those albums recorded in a friend’s house studio (let me know if you’d like to listen to it, I’ll send you a copy).

Tessandra was there recording that album with me, several of those songs written for her. Sometimes it’s as if she always has been here, just hiding behind the curtain of space and time, waiting until I was the right age to know her. Life is full of fun illusions like that.

Sometimes, too, I think of my Grandfather. He was a writer and a lover of literature and I’m  sure he’d be proud of me. If I ever write a western novel, I’ll dedicate it to him. I still have his letters, the ones where he tells me I’m his “favorite young author”. I have his rejection slip from Bantam Books in a black suitcase. Seeing it fuels me to want to one-up him.

I return my thoughts to the planet flying around the sun at 67,000 MPH. I am on that  planet, in some strange dimension where there are masks and people and horror movies and literature and love and music.

I can’t get over it. There are people around who love me – we are rare things.

To be a conscious creature with a brain and a spinal column, upright, breathing, as the sun and rain replenishes.

It’s the awesomeness, the mystery, the wonder, I keep coming back to. It’s my religion.

On my 25th birthday, I am a holy man in his pajamas.

Greater things to come.

Your friend,

Tylor J. Mintz


Stephanie Rosella Rose: Poet, Artist, Free Spirit (THE ARTIST’S CORNER)

The following is a column originally written for the New Richmond News. The Artist’s Corner celebrates all things creativity and champions local artists. 

“They call me free spirit, as if all spirits are not free.”

Greetings, friend. Come sit down with us. Let me introduce you to Stephanie Rosella Rose, an artist, a poet, and an intriguing human being. Stephanie and I are enjoying a good breakfast, chatting about art, poetry, self-discovery, and feminine liberation. Listen, I know these topics may seem a bit strange, but they are only a step into another world. Stephanie invites us into that world with the succinct power of her words.

UNEARTHED: Lyrics From the Dirt is her upcoming debut book – a fine collection of 143 poems. As we sit in the simple diner booth, enjoying our omelets, our minds roam the vast flora and fauna of the inspired universe. We share our wild thoughts, returning again and again to the joy of our work — powerful writing. Here’s another of Stephanie’s shorter poems:

“Worship within walls, if you must.

But don’t you know, sacred one,

You are a walking temple.”

These poems are designed to awaken people to the larger reality of who we are and what we are capable of as inspired human beings. Which leads me ponder…is that not what poetry is all about? Stephanie is a poet in the finest tradition, with intentions good-natured and noble, but with a desire to provoke, to stir. She writes in a style that is all at once serious and playful. Not at all an easy balance to maintain, but she does it masterfully.

These poems are thoughtful, cleverly crafted and emotionally provocative. This is one author you are going to want to keep an eye on, folks. Who knows what other great work she’ll be sharing with us in the near future? In the meantime, UNEARTHED: Lyrics From the Dirt is available for preorder on Amazon (click here). This book will be available on Kindle and paperback as of July 12th, 2019.

Oh, and if you’re social media savvy, you’re going to want to follow this poet on Instagram (click here). You will discover dozens of her brilliant poems, for free. Read them. Think about them. Feel them. Then hit that “follow” button, and join the four thousand others whom are subscribed and reading her work. Here’s another of my favorites, one of many available on her Instagram:

“It’s subtle: the beauty when pain arises.

You are quick to credit the flower,

But have you thanked the dirt?”

For this column, I give my thanks to the soil of nebulous creativity, that strange, magical ability that is the hallmark of the artist. I also give thanks to inspiring poets like Stephanie Rosella Rose. Last, but certainly not least, I give thanks to you, loyal reader, for checking in on this week’s Artist’s Corner. We will now end with our creative quotation for the week. The great writer, Franz Kafka, had this to say about the power of words:

“A book must be the axe for the frozen sea within us. That is my belief.”

Tylor J. Mintz

Dealing for Mr. B (Short story, pulp style)

The boys were running late and that was dangerous. Mr. B expected them to be there at a certain time and they were running late because of Eddie. They’d gotten halfway across town before Eddie turned out his pockets, showing they hadn’t brought the money. Jim called him an airhead and a slacker, always too high to know what he was doing.

“Mr. Bilgewater expected us to be there at 6:30 p.m., SHARP!” Jim shouted. “Now it’s 6: 33, and it’ll take us at least 20 minutes to get there!”

“Relax, dude,” Eddie replied. “We’ll get there.”

“Of course we’ll get there you idiot!” he screamed. “Problem is he’s going to kill us!”

Eddie waved his hand at him, blubbered his lips. No big deal.

