The Horror... The Horror: An Autobiography
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
Available for the first time, The Horror... The Horror provides a look into the life and mind of author Rick Hautala. From his days as a child in Massachusetts, to his days in college at the University of Maine in Orono, to the early days of his writing career along with Stephen King's involvement, and ultimately to where his life and career stood in 2009, his autobiography is a compelling read to be enjoyed by friends and fans alike.
and sisters…Sad because, given a different psychological makeup, I might have been able to make things work out better than they did. Instead, I lost. I was on the merry-go-round, and when I had a chance to grab the brass ring…I missed it. It started with some agent shenanigans. You see, I knew (was convinced, anyway) that Kirby, Steve’s agent, had taken on my first two books only as a favor to Steve, not out of any genuine interest in my writing or me. (Damn, there’s that low self-esteem
Cambridge. And then there was the year I slept in the all-night movie theatre because I couldn’t afford a hotel room. I think that was the year the World Science Fiction Convention was in Boston. That was also the year my agent, Kirby McCauley, invited me to a private party for his clients and guests. It’s also where I first met someone who today (in spite of his politics) is closer to me than my own brother — Tom Monteleone. Ever the low self-esteem guy, I stumbled around Kirby’s party in a
“fall back on,” there have been so many times I would have quit and walked away. But I didn’t. I couldn’t Writing was all I had...especially after I lost a house and a marriage. Did I mention that my ex-wife worked for a law firm? That she got free legal advice regarding the divorce? Then I may not have mentioned that when I left the marriage — yes, I was the one who pulled the plug — I left with pretty much what I could fit into a friend’s truck. Dave Hinchberger gave me a coffee cup that had
petrified. I remember I started crying. With tears streaming down my face, I asked my parents what that sound was. Someone — probably my mother — calmly explained that it was “just an owl.” Just an owl! The sad, lonely notes drifting to my ears from the dark wood were all but supernatural in their effect. They reached to the deepest levels I could have had at five years old, and something was awakened in me for the first time. And not the last. That sound could have come from a lost and
than the handful of professors and students I knew in college who wrote poetry and “precious reminiscences” parading as real stories) was Steve King. And I spent a good deal of mental energy, wishing and thinking and hoping I could gain at least a modicum of that level of fortune and fame. When it looked like Nightstone would get me there, and then things collapsed, I knew I had to readjust. My only fear was that I would be forced to take a full-time day job that would finish killing off my