There’s an urban myth out there that we’re born alone and we die alone. And anything we’ve ever achieved has been by dint of our own efforts. I’ve never found this to be the case. People–parents, friends, teachers, even a few decent enemies–have colored and shaped my writing from the very beginning. I cannot honestly separate their stories from my own. They flow through me. We are all part of the same human tide .
I like to think that Amos Parisman, the detective and the hero at the core of my books, is emblematic of that idea. Yes, he has sharp opinions (all Jews have opinions) but he doesn’t stand on the sidelines. He isn’t a know-it-all or a lone wolf like Philip Marlowe or Sam Spade or Hercule Poirot. He talks with his friends; he has real intimate relationships with women; he lets himself feel things. He is vulnerable, and because most of his career is conducted by the seat of his pants, he is funny.
That’s me, I guess. That’s him. That’s us.