I'm always trying to figure out how to describe what I write. The closest I've gotten to-date is: HEXED REALISM (Get it? Like Magical Realists Gabriel Garcia Marquez & Clarice Lispector & Barbara Comyns & Borges & Italo Calvino, to give only a few examples, I include plenty of realism, but no matter how hard I try, my magic is horrific, accursed, uncanny, predatory, necromantic, risky, repulsive & metaphysically deadly).If you keep an author autobiography short—which you should—it isn't much more interesting than an obituary in the local paper. Just my opinion.So I’m not going to write about myself. I’m just going to write, like this:There were trails in the woods then, like corridors in an immense fortress of trees. Where the twilight or moon sifted in, Kaspar watched particles mix, specks of billions-year-old-stuff—atoms of long-gone mountains, rock, lingering riverbreath, roots from trees grown on the other side of the world, and the dark, heavy-treaded scent of unidentifiable, branch-breaking echoes—these ancient grains of world waltzed and flocked with fresher bits of pine and root and the sub-tang of ever-now caravans of black insects, dank fern and deermusk, mixed together in such indistinguishable equity, it was like time didn’t exist. What else do you want to know?