![]() Last year I got to spend a few moments with him in a Cleveland bar immediately after hearing him blister ears reading from his (at the time) forthcoming memoir. He writes fiction, right? Yeah, but fiction that's been there. If mastiffs had hands, they'd look something like this guy's mitts. Physical, sure, but there's a density of spirit to him that's immediately, tangibly present when you shake his hand. But there's just no substitute for occupying the same space, to take the man's measure. I knew he'd been invited to read at the newly birthed event. I knew the titles Beautiful, Naked & Dead and Out There Bad. ![]() The one who, just by being there, makes all the posing I naturally excrete and bullshit I exhale seem just. He wasn't reading (he should have been), he'd not told me he was coming - we'd not had any personal or electronic contact before that night - but I knew straight away. ![]() I first met Josh Stallings in September of 2011 (probably just before the episode depicted in this piece) at the De-Bouchercon Eve event in St. ![]()
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