Here’s an exciting author promoting one book. That creates good focus.
Please, introduce yourself. Tell us about your personal life, family, education.
I was born to a standard issue family of one mother, one father, one sister, and myself in New York City where I still live. My kindergarten teacher identified me as the first five-year-old cynic she ever met and I have honed this skill since. I grew up in a neighborhood of overachievers, the children and grandchildren of immigrants. Ruth Ginsburg grew up around the corner
I went to Baruch College where I met my wife and was an editor of the school newspaper and had a radio show. I was thrown off as editor as the administration and I disagreed on what was funny. A group of students once pounded on the glass of my radio studio, because they did not like what I said. I was begrudgingly given a BA in History. I still have my wife.
I received an MA from NYU in Creative Writing where I studied with, Thomas Keneally, Peter Carey, E. L. Doctorow, and others.
I spent the last 15 years of my working life at a Fortune 10 company where I held a number of positions and co-founded new areas including a Native American Practice.
What do you like doing in your spare time?
We retired early, so all my time is spare. I start my day with a crossword puzzle, as I have done for almost fifty years and read whatever is seating in front me. I have a brain like a boa, long with some bumps from lunch. That is, I know a little about many subjects and more about a few.
I also have had over two dozen photographic exhibits including one where the work was chosen by a curator from the Guggenheim. I love bread, ice hockey, and tongue sandwiches.
I cook and watch baseball, hockey, and Brit mysteries and comedies.
Do you have hobbies? How did you get started in them?
I love hockey and started playing when I was 11. I tried to play when I was fifty- years old. One day, I took off a day from work and went to skate around, by myself, at huge sports complex in Manhattan. A kid skating on a nearby half-pipe kept on staring at me. Finally, he came over and said, “Hey Mister, you really can play.” His eyes said, “I have never seen anything as friggin’ old on skates before as you.”
My wife and I have been independent travelers for almost 50 years until we went on our first tour two years ago. We have been to about 45 countries and returned from most of them. In 2009, my wife and one of her sisters walked the 500-mile Camino across northern Spain.
And I believe in the Oxford comma.
If you are a writer, are you an avid reader?
Yes, yes, and yes. I see many young writers who do not appear to be well-read. They think they can write without knowing what has preceded them and what good writing actually is. And more people write poetry than read it.
If you are going to write, you must read, including works that are not of your genre.

What is your ultimate writing goal as you see it today?
I really only have on goal. And while it sounds cheesy, it is true for me-be a better writer than yesterday.
What inspired you to write your first book?
My first novel is Cousins’ Club, a satiric tale about the least successful Jewish family. I do not, however, believe in inspiration. I like what Chuck Close, perhaps the greatest living American artist, says, “Inspiration is for amateurs— the rest of us just show up and get to work.”
He means sit your bony ass down and write, write, write, otherwise you will either produce derivative work or none at all.
How do you decide on the title of a book?
The original title of my first novel was The Dead Are Annoying. An editor thought it sounded like it belonged to the rash of vampire and zombie books, so I changed it to Cousins’ Club. Unless there some legal reason, I will stick to the working title of my novel in progress.
Have you developed a specific writing style and why?
Yes, but I will keep this answer brief. Each chapter of my novels is like a short story with an arc. Of course, they are all related in some way. This occurred as the residue from my MA program. We used workshops and workshops are conducive to critiquing shorter works, so I learned how to write short stories.
My writing style, otherwise is spare with no dialogue tags, descriptions only as necessary, and clean and sleek syntax. I like crisp dialogue and creating a sense of time and place.
I think I know how to write funny. It is much more than thinking you are funny.
How much of your books is realistic and experiences based on someone you know, or events in your life?
Again, I will keep this brief. Fiction informs real life and real life informs fiction, creating a blur. My characters are compilations of people I have met, others are pure fiction. I often take events from real life, but in fiction, events must have consequences within the story, no matter the source. If the anecdote does not have significance, it is simply dangling words asking the reader to “Look at me! But I have nothing to add.”

Who is your favorite writer, and what is it about their work that really strikes you?
I have many favorites for a variety of reasons. So, I will tell you about the most obscure, Pedro Carolino.
Pedro wrote a Portuguese-English phrase book despite the fact he did not speak English. He used a Portuguese-French dictionary and then a French-English dictionary, inventing phrases that ranged from poetic to idiotic. My favorite mistranslation is “to craunch a marmoset.” I have no idea what it means either. Mark Twain wrote the introduction for the first American edition and noted.
“Nobody can imitate it successfully, nobody can hope to produce its fellow; it is perfect, it must and will stand alone.”
Pedro is a shining example of single-mindedness, crazed ingenuity, and a reminder that cautious people do not change the world. His book is now titled, English As She Spoke. As my 10th project, I would love to write a screenplay about Pedro.
Is there an author, past or present, you would love to meet? Why?
Laurence Sterne, the 18th century Irish-born, English novelist. There was great freedom to write then, as the literary canon was limited. It would be interested in knowing how he proceed. How come he kept on adding on sections as time went by? And as a witty, insightful man, I imagine a sparkling conversation.
If you could not write, how would you express what you wish to convey through any stories?
Jokes.
When you see new authors struggling, what single piece of advice could you give them on a moment’s notice?
Do not dwell on the bullshit and stereotypes about writers and writing. It has nothing to do with you. They become self-imposed obstacles and excuses.
Just write, write, write and read, read, read.
How do you want others to see you or remember you? Is it important to you?
No. I want them to buy books now. You can’t control what others think and people’s perception seem to change by generation. Cervantes fell into obscurity and his reputation began to rise in America, before he became the reverential figure in Spain and other parts of the world.
Do you have a blog or website viewers can visit for updates, events and special offers? Include links to any and all of your sites.
(Editor’s Note) Before you go, this is one of Warren’s poems, for your enjoyment.
Beneath My Window
We lived in a behemoth of an apartment building
Recently a potato farm or so my father said.
The front door opened onto a grand boulevard by
Olmsted and Vaux (Pronounced Vox).
Eight lanes of traffic, a bicycle path,
A bridle path, and splintered park benches.
Although inspired by the elegance of Paris the elms
On our tree-lined street did as they damn pleased.
Perhaps once a month a horse and rider passed
An annoying intrusion as neither lived in the neighborhood.
Once a year a collection of racewalkers jostled each other
Along the bicycle path to determine the fastest waddle.
Their hips swiveled as if free from muscle and joints
While their arms cranked like a turnstile gone mad.
In the summer there were more cars
Because my window was open.
In the winter there were more cars
Because no leaves blocked the view.
My child’s logic asked why do they drive away only
To return a few hours later, an opinion I still hold.
A traffic light planted atop a concrete stanchion
A deadly Statue of Liberty commanded silent authority.
With a metal thud or screech we raced down the stairs
Our heels emulating the sounds that first attracted us.
We gathered in knots but kept our distance
We placed blame more on conjecture than evidence.
Entertainment in the guise of concern
Something you do not want to admit.