“We were going to be famous in this town,” Jim said. “Everybody at school was finally going to respect us. Now we’re going to be what we’ve always been, Eddie. Nuthin’!”

Eddie rolled a joint, lit it, inhaled.

“Put that shit away!” he scolded.


“I said put it away, you slacker! We’re on a professional run, not some half-baked road cruise, you lousy—”

“Jeezus, alright!” Eddie cut him off, stabbing out the joint. “You need to take a chill pill, man.”

Sweat stung Jim’s forehead as they approached the toll bridge that led to the Bilgewater mansion. The dirt flung from beneath their tires as they drove down the gravel road, over the bridge, screeching to a hault in the smoothly paved drive. They sat in the cab.

“Give me the dough,” Jim snarled.

Eddie shrugged, handing him the envelope. They jumped out of the truck, sprinted up to the large front porch, and rung the doorbell. Eddie gazed up nonchalantly, spotting the security cam zooming in on them from one high corner. He waved.

“Knock that off!” Jim grunted, slapping his hand down.

Dude,” Eddie said. “That hurt!”

“Shut up.”

The oak double-doors opened to a grim faced butler with piercing blue eyes and a pale, wrinkled complexion. “You’re late, boys. Master Bilgewater is most disappointed,” he said.

Jim gulped and let out a high-pitch giggle.

“Sorry, dude,” Eddie shrugged. “It wasn’t our fault. We got caught in traffic. Right, Jim?”

Jim smiled wide.

“This way, please.”

The butler turned and walked into the entryway, then up the large, red carpeted staircase. They followed, glancing at one another with expressions of apprehension. Eddie reached into his pocket, pulled out a roach. Jim slapped his hand again. He put the roach back in his pocket.

The staircase led them to a long, wide hallway. Doors flanked each wall. If they had numbers on them, Jim would have thought the Bilgewater Mansion nothing more than an upscale motel. Eddie glanced at the doors and wondered what may lay behind them. They both stopped in their tracks when they heard a scream behind one of the doors. It came from behind. They turned, looked.

“No cause for concern, boys,” the butler said. “Merely one of Mr. B’s partners. They love to scream. It’s what we pay them for.”

He continued down the hall. Jim and Eddie started at each other dumb founded as the woman let out another scream. Was it a scream of agony, or pleasure? It was impossible to tell. Eddie began to tremble.

“I’m freaking out, man” Eddie whispered.

“Me too,” Jim whispered back.

They followed the butler up a second flight of stairs, then a third, until they reached yet another hallway, and at the end of it, a metal door with an EXIT sign above it. The butler held the door open for them, nodding once. Jim and Eddie walked out into the blinding sun on the roof of the Bilgewater mansion. The sun was beginning to set, shedding piercing rays from the horizon.

Then their eyes fixed on the swimming pool; a long, wide rectangle with half-naked women jumping in and out of it. Jim gasped. Both of the boys’ mouths hung slack.

“Whoaaaa,” stated Eddie.

A short man, balding, wearing a black and red robe with dragons on it stood to one side, each arm around a supermodel waist. The women were much taller than the man. They towered like giant goddesses. The man’s fingers delicately slipped in and out of their bikini bottoms, occasionally reaching around and pinching their behinds. The girls giggled. The man laughed.

“Master Bilgewater. Our company has arrived, Sir.”

He turned and eyed the boys through a pair of aviators.

“So they have. Thank you, Hanson,” he said. He turned to the girls. “Feel free to go for another dip girls. I’ve got some business to attend to.” Both of them leaned down, kissed his cheeks. Then they stripped, unclasping their tops and shimmying out of their bikini bottoms. They jumped into the pool with a dozen others, making a great splash! Bilgewater laughed, ambled over to a poolside table and sat beneath the shade of a large green umbrella. He motioned to the boys with his index finger. Come hither.

They came hither, sitting in the shaded chairs opposite of Bilgewater. The pool girls screamed and giggled. Jim’s eyes kept returning to the pool, feeling something stirring in his shorts. Hanson glided over with a silver tray. Another Guinness, Sir?

“Thanks, Hanson,” Bilgewater nodded.

“My pleasure, Sir,” the butler replied, setting the tall, sweating glass in front of him. Hanson disappeared as Bilgewater looked at his watch.

“I told you boys to be here, 6:30 sharp,” he said. “It’s 6:54 according to my watch. Not very professional.”

“We’re so sorry, Mr. Bilgewater, Sir,” Jim blurted. “We were halfway to your place when—”

Bilgewater held up a hand and lifted his glass with the other, gulping down the beer.

