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The very first
piece of creative
writing that I can
recall producing
came in the fifth
grade. Saint
Paul’s School in
Baltimore. It was
a poem, a direct
rip-off of the two
doctors, Dr. Seuss
and Dr. Dolittle.
As I recall, it
featured a bird
with a head at
both ends - the
paean to Dr.
Dolittle’s
Push-Me-Pull-Me -
and was in a
cadence that was
pure sing-song
Seuss. A ditty
about the
difficulty of
trying to fly in
several directions
at once. Your
basic fifth grade
angst. If I can
locate the
masterwork one day
amid the debris of
my desk and files,
I'll be sure to
post it here.
Please hold your
breath. So
there’s my start.
Fifth grade. Mrs.
Clark’s English
class. My literary
talents then lay
dormant for the
next four or five
years. Grades 6
through 9 are more
notable for
minibikes,
cigarettes,
painstaking
designs magic-markered
onto loose-leaf
notebooks, finding
out where to buy
beer when you’re
underage in
Baltimore,
skipping school on
occasion, chasing
the wrong girls
and being chased
by the wrong
girls, horrifying
my parents during
my delinquent year
down in central
Florida, where our
family was
banished in the
mid-sixties...and
just generally
enjoying the
fruits of
democracy.
It wasn’t until
10th Grade, when I
found myself the
so-called
‘manager’ of the
school’s junior
varsity football
team, that the
writing bug
returned and took
its next big bite.
Manager = water
boy/laundry
schmuck and
general team
flunky. Irked by
the ignominy of
this role, I took
advantage of an
open-topic essay
assignment my
English teacher,
Mr. Longstreth, to
unload about the
rotten cards I had
been dealt. Mr.
Longstreth was
also the football
coach, so the
forum was perfect.
I lamblasted till
the cows came
home. And Coach
gave me an A+,
commending me on
the quality of the
dressing down I
had given him and
everyone else in
my essay. And
there it was. I
had discovered the
pen-as-sword
motif.
The rest is so
detailed and
fascinating that I
dare not risk
keeping you
on-line for the
hours and hours it
would take to
read. Let's skim.
Highlights include
my
make-it-or-break-it
novel, Zen Bastard
(I don't really
know if it made it
or broke it...but
it went
unpublished) which
I turned into a
screenplay that
caught the eye of
some of the
big-wigs at The
Sundance
Institute.
Unfortunately, it
didn't keep hold
of their eye long
enough, but that's
another story. Zen
Bastard has been
liberally
plundered and
plagiarized in The
Hearse You Came In
On. And so I
suppose it
qualifies as a
'seminal work.'
After Z.B., first
place in a P.E.N.-sponsored
short fiction
competition kept
my hopes alive...
followed by my
first year in New
York City, which
dashed them pretty
thoroughly. I lost
the knack of
paragraphs for a
number of years,
and turned out a
few plays and
about a dozen
screenplays and
teleplays, several
of which were
optioned. One
landed me in a hot
tub in Malibu for
a time, and
another even began
to snake its way
through
development at
American Playhouse
(which then had
the nerve to go
off the air before
my script had
snaked its way
onto the screen).
And then I
decided to have
fun again, and I
got the Hitchcock
Sewell series
going. I figured
that as much fun
as mysteries are
to read, they must
be even more fun
to write.
Certainly they
take longer. I
wrote The Hearse
You Came In On in
1998 and the good
folks at Hyperion
picked it up right
before the end of
the year. That
'Hearse' has been
rolling along
quite nicely, and
now number two
(Hearse of a
Different Color)
has just left the
garage. Hyperion
has ordered up an
entire fleet,
which forces me to
say (and I do
apologize) that it
looks like these
things are hearse
to stay.
One more thing.
People ask me, why
an undertaker? Do
I have any
particular
connection to the
funeral business?
Well, the answer
to that one (can
you guess?)
is...not yet
Okay, so now
you're all caught
up.
The
Detective:
Hitchcock Sewell
is a
professional
mortician and
amateur sleuth.
With the help of
his Aunt Billie,
Hitch manages
the family
business, Sewell
& Sons Funeral
Home, where
murder darkens
the doorstep on
a regular basis.
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