The Blog

Why did I write Wandering West?  What inspired me?  Or, to censor an old friend’s recent admonition, “What the heck were you thinking, putting yourself through such a gut-wrenching, thankless–self flagellating–process, and for what?”  When the subject of my having written a book comes up, these are the immediate and inevitable questions I get.  I generally stammer a bit, clear my throat and try my best to explain that writing–gulp–simply, is in my bones.  I am compelled to express my life’s observations through writing fiction, as sometimes daunting and generally inefficient as that may be.  Most people who know me aren’t aware that I have always been something of a writer.  In my twenties, I wrote several novels, acquired a literary agent and endeavored to make writing fiction a career.  After all, didn’t Faulkner get his writing career off the ground in his twenties? Didn’t Hemingway?  Didn’t all writers worth anything?  Ahh, to be so naive again.  To put it bluntly, as an author, I was not yet ready for prime time.  In my case, I hadn’t lived enough to develop the depth that my characters needed to write the type stories that inspired me.  Besides, by my late twenties, I had a family to care for, and yes, better things to do than coop myself up in front of an IBM Selectric all day.  Yes, I know.  I’m dating myself now.

Life, as they say,  got in the way, until recently.  At the time, I was in one of my contemplative moods, something I am afflicted with all too often, I’m afraid.  I was reflecting on my life, how I had gottten to this point.  I was savoring the occasional minor victory and pining over the all-too familiar traumatic defeat.  Where was I headed, now that  I could actually glimpse–however blurry the view–old age on the horizon?  It was, after all, in the not-distant-enough future.  It dawned on me that any ordinary person, placed in an extraordinary circumstance, confronted with the realization of growing older, would have a story to tell.  I had this image of an older guy wandering toward the sunset–the sunset of his life, if you will.  The title, Wandering West, then popped into my head.  I knew immediately that I would write this aging man’s story, or at least give a stab at it to see how it developed.  Once I fleshed out Jack Stiler’s character, at least in my mind, the story took on a life of its own.  That’s generally how I have always written.  I develop characters and let them tell the story.  In the beginning, this is nothing more than a vague concept, a feeling or a mood more than anything.  I have no elaborate outline, detailing this and that.  I can’t work that way. I’m as surprised as anyone when I get to point D from point C in the story.  For me, that’s what keeps it fresh and alive.   As a writer, I get hooked the way I hope the reader does.  In the case of Wandering West, I completed the story in three to four months, a rather quick pace in light of my previous writings.  I think this one was champing at the bit to get out.  If you’ve already read Wandering West, pardon the pun.  If not, get to it!   Click on the purchase button in the book section of this website.  And thanks!