What brought you into writing, and what keeps you there?
All ended well, of course, thanks to Bob Gibson, Lou Brock, Curt Flood, Roger Maris, et al. But before you ask to see it, forget it. Lucky for me it got lost somewhere in the mists of the past, some sixty years ago.
So that was my start. I didn’t know I wanted to be a writer, though. That wasn’t until I was twelve. That’s when I wrote my first novel, a spectacularly bad World War I adventure. I’m fond of describing it as “110 perfectly fine sheets of paper ruined.” That book, however, was not lost (I have a copy), but it will remained locked away until 100 years after my death, when my heirs will retrieve it and—according to my wishes—use its pages to line the bottom of a birdcage.
I wrote a second novel in college, and a big World War II historical in grad school. At that, alas, I’d run out of world wars, so it was time to move on and write something else. And then, like so many dreams, mine—the one of being a published writer—fell by the wayside and lay dormant for many years, due in no small measure to the fact my books were plagued by lazy turns of phrase, poor spelling, and a stubborn insistence on rehabilitating the reputation of the much-maligned passive voice. (The preceding sentence is a reasonable facsimile of same.)
Yes, I let other things get in the way of my dream. I quit grad school and moved to New York City where I found a job in a photo news agency. Fascinating work that I truly enjoyed, but I was young and impetuous and left it in a fit of pique after a disagreement with the company’s owner.
Next I landed an amazing job at New York University, where I worked in the Italian Department. I began writing again in my spare time, especially during the summers when work was slow. I managed to produce two novels and find an agent to represent me. I was sure I was on my way to realizing my dream. She couldn’t find any takers, however, and she didn’t like the third book I wrote. Ultimately, it was a bad fit with that agent, and we parted brass rags. Still, I thought, I can get back on the horse, write what I want, and find a new rep. But I hadn’t counted on life getting in the way.
Wouldn’t you know it, I got promoted to director of NYU’s prestigious Casa Italiana Zerilli-Marimò. It was an opportunity I couldn’t pass up, helping to build a new, world-class cultural center in the heart of Greenwich Village. Writers, artists, musicians, academics, and me. Wow. I loved it. But it put an end to any hopes of writing more books. There simply was no time.
Here’s picture of me in another lifetime, chatting with il mattatore, the great Vittorio Gassman, who made a memorable appearance at the Casa circa 1995. He was a true star and a legend.
The Italian job was great—I even had cocktails with Umberto Eco one Friday afternoon at the Casa—but I was eventually lured away to Los Angeles, where I’d been offered a killer job in the subtitling business. That was a blast. The best job I ever had. At first, I assumed it would only be a couple of years in LA, but it turned into eighteen. Before I’d realized it, I was fifty and had frittered away a half-century too waiting for the right time to become a writer to come to me. I decided I had to act quickly or let go of that hope.
I wrote a new book in my spare time and began searching for an agent. I got lucky and found one after only thirty-nine queries. Surely literary stardom, patches on my sleeves, and the realization of my dream lay just ahead.
But that didn’t happen. The book never sold.
So I wrote another one, which, when all hope of ever succeeding at this writing thing seemed to be slipping away, my agent sold it. The joy was overwhelming. After forty years of hoping and wishing and starting and stopping, wasting precious time and deferring my dream for tomorrow, I’d done it. My Ellie Stone novel made me a published writer. A second book followed, and a third one, sold to the same publisher. Then four more. While I didn’t make any best-seller lists or have hit movies made of my books, I did achieve some critical success. Twenty-one award nominations, including two for the Edgar and five each for the Anthony and Lefty, plus an Agatha and Sue Grafton Memorial nomination for good measure. But I wasn’t always a bridesmaid. I also won two Macavities, an Anthony, and a Barry award along the way. These tokens of recognition soothed the sting of forty years of waiting.
So what keeps me writing today? I’d say it’s the same thing that inspired me all those years while I was chasing success: an impossible dream. To tell stories and tinker with language. And, yes, I’m still dreaming. And I advise all aspiring writers to do the same. Keep dreaming and never give up. As I’ve written before in this space, you can only succeed for the first time after your very last failure. Write on.
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THE PRANK…enigmatic and unnerving. The pace never flags for a second. This is some masterly plotting. I loved it.”
—Liz Nugent, author of Strange Sally Diamond
THE PRANK. A picture clipped from Playboy magazine, a missing Swiss Army Knife, and a prank gone terribly wrong conspire to make Christmas 1968 a deadly holiday to remember.
“The Holdovers meets The Bad Seed,” THE PRANK features a charming but volatile thirteen-year-old named Jimmy Steuben. He befriends his seventh-grade English teacher, Patti Finch, just days after her boyfriend is killed in an electrocution accident while hanging Christmas lights on his roof. Patti desperately needs respite from her grief, and a chance encounter with Jimmy provides just that. Ignoring the dangers of a potential scandal, the mismatched pair begins spending time together over Christmas break. Patti finds solace in Jimmy’s company; Jimmy discovers desire and infatuation. But what Patti doesn’t know is that it was Jimmy who caused the tragic accident that killed her lover.
From two-time Edgar Award finalist, Anthony, Barry, and Macavity award-winner James W. Ziskin, THE PRANK releases July 2026.
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| PLACEHOLDER—NOT THE OFFICIAL COVER |
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