Sometime in 1953, I knew with unusual certainty what I intended to do with my life. I would become a writer. I was then 15 years old, and the next several years were to prove eventful. I went to college, I got a summer job at a literary agency and dropped out of college to keep it, I sold two dozen short stories and articles to national magazines, and I completed a novel. By the time I was 25, I had a wife and two daughters and a house in a suburb. I had published over fifty books. Most of these bore pen names, and for a time I resisted acknowledging my early pseudonymous work. Then, in one astonishing and feverish week in 1994, I recalled those early years in fifty thousand words of memoir. Early in 2020, I had a fresh look at A Writer Prepares. It would occupy me, off and on, for the balance of the year. By the time I was ready to stop, I’d written about my life as a writer well into 1966, when I’d completed The Thief Who Couldn’t Sleep; it was the first of eight books I would write about a fellow named Evan Tanner. A Writer Prepares, an examination of the first quarter century of a writer’s life, is the work of two writers. There’s the middle-aged fellow who wrote about half of it at a blistering pace in 1994, and there’s the octogenarian who finished the job another quarter century later. The older fellow brought less raw energy to the task, and his memory is a long way from infallible, but one can only hope he’s offset these losses with a slight edge in judgment, in perspective, in maturity.
