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A Writer Without a Skeleton (in his closet, at least) Contributed to Bookpleasures.com by Joel Samberg
https://www.bookpleasures.com/websitepublisher/articles/9303/1/--A-Writer-Without-a-Skeleton-in-his-closet-at-least-Contributed-to-Bookpleasurescom-by-Joel-Samberg/Page1.html
Joel Samberg

Reviewer Joel Samberg: Joel is an author, book editor, journalist, and corporate communications consultant with more than forty years of experience. He has written for Connecticut Magazine, Pittsburgh Magazine, New Jersey Monthly and dozens of others, and his nonfiction books have been on such topics as music, movies, and comedy. He is also the author of the 2019 novel, Blowin' in the Wind. You can learn more about Joel’s books and book editing service:You can learn more about Joel Here and Here.

 
By Joel Samberg
Published on November 15, 2020
 
As an author and book editor (as most authors and book editors would agree), it’s important to learn as much about other writers as possible. Through the years, while reading interviews with and biographies of some of our more famous literary icons, it often appeared that each and every one of them had more than a handful of skeletons in their closets. Of course, a little bit of marketing always plays into this equation: writers who write about writers are well aware that if you write about someone whose life is relatively boring, the reader will be relatively bored. 
As an author and book editor (as most authors and book editors would agree), it’s important to learn as much about other writers as possible. Through the years, while reading interviews with and biographies of some of our more famous literary icons, it often appeared that each and every one of them had more than a handful of skeletons in their closets. Of course, a little bit of marketing always plays into this equation: writers who write about writers are well aware that if you write about someone whose life is relatively boring, the reader will be relatively bored. 

But that aside for a moment, the truth remains that so many illustrious scribes appear to have stories in their pasts that make my own life seem as boring as… well… as boring as my own life! Which, of course, is why I joke that I’ve never been able to become a famous writer. No matter how hard you try, you are unlikely to find any real skeletons in my closet. I am neither an alcoholic nor a former (or current) drug addict, not a spouse abuser, cannot consider myself a manic depressive, and am not the product of a broken home. Adding to my woes, I have never been in a drunken brawl and never had an affair with a married bookkeeper. I’m afraid that I am not now nor have I ever been dangerously claustrophobic or even germophobic. And darn it—not once have I filed for bankruptcy.

In my older and more vulnerable moments I bemoan that fact that I have none of the skeletons that so often emerge as requisites for literary renown.

So I racked my brain to come up with something—anything, really!—that might qualify as a skeleton, no matter how brittle. Here’s my report:

I was threatened twice with lawsuits. Does that count? 

The first time it was by a relative. Even more egregious that way, right? This cynical uncle erroneously assumed that I was criminally and wickedly infringing on his business interests. (I wasn’t.) The second time was when I was writing my book about Karen Carpenter, “Some Kind of Lonely Clown,” and was warned by a supercilious interview source that I could be sued by the Carpenter estate for such an ‘offensive’ title. (I wasn’t.)

I was also hugged and kissed by a porn star. Does that count?

She happened to have been the niece of a distant relative. I met her when I worked with this distant relative on a pilot television reality show. The niece was a relatively famous adult video star (now retired) who, like me, was a guest on the reality show pilot. During breaks in filming we chatted. She seemed to appreciate the fact that I regarded her, treated her and talked to her like a long-lost relative instead of as a porn star. I don’t think she was used to that. 

I’ve been falsely accused of plagiarism, and also of forgery. Combined, don’t those two incidents count as a single skeleton in my closet?

The plagiarism charge happened in ninth grade. My English teacher sent a note home to my parents to say that my book report on “A Tale of Two Cities” was too well written for a 15-year-old. The forgery charge occurred when my wife and I closed on our house in Connecticut. The mortgage company refused the paperwork saying that my signature on the closing documents did not match my signature on the mortgage application.

In the end, perhaps none of these things count. What’s more important is that the best writers write best about the things they know, not the things they wish for. So I suppose I’ll continue to write books, edit books, and let the chips fall where they may, even if my closet remains skeleton-free. Sure, I’ll always pine for one or two, but I don’t think it’s worth putting my life in jeopardy. If I have to continue simply coming up with titles that may upset some people, so be it. And if I have to keep on simply hugging porn stars, I’ll just learn to live with it.