I gather story ideas from many places… the other day I got one while standing at the urinal at work… I saw a greasy hand print on the wall and BAM, story time! Rick: I’m having a hard time answering this question! Oddly enough, I don’t really feel like I write when I’m inspired to write: I write because I’m a writer… and that’s what writers do. Snarky: What gives you inspiration to write? They weren’t too happy when there daddies tried to make them pretty and sparkly for the day. The pictures attached are from Christmas. Rick: I have two furry children, Bailey and Bozwell. Snarky: Kids? Pets? Let’s seem ‘em if you don’t mind! Rick: I was born in Salt Lake City, Utah, and call Salt Lake City home… until next week. Snarky: So Rick, where were you born and where do you call home? Snarky Bloggers had the pleasure and sitting down with Rick and chatting. Mostly, I just try to keep a low profile so people don’t figure out who I REALLY am.

I enjoy the occasional Bloody Mary, although a Bloody Kathy or Susan will suffice. I’ve been favorably reviewed by horror greats like Nancy Kilpatrick, and my how-to-write-horror articles have been quoted in scholarly (aka community college freshmen’s) papers. I have one book published but out of print, one coming out soon, and a bunch half written (when you have eternity, where’s the reason to rush?). So after all this time, I’m a pretty crappy writer. I’ve often been accused of having done more in my life than the average person my age, but if I were completely honest I’d have to tell you my secret: I’m really 392. Now I must find out who I really am, protect my friends, and get back to my beloved hometown of Orenda. The only keys to the life I remembered were my father’s ring, my unique abilities, and the onslaught of demons that seemed hell-bent on finding me. I woke to find myself in a strange new world called Los Angeles. When the kingdom of men conquered my town, I was murdered by one of my own-the betrayer of my kind. By the time I was ten I understood nature, talked to the trees, and listened to the wind.

Death of the Body by Rick Chiantaretto