“No excuses,” he said, wiping froth from his lips. “If I say be here at a certain time, then you’d better be here. Normally I’d be very upset. But today, boys, be grateful I’m in a generous mood. Besides, what can I expect with a couple of lousy high school kids? Now. The money.”

Jim fumbled around his right jean pocket. At last, he pulled out the envelope, handing it to Bilgewater. He immediately began counting the bills.  After a few minutes, he dropped the envelope onto the table, looking up at the boys, grim-faced.

“A grand short, kids,” he said.

Jim and Eddie looked at one another, wide eyed. Eddie turned pale.

“B-b-but, we were s-s-sure it was all there!” Jim started.

Bilgewater leaned back in his chair and laughed.

“Just messing, boys,” he said, grinning ear to ear. “It’s all accounted for.”

Jim let out a sigh of relief.

“Oh, man! Thank Christ,” Eddie said, shaking his head. “I thought we were dead meat for sure.”

Bilgewater let out a cackle. “Hey,” he said. “You boys are alright. Wanna beer?”

“Sure, Mr. Bilgewater. We’d love one,” Jim smiled.

“Mind if I toke up instead?” Eddie said, bringing out the roach from his pocket.

Jim face-palmed.

Bilgewater smirked. “Whatever, kid.”

“Thanks Mr. B,” Eddie said, lighting the spliff.

“Hanson! Another pint of Guinness!”

Hanson was old, but swift on his feet. He nearly levitated over, silver tray over one arm, the tall delicious pint beading wet. Hanson set down the glass, bowed, floated away. Jim took a sip and grinned. He’d never had a Guinness before, but it was a hell of a lot better than the Budweiser and PBR his dad kept in the fridge.

“Aside from being late, you two did fine,” Bilgewater smiled. “Here’s your cut for selling the cocaine.”

From out of the pockets of his robe, he pulled out a thick roll of bills. He handed $200 to Jim, and $200 to Eddie. “Don’t spend it all in one place, boys,” he said. They grinned at each other. Two hundred a piece! What would they do with it all? As his spliff burned down to the nub, Eddie already had a pretty good idea what he’d buy with his cut.

“Now,” said Mr. B. “How are the prospective clients looking?”

“Pretty damn good,” Jim replied, feeling relaxed. “Ronny and Stew in my biology class are already asking for another gram. Half of the jocks on the football and wrestling teams love the stuff.”

“I’ll bet,” Bilgewater chortled. “Eddie? Prospects?”

“Yeah, Mr. B. Sold some to Mr. Kieps down at the Gentleman’s Lounge. Said he’d be interested in buying more than a couple grams.”

“Just what I wanted to hear. Now what I’m going to need for you boys is a list of names, numbers and addresses of clients. This list, along with everything else we ever do, is to be kept very secret and private. Got that?”

They nodded.

“I want you to bring this list along with you next Saturday, along with the money.” The Bilgewater gazed up and shouted, “Yo, Hanson! The bag!”

Hanson brought over a paper bag, with the “Rubin’s Café & Bakery” logo printed on its side and set it before Jim, who peeked in at its contents.

“This is a little more than last time,” Jim observed.

“That’s how we do business,” Bilgewater said. “You show me you can be responsible, I give you more product to sell, which means a bigger cut for you both.

“Now, boys,” he cautioned. “I want you back here next Saturday at exactly 6:30 p.m. Tardy slips will no longer be acceptable. I ain’t your god damned school principal. Got it?

“Yes, Sir,” Jim nodded.

“You’ve got it, Mr. B,” Eddie said.

“Finish up that pint, Jim, and I’ll see y’all this time next week. If you don’t mind, boys, I’ve got some other business to attend to.”

Bilgewater got up from his chair. He walked over to the poolside and stretched out his arms. The women surrounded him, wet bodies shimmering in the setting sun, breasts brushing his robe as they tittered and kissed his lips.

“Man,” Eddie shook his head. “If only we could be that lucky.”

“We will be,” Jim smiled. “As long as we keep dealing for Mr. B, we’re going to end up just as filthy rich, with just as many girls.”

“Really?” Eddie asked.

“Really,” Jim confirmed, drowning the rest of the beer.

Hanson led them back inside, past the strange hallways of doors emanating screams and sighs and then down, down, down the crimson flights of stairs, to the front door. Jim gripped the paper bag in his hand, delighted that Bilgewater hadn’t sentenced the both of them to the iron maiden after all.

He split the product down the middle with Eddie in the cab. Eddie would spend the week selling his half, and Jim the other. It was going to be another great week, building report with customers, thereby gaining cash in their pockets and fame among their peers. Jim started the rusty Chevy pickup and grinned.


© ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. Tylor J. Mintz 2019.

