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The fact that I've written anything at all astounds me. I certainly didn't end up being a writer on purpose.
When I was a teenager (in the sixties), I wanted to be a famous artist -- the mysterious, dramatic type hidden away in a loft in NYC. Problem was, I didn't have any talent. So I became a second-grade teacher in a tiny rural town in northeastern New York. After thirty-three years, I retired, thinking I'd spend the rest of my life doing not a whole lot. That goes flat fast. I tried passing the time by refinishing furniture. No fun at all. A friend and I went into "business" making and selling little girls' smocked dresses. She smocked and I sold. It was a hoot for me but not for her. Then my son (a college senior at the time) won a national writing competition sponsored by the Kennedy Center. I thought maybe I could write something.
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I was born in a small town, and I've lived mostly in small towns. When I write, that's where my stories are set, in places like those I know. The fiction I've always enjoyed reading features working-class characters that play roles, often unwittingly, in each other's lives, Sherwood Anderson's Winesburg, Ohio, for example, or William Faulkner's Yoknapatawpha County stories. Living in a small town, you witness human drama -- comedy, tragedy, often a weird blend of the two -- acted out every day on street corners, in kitchens and churches and coffee shops.
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In his blog Writing Fiction, author Crawford Killian tackles what he sees as the problem of autobiographical fiction: "If you're true to the events and people of your life, you're probably going to write poor fiction, because real life is messier and less organized than fiction. If you follow the requirements for good fiction, you're going to have to distort those real-life events and people... who were supposedly the inspiration for writing the novel in the first place." Click here to read the full entry.
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Long before I ever wrote a word of Coupon Girl, I knew the title. I sold direct mail advertising to small business owners in Worcester. Buy one, get one, baby. Pizza guys, dry cleaners, wallpaper hangers, chiropractors--all of them were my customers. An old boss of mine said getting a mailing together was like ushering a herd of cows through a doorway. At ten in the morning, I might have been helping a pet store guy clip a parrot's toenails. By eleven I might have been shivering in the bowels of a car wash, taking a look at a defective pump, and by two, giving a formal sales presentation in a stockbrokers' boardroom. Don't wear your bathrobe under your coat is my best advice.
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In 1999, my wife, Allison, and I were traveling throughout India during the midst of a four-month backpacking trip in Asia. We spent several days in northern India at the Taj Mahal. Our time left there an indelible mark on me and spurred me to dedicate the next five years to writing "Beneath a Marble Sky," a novel based on the story behind the creation of the Taj Mahal.
By luck rather than design, we arrived at the mausoleum early and were the first visitors onto the grounds. Stepping through the vast sandstone gate was like immersing myself into a photo. The Taj Mahal glistened in the light of dawn, glowing like a sculpted ember. The day was still, the only movement from birds wheeling about the tear-shaped dome.
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For me, luck and timing played important roles in getting my first book published. I've dreamed of being a writer ever since Mrs. Jacks, my grade five teacher, first put a gold star on one of my stories (I should note that, as a child, I also wanted to be a veterinarian, a psychiatrist and a racehorse jockey). Throughout my teens, I wrote mounds of poems and short stories; kept a journal for seventeen years; and even tried my hand at a Harlequin Romance-type book. That particular attempt proved to be a dreadful waste of typewriter ribbon.
It all came to an abrupt halt when, in my late twenties, the man I'd lived with for six years died in a motorcycle accident. For whatever reason, I got rid of my typewriter, packed away my paper and pens, and didn't write again for the next fifteen years. Yet my desire to create continued to simmer beneath the surface.
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