Secretly, Every Thriller is a Myth Or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Minotaur

I’d wanted to commit to posting something on the blog twice a week, but the story I had slated for next up was the second short story about arsonists. And the draft of that arson story died faster than a cub scout campfire in the Hoh rainforest. Maybe karma was jinxing me as a way of promoting fire safety? Or because my actual house CAUGHT ON FIRE mid-draft…