Grit

Contemporary American society can be a sterile place.  If you live in the suburbs or the nicer part of a city you’re not really aware of the mentally ill.  Most people have never (knowingly) had a conversation with a sex offender.  Try and see a dead body (the most natural of things) outside of a funeral home, un-embalmed and unpainted with make-up and adornment, and you’re likely to be arrested.  And while television does a great job of glorifying violence to the point of our de-sensitization to its idea, very few of us know personally the sound of a metacarpal breaking on another man’s face, or the strange and benign look of a bullet entrance-wound on a naked torso.

As a cop outside of Denver for six years I saw and heard these things.  I talked to these people, touched them, smelled their breath.  As a writer I try and bring this, this level of dirt and reality into my work.  For despite our best efforts this world we’ve created is still a gritty and imperfect place.  Take a look:

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