The bios on my book jackets, which I do not write, usually mention my legal career. I started practicing law in 1977, when I graduated from the University of Miami and joined the State Attorney’s Office as a prosecutor. If I’d been suited for the job I might have stayed with it and never taken that leap toward making up stories for a living. Happiness in one’s career is a surefire way to dampen the urge to do anything else. Dissatisfaction might make you crazy, but it can also blast you out of the rut.

In the mid-1980s, I wrote a short story for my son, and it turned my life upside down. I didn’t know it at the time; I just thought (naively) that this would be a great hobby. Well, you can’t just write for a hobby. I couldn’t, anyway. It was one or the other: stick with a respectable career or throw myself to the winds. I jumped and never looked back.

It’s not a bad thing to switch careers in mid-life; you’re a little smarter about what it takes to succeed. There’s more to it, of course. As they say, the past is prologue. After twenty years, I can look back and see the influences that helped shape me as a writer. Being from the South, growing up in a narrative tradition, didn’t hurt. My parents read to my sister and me, books were all over the house, and we had library cards at an early age. In small-town North Carolina, we made up our own games and stories; we played in the woods, built hide-outs, and pretended to be Indians. We joined Girl Scouts, sang in the school Christmas pageants, and drew funny pictures of the preacher when he talked about hellfire. Later on in college at the University of South Florida (Tampa) I studied theater, which gave me a sense of dramatic form. Then came law school with its emphasis on clarity and logic, and after that, a parade of clients, each of whom had a story to tell. The foundation for writing fell into place.

I’ve written twelve books, most of them in the “Suspicion” series featuring Miami lawyers Gail Connor and Anthony Quintana. Even characters you love can wear you out after a while. So I’m taking a little break writing another stand-alone, The Perfect Fake, for which I learned how to forge a 1511 Italian Renaissance map.

There are two parts of book-writing that I really like. The first is research, when people from all sorts of backgrounds let me into their lives, and I have vicarious adventures. And sometimes real adventures, like traveling to Cuba with contraband books for dissidents operating a library in their home (Suspicion of Rage) or touring Florida’s Death Row (Suspicion of Vengeance). The other best part of writing is when the thing is published and I go on a tour. I meet the readers, we talk about the book, and I share what I’ve learned. And between these times, between the research and the touring, I have to sit down and actually put words on the page. That can be fun too, but only if I work at it. That’s what I should be doing right now, working on the next book, so I’ll say goodbye till next time.

One more thing: If I walk out on my balcony during the day I can see a small slice of the ocean. At night, when the wind is from the east, I hear the constant shusssshh of waves hitting the shore. I live a few blocks from the beach, just north of Fort Lauderdale. It’s a small town, and there isn’t much to do except write. My daughter and son are up and away, to Washington, D.C. and New York City. They’re amazing, and without them I would probably act my age. Between visits I keep company with Max, a 22-pound pug with one gimpy leg and a big smile.