 Using James Scott Bell’s random plot generator, I construct eda story with a swimming pool for a setting, a slacker for a minor character, drug dealing for a villainous act, and fame as the motive for that act. There is also to be a twist of “bridge is out”, which I’ve yet to write. This story is, therefore, a work in progress. 

A Short Walk with Randolph Metzger (SHORT STORY)

They hauled him, black bag over his head, through the jeering crowd, toward the gallows. He endured the wild curses, demands, and insults as one does with a cold wind. He accepted, and shivered. But what hurt him, what affected him, was hearing them shout his name…

My own name, he thought. Why does it make me cringe? What is it about a title I’ve had since birth that brings these shivers up my spine? Makes my hair stand on end? Gives me gooseflesh?

Randolph Metzger.

A name given to me by my mother, not without a lofty pride. It was my grandfather’s name. My grandfather – a heritage of honor, a noble Captain of a ship. My grandfather the courageous explorer, loving husband to my Grandmother Rosemary, and lifelong giver of alms to the poor. By all accounts, my grandfather was a great man.

By all accounts, I am not.

Hence, up ahead. The gallows. I see only black. But I know that noose is there all the same. It’s almost as if I can smell it…swinging to and fro, in the wind. It smells of an odd mixture of pine, sweat, and desperation…

A shiver ran up his spine. His spine was like a long fuse, burning up into explosions of fear inside his brain. His temples throbbed. His knees began to tremble.

So this is how my life ends, thought Randolph Metzger. As a short, nightmare walk toward grim fate. With blackened sight. With hatred, stuffed into my ears. With cold, hard prods from the guards, and sharp jabs and gobs of spit from this stupid, undulating mass of serfs.

Ah, but there is a brighter side. There is, there is.

Just think! I could be spending the remainder of my days like these fools. Sweating away the years, giving all, having nothing, starving, suffering, proffering sins, aching for a better life after death. Ha!

And there lies the rub. Life after Death, the only thing – the only delusion! – that makes this life the least bit tolerable.

As any wise man knows, if he is wiser than St. Thomas Aquinas, there is no such thing. These poor fools! These lousy, damned Idiots! What do they know with their shouts and damnations? They know only hatred and stupidity and work – that is their lot in service to the King. That is their life.

Why in hell would I ever want a part in that?

Yet even if there is some paradisiacal after-life, it won’t be for me. Not with the things I’ve done.

Indeed. If there be a Pearly Gates, they are open to some, closed to others, and yet barricaded with chains, locks, and hexes for those rare wicked, debauched souls like Randolph Metzger.

For Randolph Metzger the sign slapped across those golden Gates reads loud and clear:


The guard on his left rammed an elbow into his gut.

“HAULT!” he screamed.

“What, god damn you? What?!”

“The stairs! Step UP!”

Randolph stepped up, then up again, and up, up. A new pain radiated up his left leg, following the track of his spine, exploding ghastly fireworks inside his brain again.

My head, oh my head, he thought. Wouldn’t it be a beauty if it just exploded, right here upon the gallow steps?

Randolph imagined his pink, fleshy brains littering the imbecile crowd all ‘round him in one great BLAST! — a cranium ignited by pain and fear and set to fracture, split, and fly all in one breath!

Oh, how they would scream!

The crowd cheered madly as Randolph shambled onto the stage. It was one hell of a great show and – by god! – he was the star of it. The closest he’d ever gotten to the gallows was as a child, when forced by parents and instructors to act in those cute little theater plays of Sophocles and Aristophanes.

Look at me now, ma! He thought, laughing wildly beneath black cloth.

The guards looked at each other and scowled. One of them struck a blow to his stomach. Randolph doubled over in agony. They jerked his shoulders back, forcing him straight again.

“What!” Randolph hissed. “Pray tell, a man cannot have a bit of fun at his own funeral?”

“Funeral?” shouted a guard. “There is no funeral for you, Randolph Metzger! The world should never provide you such fortune – You do not deserve it. No. For you, there is only execution. Justice!”

The guards dragged him to center stage. He now stood upon the trap door, which felt no different to his feet than the rest of the stage. He knew he was standing on it all the same. That cold wind blew again, carrying the sea of shouts and voices even closer to his ears. He drowned in that sea, but did not shiver, did not twitch. They put the noose around Randolph Metzger’s neck, snugging it tight.

Why fear what is deserved? He thought. Why fear at all? What is there at the end of this rope other than the inevitable? I am to be swallowed up by black nothingness. The void. The thing that exists for all mankind before birth…so what?

The shouts from the crowd grew ever more excited. Damnations, condemnations, or insults, it was no matter. He was becoming used to it.

