Bestselling Fiction Writer in New York
Everyone has a story, here’s mine
I grew up in the welfare apartments of a middle class town. “I’ll meet you there.” I’d always say. Couldn’t have them see the two bedroom for five kids and Mom. I lived in two worlds. Jock and good student in town. Getting busted for smashing car windshields back in my neighborhood. Once my brothers and I broke into an apartment, then proudly walked around waving the gun we found. We didn’t have much food, the furniture was charity, the T.V. small and black and white. I went to bed hungry many nights.
What we did have was a mother with a creative spirit. We had music, her record collection was bigger than ours. We had books. A new book every two weeks. I devoured them.
The ingredients to develop this writer were tossed in the pot at an early age. The old school music; Sinatra, Benny Goodman, Artie Shaw. Reading “grown up” books before I was ten. Dickens; Swift, Hemingway, Chandler and too many more to list. I’d finish a novel then go hop the fence to the school yard. See what my buddies were up too, back behind the handball courts.
For many years it was the hunger I remembered most. That’s what drove me to a successful career in the financial world.
The creative spirit I didn’t have to remember; it was always there. It took a while to have the courage to tap into it. Yes, courage.
The courage to work on a story when I should have been doing something to make money. To put my deepest thoughts and heartfelt words into print. To allow others to judge my work.
Now I go to bed with a full stomach but it is the creative spirit that keeps me awake. Rising early with thoughts of plot twists and character development.
Maybe it was never hunger at all. Maybe it was drive.
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