I grew up in Baltimore. I attended elementary school in a dismal neighborhood; to this day the only thing I'm afraid of is missing the bus. I discovered journalism in a college class. The first thing I learned was how not to get sued. Then I learned the good stuff: lede, story, structure. I wrote for Style, an alt-weekly in Richmond, Va., and then for The Virginian-Pilot in Norfolk. I wrote about Confederate saboteurs, transvestite prostitutes, the Beltway sniper, a World War II veteran and his sinister 5-year-old son. I won more than 30 awards from the Virginia Press Association. I married an artist. I wrote a long mess of a novel and humbled, trashed it. I became a copywriter and editor. I learned how to write lean.

Then I wrote Pussy. The story sprang from these two things.

I always thought men and women were essentially the same. Then I discovered that the world of men is wild and dark; much darker than women are willing to accept.

And I began to seek out those among us who are born not right; those men and women who are dogged lifelong by terrible urges and yet, whether restrained by willpower or circumstance, never carry them out. They limp through life unnoticed, struggling to function with broken machinery. They may someday be named the greatest among us – not for what they did, but for what they did not do.

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