One of the best books I’ve read on writing, many years ago, was On Becoming a Novelist, by John Gardner. The author himself was an acclaimed novelist and teacher, author of Grendel, Nickel Mountain, Jason and Medea and The Sunlight Dialogues, among others. Gardner regarded writing as a sort of calling, and the novelist, as an observer and interpreter of the human condition, as privileged. He also regarded the novelist as a sort of idiot savant, though he did not use that term. Writers are wrapped up in themselves, their minds always on their work, often oblivious to what was happening around them. If they were lucky enough to find a generous spouse who would help them with their work, keep an eye on them, wipe up their messes and even support them during the lean years when they would otherwise be living in poverty, then they should accept the gift with profound gratitude.
It was a romantic notion, indeed, and I’m not certain how true it really is. Most of the writers that I know have day jobs and real world responsibilities. For myself, I’m profoundly grateful to now be able to do what I really enjoy, but I don’t delude myself that the world is waiting breathlessly for the next masterwork by Robert I. Katz (though I hope that the world is…).
My 11th novel, Brighton Beach, the fifth book in the Kurtz and Barent mystery series, was published a few days ago. It’s common at such a time to take a step backward, to examine where we are and where we’re going, and think about how we got here. For me, it’s been a long journey, and among the many things that I’m grateful for are the fans who’ve read and enjoyed my work.
To them, I just want to say, thank you…
