M. A. Csortos, writer of speculative fiction.

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I am a writer of speculative fiction and published indie author of the supernatural and macabre. My short stories and novels usually have an abstract view of how things are tied together. Often with a bit of horror, combined with science fact or fiction, depending on whatever pushes the story forward. And on occasion, a smattering of humor is thrown into the mix to sweeten the pot.  But not all my writing leans that way; sometimes the straight-and-narrow is dragged into focus, a slanted look perhaps, but still on the cusp of what it means to be human, and maybe not human at all.

My publishing credentials include the novels Danny Delicious, The Well, The Water Tower, Devil Flower, Face in the Snow, The Thirteenth Book, Pallbearer Bridge, Fingers, A Witch's Lie, and the anthologies Dancing Flies and Other Stories, and Greenhead Flies and Other stories.  All titles can be found on Amazon.com under MA Csortos.

So, thank you for visiting and showing an interest in what occupies most of my time. Keep reading and I’ll keep writing. How’s that for a fair deal? And we didn’t even have to shake on it.

Best Regards,

M. A. Csortos 

As an author I am sometimes asked why I write. And to be honest my answer is usually weak and unfulfilling, even to myself. I feel like an unbalance klutz. I have no response, a quip that is cool and to the point. I fumble even when asked about the book I’m writing or the story idea I’ve been kicking around. My thoughts tumble and the words twist from my mouth like jumbled nonsense. I sound like an idiot. But that’s okay, because deep down I know the real reason I write. It’s an itch that needs to be scratched. Something that digs and prods, shoving from behind like the provable steam engine. Sometimes it pushes so hard my thoughts scatter like frightened children, forever lost. And other times the push is smooth, pleasant, and almost spiritual. Yet mostly it is a cache of self-doubt and nagging that forces me to sit down at the keyboard and thrash away, my fingers slipping and clicking into oblivion. And at some point, words appear. They join together and form sentences that grow into paragraphs, and then pages and pages of thoughts and ideas, that with any luck and skill, and a little bit of grit, sustain into something worth reading. That’s when the magic is working, and I know there’s nothing else I’d rather be doing. That’s why I write.