I’ll be honest with you.
Softness is not exactly my fortee, writing-wise.
On a personal level, I guess I’m kind (if not always gentle) and I’m so accommodating, in general, that I’m almost a liquid.
But on the page, I like it rough.
I write pulp stories about Devil-worshipping rocket scientists who use ritual orgies and evil yoga to end the world as we know it; psychoprogrammed CIA serial killers and insatiable celebutantes who mutate into sentient corporations when the moon inside is full.
I can’t tell a soft story to save my life.
But I can tell you a soft truth, maybe.
I will tell you about a genuine moment of softness that did, in fact, save my life.
It was about a year ago...