Stacy Finz is an award-winning journalist. After more than seventeen years covering notorious serial killers, naked-tractor-driving farmers, fanatical foodies, aging rock stars and weird Western towns for the San Francisco Chronicle, she figured she finally had enough material to launch a career writing fiction. In 2012 she won the Daphne du Maurier Award for unpublished single-title mystery/suspense. She lives in Berkeley, California with her husband.
I only like corn when it’s still on the cob. Won’t eat it otherwise.
When I was 12, my family moved to a small almond farm in Northern California. My sister, brother and I had to ride the whole way from Southern California in the back of a truck with at least eleven goats. If that wasn’t insulting enough, our parents failed to tell us that our new home didn’t have indoor plumbing. That’s right, an outhouse!
My first paying newspaper job was at the Back Country Trader. When I quit, I left a not-so-nice note that contained the “F” word and tried to beat a hasty retreat. But my car wouldn’t start and I had to go back inside to use the phone. Awkward.
I won $200 on a penny slot machine in Reno.
When I lived in Quentin Tarantino’s old apartment in West Hollywood, George Clooney once parked in my space. This is not a lie.
I own fifteen pairs of cowboy boots.
Currently, I don’t have any pets.
I sort of have road-rage issues.