When I first met Nic Pizzolatto, he was teaching creative writing at DePauw, a small liberal-arts college in Indiana. He was a young professor at work on his first novel, seemingly just another member of the academic multitude, but there was something different about him, something edgy and strange you noticed right away. He registered as bigger than his moderate size, powerful, with a wicked grin. He had an old-fashioned intensity. We spoke for a few minutes, then, a few minutes later, I forgot all about it. That was in 2008, two days before yesterday.

Source: www.vanityfair.com