Pauly Macy came to California, with Jilly, to buy a house and settled down. But settling down didn't work for Jilly. Jilly was gone and here he was, in a California backwater, among piles of dung, ladies auxiliaries, ministers, priests and Dutch dairy farmers. He filled his loneliness with his friends, the Madillacs, work and travel. During football season he flew to each Vikings game. At a season opener in Buffalo he met Loretta. Things between them couldn't have been better until one night she didn't come home. The police found the van she had been driving, off the road by the reservoir but couldn't find any evidence of a crime and soon gave up the search. Nobody was interested. But Pauly kept searching the urban wilderness where the van had been found. Even after he himself had given up hope compulsion drove him on. One evening, in his search for Loretta, he stopped to rest on the shore of the reservoir and fell asleep. When he woke in the darkness he thought he saw a second moon. He shook himself awake. It turned out to a skull. Not Loretta's but the oldest Caucasian human remains ever found in North America. Then everyone, from the local native Americans to the Arian Brotherhood, was interested. The Type Of People I Write AboutThere are many reasons a person will pick up a book. They're looking for something, it could be anything. So let me give some idea of what you'll find when you open a book of mine. But first let me tell you what you won't find. None of my characters are innocent. They are not finding love for the first time. They are not stunning symbols of ideal beauty or intelligence. They may be jaded or naïve but they are not brand new. None of my characters are capable of turning into bats, wolves or anything requiring a special uniform, especially a cape. They can't leap over tall things, least of all buildings. They don't wear masks or have faithful Indian companions. They don't dress like they're in Sherwood Forest and they don't have a shapely fairy with dragon-fly wings who can sprinkle them with pixy dust and make their dreams come true. No ruby slippers, no magic Lamps. Don't get me wrong, there's nothing wrong with characters like that or people who write about them, it just that I don't.What you will find are people, ordinary average people who find themselves in extra-ordinary circumstances. People who have gotten themselves into a position that's completely new to them and they have to figure out how to get out of it. If they don't find a way the consequences will be severe and most likely fatal.There's a spiritual song called The Lonesome Valley. It says, `Nobody can go there for you'. While that's true, there are many people willing to help them find the path to it, if they're not careful. My characters can't buy their way out, they can't wish their way out. They can't hope for the best, they can't pretend it isn't happening. They can't say it's all someone else's fault. It's their time in life to face the facts.E.M. Forster said the only way to end a work of fiction in a satisfying way is with death or marriage. Both satisfactorily signal the end of the adventure. My writing never ends with all the questions neatly answered. Some of the conclusion is left to the reader to ponder. Some readers think this isn't the way books should be but some books are, mine for example.About MeWhenever I'm faced with the prompt to say something about myself I'm stumped. Maybe it's because when I read how other people have responded to that, with dates of birth, schools attended, jobs held, marriages tried, children raised, accomplishments they're proud of, I'm a little to a lot bored by it....
