I put the story in a manila envelope and mailed it to Northeast Northeast.

For seven months, I heard only the sound of silence. Then one afternoon, long after my publishing fantasies had been reined back in, I got a phone call from the editor, Larry Bloom. He said he was going to publish my story. I hung up, grabbed my wife and danced her around the kitchen. Then I picked up our three-year-old son, Jared, and tossed him so high into the air that his head hit the ceiling. (But don't worry: this was one of those suspended ceilings with the light-weight panels. He didn't hurt his head; it just disappeared for a second or two in the rafters and then re-emerged.) The story, titled "Keep in a Cool, Dry Place," was published in Northeast Northeast on Easter Sunday, 1984. I drove at dawn to the convenience store, bought three on Easter Sunday, 1984. I drove at dawn to the convenience store, bought three Hartford Courant Hartford Courant s, and, for ten minutes, couldn't bear to look. Then I did look, and sat there by myself in the strip mall parking lot, and cried like an idiot. s, and, for ten minutes, couldn't bear to look. Then I did look, and sat there by myself in the strip mall parking lot, and cried like an idiot.

I was on my way.

Now fast-forward sixteen years to June of 1999. My son Jared has transformed from that airborne three-year-old into a 6'2" man of eighteen. These days, if I tried to toss Jared into the air, I'd need back surgery. He helps me heft my luggage out to the driveway where a purring limousine waits. By this time, I've been touched twice by the magic wand of the Oprah Book Club, and readers have responded favorably, and so I am about to go on the road - flying progressively west on a twelve-city book tour to support the trade 903 903.

paperback release of my second novel, I Know This Much Is True I Know This Much Is True. A chauffeur opens the back door for me - a courtesy which embarrasses me a little, just as, when I walk through airports around the country and see my books in racks and storefront windows, I look away from them, grateful but chagrined.

Rock stars on tour bust up their hotel rooms. They get drunk or high, punch holes in walls, trash the furniture with their band-mates. But authors on tour are quieter, more solitary souls. Between appointments, we sit by ourselves in our rooms, nibbling like prairie dogs on room service sandwiches or ironing our clothes for the next reading or watching Judge Judy.

On my book tour, I met one elderly woman who informed me that writers like me, who let their characters use four-letter words, are degenerates who are ripping and tearing at the moral fiber of this great country; and, twelve or thirteen people back in the same signing line, I met another elderly woman who stood fidgeting with her pocketbook strap as she informed me that, in her humble opinion, I was "one of the best writers to ever shit behind a pair of shoes."

In Berkeley, California, a middle-aged man told me, in tears, that his brother, a recent suicide, had suffered from schizophrenia and that my novel had been a life raft tossed to him at a time when he thought he might drown from guilt and despair.

Entering a Borders bookstore in Austin, Texas to autograph copies of my book, I passed none other than Monica Lewinsky, exiting after having autographed copies of hers.

In Lexington, Kentucky, I met, in the signing line, a bride of two hours who was still wearing her wedding dress. Her groom, she said, was waiting in the car.

And in a hotel room in Dayton, Ohio, I had the most surreal experience of all: in the act of channel surfing, I came upon the quiz show Jeopardy Jeopardy at the exact moment my name surfaced: "He wrote the novel at the exact moment my name surfaced: "He wrote the novel She's Come Undone She's Come Undone," Alex Trebeck stated. And the three contestants stood there, lockjawed and mute, itching but unable to press their thumbs to their buzzers. And sitting on the edge of the 904 904.

bed in Room 714 of the Westin Hotel, I uttered in a timid and tentative voice, Who is Wally Lamb? Who is Wally Lamb?

I am, when I write fiction, people other than myself. To write a first-person novel is to go on a journey by sitting each day in the same place - to park yourself before the page and, simultaneously, to stow away in the suitcase of some other, imagined person's life. To see the world from a foreign perspective. That's how I became a woman in She's Come Undone She's Come Undone and the embittered twin brother of a paranoid schizophrenic in and the embittered twin brother of a paranoid schizophrenic in I Know This Much Is True I Know This Much Is True. In the latter novel, I was also a turn-of-the-century Sicilian immigrant.

Although, at the time I was writing in the voice of Domenico Tempesta, the protagonist's grandiose grandfather, I possessed no passport and had never traveled outside of the continental United States.

So I do not usually follow the standard rule espoused in creative writing classes: write what you know. My impulse, instead, is to write about what I don't know so that I can live the life of "the other"

and move beyond the limitations - the benign prison - of my own life experiences and explore tales of other imperfect, unfinished people who launch themselves from the safety and security of home into the realm of the unsafe, the unknown, because they want something, need something, that home can't give them. Characters, in short, who are on quests. Odysseys.

My odyssey as a fiction-writer almost ended a month or so into the writing of my second novel. It had taken me nearly nine years to write my first - to manage the balancing act of hands-on parenting, full-time high school teaching, and stolen pre-dawn weekend hours for fiction writing. I was exhausted, fearful that I was a one-shot wonder, and frustrated that I was always disappointing somebody. My kids and my wife and my ailing parents all needed me, and my students needed me, too, as did my characters, neglected for long stretches and stranded on some island I could never seem to get to.

