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When I was young, I always wanted to be somewhere else.
My family moved around some in the early years: Boston to New Hampshire to Wisconsin, then finally to central Missouri. We took camping trips in the summer. Columbia was a fine place to grow up, but when I was eighteen, well, it was one coast or the other.
After college, I spent several years abroad, working in Japan and traveling around the Pacific Rim. On the cheap — “goat class,” as they say in Indonesia. I’ve hitchhiked through northeast Asia, taken a freighter to Bora Bora, overlanded to Tibet, backpacked across Tasmania, and climbed Mt. Kinabalu on Borneo.
That seems like a long time ago.
In Boston I’ve had all sorts of jobs. I worked for the city’s transit agency, on an ambulance, at the food co-op — the novelist’s requisite, eclectic background. The professional resume includes some finance jobs, a graduate degree from MIT’s Sloan School, and a stint as VP at Fidelity Investments. That was my last nine-to-five job.
When our daughter was born, we decided I’d stay home with her. We had another child, a few years later, and my wife still works outside the home. They’re in grade school now. I write when I can, cook, procrastinate, and spend a lot of time at the playground.
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