M.C. Norris

You’re a fan of that author, but you still haven’t posted that Amazon review of their book.  Worse yet, that author might happen to be a friend or a family member.  Ugh.  You suffer a twinge of guilt whenever the subject of their writing comes up in conversation.  Y...

It was one week before Christmas.  I was in third grade.  Seemingly out of nowhere, the teacher asked for a show of hands to determine how many students in the class still believed in Santa Claus.  I vividly remember my anxiety mounting as I looked one way, and then an...

Krengel & the Krampusz  was my first contract, and my first novel sale.  That sale represented twenty years of hard work, and the realization of a childhood dream.  It was not the first novel I'd ever written.  Fourth, actually.  But it was the first book that act...

Krengel & the Krampusz  was the best idea I’ve ever had.  I think that all creators can probably relate to that struggle to conjure up some sort of a brand new, blockbuster idea with mainstream appeal.  We’re always searching for that special story with massive legs th...

“God bless you,” the woman said, after taking the money from my hand.  “You let me know where I can find you, and I’ll pay you back somehow.”

I first encountered her while I was waiting to make a left-hand turn.  Her weathered pickup full of furniture entered the inter...

I’ve had a few people inquire about my brand as “the impossible author.”  It’s a valid question, and there is, in fact, an answer.  Since there may be others floating around out there who’ve quietly wondered the same thing, but weren’t tormented enough to ask, I’ll exp...

Once every couple of months, I like to treat myself to an Indian lunch buffet. It's a little family-owned joint, located in a quirky, Bohemian part of town that never fails to fill the restaurant with an eclectic variety of eccentric people. So, it's worth going, as mu...

After last night's Scout meeting, I treated my eight-year-old son, Mr. Sunshine, to a late dinner at Arby's, his favorite place. As we pulled into the parking lot, I noticed that the place was filled with the bearded men and bonneted women of an Amish congregation -- o...

There once lived a chipmunk beneath our porch, and his name was Alvin. He had a little hole next to the landing. It was from this portal that he’d sometimes emerge, plump, striped and neurotic.  He’d hop onto our porch, nose wriggling, and there, he'd often clean his w...

(written 2011)

“What year were you born?” my girl asked me, Sunday night, between bites of chicken strips.

“1972.”

“You’re old,” she said, without a shred of affect. Sometimes our kids remind me of Wednesday and Pugsley Adams. Not that my girl is the least bit fas...