I began writing because I wanted to be a “Writer.” Not, initially, for the love of story or words or character, or the rich whiff of ink and paper, or the romantic conviction that I had anything of value to say, but because I became infatuated at an early age with the images of “Writers” I saw in movies. It seemed every cinematic writer hung out in a Parisian garret or a beach house, lived on cigarettes and sandwiches, wore fabulous linen jackets and/or rumpled pajamas, influenced global events, and was the love object or muse of a slew of brilliant other artist-types. I fell in love with the idea of being a writer, with the six-second montage of the writer writing at an old-fashioned clack clack clack typewriter, drinking Scotch or red wine, forehead attractively creased in thought, and voila, there is the story, the book, the play! And it only took six seconds! I started writing because I wanted that title, that label  – “Writer” – and I suspected if I didn’t actually write anything, at some point people would notice. What a lie that effortless, glamorous, seductive six-second writing montage really was…but I had no idea how just how passionately I would fall in love with story, words, and characters, with the rich whiff of ink and paper, with the passionate conviction that I had, maybe, something of value to say.

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