I’ve never understood why someone’s life has any bearing on why people read their books when everyone knows the life has nothing to do with the work. Of course, on the other hand, everyone always asks,”Did you DO that?” “Did that HAPPEN to YOU?” Really? Think I’d tell? Hey, lady! If my life were THAT exciting, think I’d be sitting here writing books? Well, maybe in the old days… I used to have a “pen name.” Gave that up. Made people suspicious as heck. What’s HE hiding? Nothing! Honest! Just read the book! Sure, some of it is based on my experience. That’s what they tell you in school, isn’t it? “Write about what you know,” blah blah blah. What did you do last summer… So, my character (not me…) tells you (and his editor…) that this isn’t fiction but a sort of memoir. Right? Then it goes off into the woods (that’s a metaphor, by the way, but also not…) and leads into this four-book series that begins a longer stand-alone series of mysteries with this character, Frank Gould (again, not me, because, you know, I’m not schizo…I’ve been tested for that…). I’ve never even been to…well, one or two of the places he’s been to or met…one or two of the people he’s met. More or less.  Here or there. One or two.