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Do you research your novels?
Ad naseuem. I have to know everything about the universe I’m creating, whether that be ghosts, monsters, teens today, whatever, I have to know everything about their worlds.
How much impact does your childhood have on your writing?
My mom and dad always wanted me to be creative. I’ve loved to write as far back as I can remember.
Why do you think what you do matters?
I feel like I’m a creator. I’m creating a universe and inviting the reader into this world. It’s like inviting a friend into your sandbox and showing them a really interesting story that they will love and learn a valuable lesson from.
Have you ever found true love?
Yup. My wife and children are all sitting next to me.
How many times a day do you think about death?
That’s a great question. I’m fascinated with death. I believe we are all spiritual beings having a human experience. I think spiritual growth is everything in life. I do think about what it’s like frequently, and I look forward to heading that way again one day to be with my father, but not for a very, very long time.
During his journey he discovers a new threat released from the bowels of the defunct theme park.
When an army of relentless mummies, a life-sucking ooze called The Glob, and a hybrid reanimated Behemoth rise from the depths of Monsterland, who will survive?
Enjoy an Excerpt
Monsterland was extinguished, its carcass left for the vultures to pick, the exhibits silent as a tomb.
The dead president and his equally dead entourage were whisked away on Air Force One, along with the dark-clad special operatives that came and left like the brisk desert wind that now howled through the empty streets.
A gate screamed in the silence, slamming with a reverberating smash. The uneven gait of someone with a physical challenge filled the void. The scrape and plod of his limp echoed against the wall of mountains framing the theme park. His labored breathing huffed as he made his way down the streets.
A door creaked loudly as it was blown by the wind. He stopped, his distorted figure silhouetted in the pale moonlight, his body turning silver. He looked at the broken glass littering the pavement like diamonds, then up to the still, pre-dawn sky. He considered the sun peeking over the jagged horizon in the east, its golden light painting the dips and hollows of the hills. Soon the coming day would chase the darkness away.
Time was the enemy now. He had to move faster, or it would be too late. He picked up his pace, lurching along the winding road. A keening howl ricocheted through the streets, bouncing off the walls. It sounded like a … no, he thought, it couldn’t be. The werewolves were all dead. Destroyed by Vincent Konrad when he made their heads explode.
The old man paused, listening for it again, and was not disappointed when the animal whimpered. He gauged it to be inside the defunct vampire exhibit. He moved toward the entrance. The storefronts had been destroyed. A few body parts lay on the pavement, as if people had discarded them in a rush. He heard the scraping of paws on the street and a shiver went down his crooked spine.
About the Author:
Michael is a lifelong movie buff, a music playlist aficionado, and a sucker for self-help books. He lives on the North Shore of Long Island with his wife and children.
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