I’ve Got a Confession. I’m a Pussy about Blood.

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Ok, there.  I said it.  I’m a pussy when it comes to blood.  And, yes, I plainly see the irony in that, as I am a horror writer.

Blood makes me queasy.  The mere sight of it can make my stomach do cartwheels.  My head gets light, and fainting is definitely in the offing.  Real life, movies, it doesn’t matter.  I’ve shied away from plenty of horror movies in my day because of their propensity for spraying, splattering blood–Alien comes clearly to mind.  I’ve walked out of movies, lest I regain consciousness trying to pull my clammy cheek from the soda-adhesive floor of the theater.  I’ve walked out of Re-animator and Interview with the Vampire, just as my head began to swim.

And let’s not forget books.  Yes, even the written word (if it’s well written) can bring about this dismaying character defect within me.  One of the scariest (and grossest) books I’ve ever read was The Hot Zone, which was a quasi-fictionalized exploration of the ebola virus.  It opens with a tremendously disturbing scene of an infected man basically liquefying and bleed out onboard an airplane.

So, there it is, all out in the daylight.  Blood makes me a pussy.  You can imagine, then, my reaction when I saw the cover for I CAN TASTE THE BLOOD.

I fucking loved it.

Five Unique Voices.

Five Disturbing Visions.

One Nightmare.

The Blood Flows August 2016!

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