So I never followed in my grandfather’s footsteps. I’ve ever had any desire to! I was never a kind man, compassionate man, a loving man…this is perhaps the most loving I’ve ever been. Here on the gallows, wind shivering my body, enduring the hatred of my country…this! I love all of this! I have walked a short life…yet I have walked in steps true to me and only me. This, I love. This, where I belong.

A voice, novel and foreign, shouted from the stage.

“QUIET! QUIET!” demanded the voice.

The crowd simmered to a low boil, leaving the air heavy, thick. The wind blew. The shivers on Randolph’s spine were pleasurable now, almost sensuous.

My god! he thought. I’ve never felt so alive!

“Randolph A. Metzger,” the voice boomed. “You have lived a life of thievery, decadence and murder. You have cheated and exploited every living soul you’ve ever known. Therefore, you have been condemned to execution by your King and country. You are hereby sentenced to be hung from the neck until you are dead. Have you any last words?”

“Yes,” Randolph replied without pause. “My last words are for my children. I know not their names, nor their homes, nor do I care. Yet if they ever become curious of their old man, and inquire to their mothers about my existence, they ought to know this:

“I, Randolph Metzger, am by all accounts a great man. My children shall know I am honorable heritage, for I am captain of my life. I am honest to my own Self, for one must always be honest if they are to live outside the law. I am a lover of widows and wenches, of money and of fools – murdered. I am a lifelong thief of the rich and poor alike, for all men and ladies are equal before my eyes. For all of them, as good as rats! Thus it is with great happiness that I be condemned – for it means I shall rest, at last, free and dreamless, of the stupid, mindless torrents of this plagued world!”

The crowd grew ever angrier. They threw stones, soiled fruit, whatever they could get their hands on. None of these flew high enough to strike their desired target – the man in the noose whom laughs.

“May the Lord have mercy on your soul!”

A guard pulled the creaking lever. The trapdoor swung open with a clatter, and Randolph dropped through.


The body came to a sudden mid-air hang as the neck broke. Somehow, the black bag around his head had dropped, leaving the face exposed. He appeared handsome, peaceful.

Randolph Metzger swung to and fro, a lifeless pendulum in a cold wind that no longer brought cold, nor shivers, nor wind.



© April 2019. Tylor J. Mintz. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

This, the Written Page (poem)

Sometimes that is the last refuge.

That, the blank page.

I scribble and it is a linguistic sigh, a relief.

I write long and hard

And I am on the moon, beyond myself.

I write steady and true

And I am not a writer, but

I am being written, I am writing.

When I am insufferable to the world,

Thinking the world is insufferable,

I turn, one hand armed with the dagger pen,

And I scribble, scrawl, scrutinize.

Or fingers poised above the granite keyboard

I crack, click, clack

The cool, easy hours away.


It is like when lovers

Cease their sensuous tumble.

The breath returns at last,

my soul unsold!

Writing is a glorious, beautiful, happy affair.

(Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.)

It is an addiction to Self-transcendence.

When I am not a writer, I am being written.

I am writing, and sometimes,

I arise like a hero, head emptied, stomach starved,

Ready (and willing!) to rejoin society.

Because in my hands I wave

This, the written page.

For Addicts of Writing

A writer is a word junkie, a crazed addict of paper and ink. His paraphernalia includes a pen or pencil, some paper, typewriter or computer, and his imagination. A writer must secure his fix and write daily. If he doesn’t, he’s bound to feel sick, unbalanced, and maladjusted, which may or may not result in volatile consequences for society at large. Therefore, we should all do well to keep the writer well fed. If you find a writer on the street, hair billowing wild, going crazy, hand him a pen and some paper to keep him busy. Otherwise, he’s bound to take his twisted imagination out on just about anybody — Even you.



Are you a recovering writer? You poor, poor soul!

Be sure to join your local Write-a-holics Anonymous group and seek serious help.

America’s Emerging Horror Writers: Midwest Region

Ladies and Gents,

This may sound a bit like self-promotion, because it is.

The following book is a wonderful anthology of short horror stories, all of them written by up-and-coming writers based out of the Midwest. Z Publishing House does a fine job of seeking out writers (just as they’ve sought out yours truly), whom are promising, talented, passionate, and little known.

My story, Welcome Home, has been included in this fine anthology for your dark, sick, twisted pleasure.

If interested (you should be), you may purchase this book, America’s Emerging Horror Writers: Midwest Region, on Amazon, here.

If you end up purchasing, enjoy! In the meantime, I’m working on a new story that is sure to scare your pants off (if you happen to be wearing any).

your friend,

Tylor J. Mintz