In Which I Introduce Myself

Cynthia Ozick has discussed those writers to whom fame comes early. Roth, Mailer, and Salinger were all fortunate to make their marks while still young, and Ozick confesses to a bitter envy. I pity her that as I was lucky enough to see my words in print at the tender age of 23.

Like Updike, my burdens (he suffered from psoriasis; I from dandruff, eczema, halitosis, and myopia) spurred me to reach for the stars. While my college classmates enrolled in bank trainee programs or attended law school, I roamed Greenwich Village, often sleeping in doorways or (on better streets) atop parked cars. Thirsting to process the world around me, grappling to make sense of all in my orbit, I attended writers' workshops through the Learning Annex, where my rugged looks served me well. I wore an old Navajo turquoise bolo to class and became known as a wine connoisseur in Learning Annex course H63 ("How to Become a Wine Connoisseur for Less than $165).

I began a series of affairs with women who had attended NYU, had spacious apartments below 14th Street, or both. One day, I neglected to lock the apartment door of my then girlfriend Francine (Tisch School; 9th Street). Everything was stolen with the exception of a salad spinner and a short story I was working on ("Tuscan Moisture"). It was then that I saw my first work published in the "Village Voice." "Lost," it read, "Entire Contents of 136 West 9th Street #4D. Reward Offered. Phone (212) 476-3829. Also, I miss you, Francine. Please call (212) 966-1347."

I don't write for status, fame, or money. I'm not out to "prove" anything with what I write today any more than I was trying to establish something with that piece I published in the "Voice" many years ago. I just wanted Francine's clothing and furniture back. I just wanted Francine back. And I found a way to achieve both while paying for only one ad.

The Irish writer John Banville (whom I consider a good friend although we've never met) recently shared the following thought with me (via the Spring 2009 "Paris Review"): "art is like sex: when you're doing it nothing else matters." And he's right. When I'm at my upturned orange crate with pen in hand, nothing counts but the work. Not my name in a huge font splashed across the front of the "New York Review of Books," appearances on panels, at literary festivals, and (God help me) on television. The jealousy of friends, neighbors, colleagues, and relatives, the worldwide exposure and concomitant praise, the weathered cottage at the end of a windblown lane in the most sought-after part of the Vineyard: it all melts away. I write to express what's in me. It must come out.