Randy Smith
My stories were born at thirty thousand feet, squeezed beside lonely sales guys, moms on overdue vacations, and strangers with stories to tell. Tiny bottles of vodka loosened tongues, and somewhere between takeoff and baggage claim, I discovered everyone has a story. I borrowed their words, wounds, secrets, and occasional lies, mixed them with my own dark imagination, and turned them into novels. So come along. You may laugh, squirm, or recognize a little too much of yourself. Look closely at my picture. Do I look familiar? Maybe we’ve already met. Next time you see me, ask for royalties.
