A Crappy and Incomplete Autobiography

Craig Wolf was born in Stillwater, Oklahoma, on April 11, 1969, a fact the good citizens of Stillwater take no particular pride in. Do you blame them? Fleeing the pitchforks and blazing torches of the local villagers, Craig's parents made for New York, Middletown to be exact. Thence to Port Jervis, and finally, in the bicentennial year, back to Oklahoma, thus lending weight to that old saw about returning to the scene of crime.

The years speed by, the leaves fly from the calendar in a blur, tempis fo sho fugit. Somewhere about the seventh grade, our hero realizes two things: he can't draw for shit, in fact has no abilities whatsoever in the visual arts, and so is unlikely to ever find success in his vision to be a globally recognized comic book artist; and secondly, he's been more interested in the words anyway. So he decides to become a comic book writer, show that Chris Claremont fella who's who. Then he reads Stephen King's FIRESTARTER, and comic book is rapidly amputated from writer. X-Men are one thing, but this King guy is dishing out the real shit, and it doesn't look all that hard. Right?

Right?

So he scribbles and scribbles and soon enough it's high school, where he joins a writing club comprised of people much more talented than he, and still he scribbles. At some point or other he sends something to Dave Silva's HORRORSHOW magazine. Here we go! Fame! Stardom! Hot chicks! Right?

Right?

Actually, Silva responds with a personal rejection letter, and rather than understanding how nice this is, Wolf spirals into a years long blue funk . . . but keeps scribbling. He sells his first story, "Love Potion Number Seven" in 1990, the same year he marries his vic . . . wife, wife. (Who, poor girl, thought her new hubby was loaded with talent and promise. Just goes to show.) The story goes to Aberations, and our hero thinks, HERE WE GO! Right?

Right?

But alas. Editorial changes and the eventual demise of Aberations Magazine put the kibosh on that. Still, our schmuck scribbles. And scribbles. And scribbles. (And do note, that even if said scribbling is done on a typewriter or keyboard, it is still scribbling.) And sales start to trickle in. "Visiting Hour" goes to Jackhammer. "Need" goes to Deadbolt. "A Triptych" goes to TRANSVERSIONS. And a remarkable thing happens: every one of those markets goes belly up. He sells a story called "The Beholder" TWICE, killing off two markets in two submissions. Paranoia sets in. A novel is written. Eh. A second is written. Ehhh. Story sales become more regular (as our hero becomes less regular; the reader must surmise if a connection exists.)

In the year of your lord but not mine 2004, Wolf's first collection, PRESSURE POINTS is published. In 2005, Wolf unleashes on the world a novel called TRESPASS, and it's not a nice book. Now, a novel called QUEEN OF ALL THE NIGHTBIRDS is being polished, and stories are popping up like dandelions. Wolf, through no good-doing of his own, is married to the same woman after all these years, and is raising a reasonably well adjusted child. Aside from a seriously obnoxious tendency toward writing of himself in the third person, he's at last showing promise.

Right?