Kurt Hunt is, in no particular order, a father, a lawyer, a husband, a human, and a daydreamer. Sometimes he writes things, but usually he doesn’t.
Kurt grew up in Michigan. These days, his body is usually in an office, but his heart is in the Hebrides.
When he was 7, he wrote a story about contagious slime monsters. When he was 12, he wrote a post-apocalyptic novel about animals living among the ruins of human civilization. Then came poetry — an alarming volume of it, often written by candlelight, often about trees and lakes and how they’re so great.
Kurt eventually fell in love, which prompted him to leave his ancestral home for Chicago. 17 years old and unjustifiably impressed with himself, he enrolled in a creative writing program at a shall-remain-nameless institution of higher education. That successfully extinguished his interest in writing for about a decade.
Isolated from the wisdom and warnings of fiction, he accidentally became a lawyer.
Now an old(er) and bitter(er) man, Kurt is married to a woman who writes hilarious, life-affirming essays, and they have children who tell stories about wizards, robots, and Peruvian Toppling Elephants. Bit by bit, his world rights itself.