Two more books followed after the deaths of my wife and daughter. Doubtless, on complex levels, my feelings about them imbued my efforts, for a river of being bereft sadly meanders throughout the novels, a pallor of resignation suffuses the atmosphere. A close friend startingly said it best: “Your whole life, as I know it, has been a holocaust.” Indeed, the early death of my mother and the depressed life we lived in our household turned me to writing. Putting on excess pounds, sleeping too much, shaving too little, I took my anguish and the bile it precipitated and metabolized all that into word. I poured my personal agonies into each page.
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