But it was as an adult, many years ago, with my tonsils (and most of my freckles) long gone and my freelance career underway, that my education really took off. 

            I was commuting by train from Long Island to my job as a public relations account executive in Manhattan. One morning I sat next to a man who was wearing a new watch. He smiled as I put a lined pad on my lap and began to write. He asked what I was doing and I told him I was working on a freelance article.

            “Oh—a writer, huh?” he asked

            “Trying to be,” I replied. 

            “Very good.”

            “Not so good—‘cause it ain’t so easy,” I said, both for effect and as a true reflection of the difficulties I had been having trying to get a byline.

            “It’s admirable—” he said, “working so hard on it. Even on a bumpy train. I think I may have something for you.” He asked for my address and a night I would be free.

            When I got home, I told my wife, Bonnie, that I had met a man on the train who was going to give me a magazine assignment. She looked at me dubiously; I hadn’t even gotten the man’s name.

Wearing his new watch, the man showed up on time and began to set up an easel in our living room. Finally, with his chart posted and his pointer pointing, he began to discuss a multi-level marketing organization, and told me I could soon qualify for a new watch, like the one he was wearing, if I became a local rep. 

            Summoning all my courage (he was a lot older and bigger than me), I asked the man to leave. He did, graciously, although he resembled a wounded bear. Bonnie was shaking her head as the man closed the door behind him. ‘You fool’ was written all over her face. Were all novice writers so naïve, I wondered? If so, did I really want to be one? 

            Three children and a handful of minor bylines later, I had an article published in the New Jersey Weekly section of The New York Times. In it I talked of the difficult search Bonnie and I had embarked on for a new home in the Garden State. The search was difficult because of some of the odd (and tongue-in-cheek) requirements I had, such as wanting there to be neighbors eccentric enough to be able to base characters on for movies or plays I might write one day. When the article was published, I received a phone call from a man who said he was involved in theatre and film, and wanted to meet me at local diner to talk. I checked his credentials. He was indeed listed in some theatrical reference books and had played an Amish character in the Harrison Ford film, “Witness.” 

            I ran into town the next morning, picturing what the cover of my very first Playbill would look like, with help from the “Witness” friend. He was there when I arrived, and after we ordered, he told me about the extra money I could make selling products for a skin care distributor. He said it was a side business that had kept him going reasonably well between projects, and he wanted to offer me the same opportunity. I told him I’d think about it. That was a lie, but it was an easy way out—and I wanted out. The breakfast had lost its luster. Unfortunately, so was the prospect of being a writer. 

            A few years after that, I had an article published in New Jersey Monthly about a weekly luncheon I used to have with two friends from high school. Bob was still chasing the goal of being an inventor; Gary wanted to be a professional musician; I wanted to write novels and movies. The article addressed all that and spoke honestly of the mutual support we had for each other and how we still root for the professional success and independence each of us crave. 

            A week after the issue hit the stands, a guy with a young voice called and asked if he could send me a brochure and audiotape that would explain how to become financially independent while still pursuing the writing life. When I received the material, I saw that it was an international sales organization which required a substantial investment. I took the brochure and audiotape into my home-office and threw them in the garbage. On my computer screen was the Microsoft Word logo. I shut it off. I didn’t feel like writing any words. Ever again.

            When my second book was in galley form, my editor and I were speaking on the phone one evening. He knew of my insatiable desire to write as well as my frustration of having to abdicate much needed time to the corporate world to support a growing family. He readily agreed that making extra money was the best way to buy the kind of independence that could lead to a lifestyle suited to my passion. He said he was involved in an organization that could provide that independence—something he himself does on the side. Could we meet somewhere? For coffee? 

            I politely declined, and hung up. I felt like screaming. Punching a wall.

            But then I realized something about people like that editor, and the guy with the young voice, and the Amish actor, and the man with the new watch. I realized they embody real and quite remarkable traits and qualities, collectively and individually, that I can assign to characters in the books and plays I still plan to write one day. 

            So, I didn’t scream or punch a wall. I simply did what I know I’ve always wanted to do. 

            I wrote.