Scott Vetsch often hears things wrong, which makes them right. He’s a carpenter who works in old houses, a child in a man’s body, a soul in exile. He likes a good story, whichever way it comes. Loves cats and crows, inhabits worlds of his own making. He’s afraid things aren’t getting better, but hopes he’s mistaken. He burns wood, craves hamburgers and eats tofu, scoffs at money, envies the contented, and drives a truck. When he’s happy he wants beer. When he’s sad he wonders why. He knows one thing for certain, he’s a writer in a post-literate world.
