Anthony Huso lives in Cedar Park, Texas. The Last Page is his first novel.

Anthony in his own words:
Anthony_PhotoKnowing that a B.A. in English wasn’t likely to land him a good-paying job, Anthony did the only thing he could think of: he got the degree as quickly and cheaply as he could.
Having dreamt of being an author since age eight, he reveled in his classes until June of 1996 when, after three years of school, he left the University of Minnesota with proof that he could read.
Interviewers were unimpressed and, true to his expectations, he found himself making $10 an hour as a home health aide, a door-to-door vacuum salesman, and later as a bill collector.
Jobs that paid the bills were just that: jobs. When the workday was over he left them behind, completely. At home he continued doing what he loved, creating, writing and tinkering with computers.
A self-described nerd (and proud of it) Anthony was completely surprised when his experiments with video game design landed him a job at Arkane Studios, a game company based in Lyon, France.
Deciding it was time to begin living rather than continue dreaming he took a chance, sold his house, quit his job and cashed out his 401k. He spent an amazing year living in France, sightseeing in Switzerland and Italy with his wife and three daughters.
After a year in Europe he returned to the states and continued working in games, this time based in Austin, Texas.
Delighted to finally have a job that encouraged his creativity, and inspired by the many people he had met in the game industry, Anthony took eight months to rewrite a story he had been fiddling with since college.
He submitted “The Last Page” to several potential agents and publishers.
After a couple years worth of rejection and good advice, he finally sold the “Last Page” and its sequel to Tor Books in early 2009.
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Origins
I don’t really want to talk about me directly. I’d rather talk about motivations behind my writing.
I grew up in a wondrous and sinister region of the Midwest, a small town where some folks thought they were vampires. True story. That blue house for instance, across from the cemetery—south of town on the barren hillside…not even a tree dared grow on that lawn. Or so I fabulized. The whole region was a stew of parochial occult and god-fearing sensibilities, where black magic—at times—seemed real and where God was in the moon and tree arms. God was in the molten strawberry gum in the girl’s mouth I was tasting. God was in fireworks and match heads and the smell of sulfur. Good and evil were equally esoteric during all seasons of the year. And I could smell them.
There were secular and Christian rites and witchcraft and even murder there in that little town on the river—even though it took the FBI man a long time to figure out the case. There were drugs and sex and geese in nooses hung from trees in the cul-de-sac where the road just ended without explanation at the edge of fields and forests frosted with autumn and sprinkled with rusting Hamms beer cans.
It wasn’t a welcoming town. You knew if you were an outsider.
But it was magical, in a Dandelion Wine sort of way…only darker, realer, with more of a sense of true danger (spiced with cinnamon).
I’m just telling you how it was.
Now, this isn’t some kind of soapboxing wherein I proclaim that fantasy is just as good as any other kind of fiction.
All I’m offering is the reason that I write it, which you must be interested in—seeing as how you’re here. The answer is simple.
I don’t really know.
What I do know is that fear and uncertainty are powerful emotions. So are the nuances of awe, awkwardness and powerlessness. So is love and hope.
The instances where those emotions have hit me in conjunction—close together and sometimes for the first time—have left impact craters. I find myself wanting to extrude those things into a thin gooey sheet I can hold up to the light and examine.
I remember standing at t