I grew up on Edgar Allan Poe, the Hardy Boys, Agatha Christie, Patricia Highsmith, and comic books. In between, I read a few adventure stories, The Three Musketeers, Robinson Crusoe (though it’s possible I read the latter in a Classic Comic version and only think I read the book). Reading was difficult for me, so I concentrated on what I considered my only gift: art. Though a poor student, I could draw anything, and that got me into art school where I learned I had slight dyslexia and after a year-long series of exercises, became a voracious reader making up for lost time.
When I started writing my first novel—after a successful career as a painter, sidetracked by a fire that destroyed 10 years of my artwork—I chose to write a semi-autobiographical novel (auto-fiction in today’s literary lingo). It was about a mid-career artist who had lost all his work and was professionally and emotionally adrift. Sound familiar?
At the time, I was living at the American Academy in Rome where I had a large airy studio with a spectacular view overlooking the eternal city. The only problem was I couldn’t paint; the fire and the loss had left me in doubt, questioning why I had become an artist in the first place.