I have a friend who can barely string a sentence together. She’ll place a word on a page, and then agonize over the resulting ripples as though the word were a stone thrown into a deep lake.
Zach Lynott
Zach Lynott was born in San Diego, Ca and stayed long enough for Mr. Toad to park his wild ride within a madcap memory before the family bucked the American notion of heading west and moved to Denver, CO. In the ensuing years the west called to him, and after a layover at CU Boulder and odd jobs including the record industry and the Coors can line, he accepted its invitation. Reports of his pole vaulting the Rockies are exaggerated, but perhaps he did overcompensate, because he didn’t land on the west coast, but rather the Far East. Japan precisely, where he stayed for four years, and upon returning decided that writing suited him just fine. Presently he’s been a professional writer for going on four years, which covers grants, after school curriculum and business proposals, amongst other odd assorted letters. But it’s fiction he loves, especially surreal, horrifying mysteries of a metaphysical nature, works where symbolism, sudden juxtapositions, and the raw currents of modern life create brief openings through which the great hairy unknown is glimpsed. He does this from his current home in Denver, CO of all places. Who’d have thought?
