About the Author

I’ve got nothing to call a resume.  Just ambition.

Maybe a dash of talent.  Practice. Perfectionism. Willpower.

The ranch where I was raised remains much as it was, a wide and open land of stray dogs and skinny cattle.

It is a place made for people who can be alone.

Once upon a time, there were the old ones—unkempt people who knew how to skin a cow, tie a knot, and lie through their remaining teeth.

They stopped if they saw you outdoors, men and women ready to spin yarns and spit tobacco.

They spoke like time was broken.

They stood like their backs were next.

The old-timers always leaned on something—fence posts, shovels, the sides of rusting pickup trucks.

Over the years, they leaned completely out of the world.

I left with them, for a while.  I am back, reborn of urban legend and rural upbringing.

If I am not always a good man, I can sometimes be good with words.

I try to make them count, and I try not to count the days.  Like the leaning ones, I work, I wait, I revise, and I chase stories.

The time’s coming to jump in the puddle with boots on… ready and not.

Until then,

—WSB

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