I never thought I’d write an autobiography/memoir—a common man writing about a common man. Writing this started as a COVID distraction, an escape from the drudgery of publishing five novels, and too many competing ideas for my next book. Writing anything about yourself is complicated. I was fearful of offending anyone I wrote about and concerned someone might wonder why I felt so self-important to write a book about myself.
We are all voyeurs of other people’s lives through the movies we watch and the books we read. It helps us navigate the turbulent waters and understand whether we are like this or that. Everything I have written has come from a deep well of a life of ponderings.
I spent my entire life trying to figure out who I was, where I fit in, whether I was stupid, what to say, and what to do, but with all that self-reflection, it was easy to write a story about ME. I have always preferred writing as a way to understand and make sense of jumbled thoughts. I have always been fascinated with other people’s lives, maybe it was a way of looking in a mirror to see if the reflection resembled me.
When I was young IQ and grades were the best predictors of whether I would be successful or not. It was the difference between a counselor who encouraged me to join the Navy and become a fireman instead of picking out a college. I am still searching for the elusive predictors of success, and as close as I come, it is more the guts of life than anything measurable.
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