I paced; I apologized; my hair fell out; I caught 3:00-a.m. reruns of Kojak Kojak and Rhoda Morgenstern. And during one such long night of 905 and Rhoda Morgenstern. And during one such long night of 905 905.

insomnia, I made the painful decision to pack it in. To give up writing. I couldn't do it; it was just too hard.

But nine or ten months earlier, on a dare from my wife, I had applied to the National Endowment for the Arts for a creative writing fellowship. And the very next day after my sleepless night of decision-making, the telephone rang and I was flabbergasted to learn that I had just been awarded one. With the $20,000 prize and, more importantly, with the faith the NEA had put in me as a writer - the message they had sent me that my stories might matter - I took a leave of absence from teaching and was off and running once again.

The NEA had given me the gift of time to experiment and learn and grow. My fellowship commenced in January of 1993. My family and I lived frugally and made the money last for the next twenty months. During that period, I wrote fiction in the morning, researched in the afternoon, and was Dad in the evening. I visited libraries, hospitals, Native American museums, and, most significantly, New York's Ellis Island.

I read about and talked to identical twins. I spoke with and learned from families who had endured domestic turmoil and mental illness about how they survived and coped. These generous people told me stories that were heartbreaking and sometimes hilarious and, little by little, I cobbled together the knowledge I needed to write I Know This Much Is True I Know This Much Is True.

And along the way, I remained grateful to the mother of a son who suffers paranoid schizophrenia and who, early into this six-year creative odyssey of mine, had jabbed a threatening finger in my face and warned that if I was going to take up the subject of mental illness, I had better get it right because the popular culture was already overloaded with stereotypical "psycho-fests" and spook shows that fueled misunderstanding and added to the already-formidable burdens of the mentally ill and their families.

And if in the end, I wrote a novel that was truthful rather than exploitative - a fiction that chips away at misunderstanding rather than adding to it - I want you to know that that book would not 906 906.

exist today had I not received the gift of time and the validation from the NEA. Like Sister Mercy years before, the Endowment had noticed me. And I ask that you do the same for other writers who are on their way but struggling.

Finally, I want to say that, as an American writer whose government gave him a life-altering gift of faith, it is important for me to give back. My wife and I designate ten percent of my book earnings to organizations that help the mentally ill, the victims of domestic violence, and the arts.

But more meaningful to me, personally, than checkbook benev-olence is the time I spend in the slammer. My involvement with York Correctional Institution, a maximum security prison in Niantic, Connecticut, was triggered in 1999 by what I have come to think of as a serendipitous accident.

Having by then taught writing to high school students for twenty-five years and then to university students for another two, I had just resigned from teaching so that I could work full-time on my third novel. Now, at the time, I had a third book contract and precious little else. No plot, no characters. Just some advance money from the publisher, and a recurring image in my head of an empty prison cell with the door swung open, and a working title which I'd plucked from a gospel song: Said I wasn't gonna tell nobody but I couldn't keep it to myself, what the Lord has done for me. My book contract reads: Due June of 2004 from Wally Lamb, a book-length fiction manuscript. Due June of 2004 from Wally Lamb, a book-length fiction manuscript.

Reluctantly, I said goodbye to my university students and colleagues, emptied out my office, and returned the key to the English Department secretary. I was closing the door on teaching, literally, when the phone rang. On the other end of the line was Marge Cohen, the librarian at York prison. Two suicides and several more attempts had triggered an epidemic of despair, Marge explained, and the prison school faculty, groping for something that might help, thought that writing might be useful to the inmates as a coping and healing tool. Would I come? For free? Yes, I promised. Once. For ninety minutes.

907 907.

On the hot summer day when I kept my promise, thirty inmates elected to attend my program. Dressed identically in maroon Tshirts and pocketless jeans, they entered in all colors, sizes, and shapes. Their attitudes ranged from hangdog to Queen of Sheba.

Most had shown up not to write but to check out that guy who'd been on Oprah Oprah. I spoke. We tried some exercises. They asked questions: You met Oprah? What's Oprah like? At the end of the session, they challenged me to return. I said I would if they promised to write something. Anything. Two pages, minimum. We'd listen and react to one another's work. Each woman's draft would be her ticket into the workshop.

At session two, fifteen of the original thirty were no-shows.

Crystal wanted compliments, not feedback. Asaya said she'd meant to be vague and unclear - that her business wasn't necessarily the reader's business. Diane, at fifty-four the senior member of the group, eyed me suspiciously. She'd written under a pseudonym, Natasha, and sought reassurance that I would never, ever read her work aloud. I predicted Diane would be gone by session three.

But it was at the end of session three that Diane couldn't keep her writing to herself. Her shaky hand went up. She asked if she could read what she'd written. Then, in a soft, tentative voice, she began a disjointed three-page chronicle of her horrific life story: incest, savage abuse, spousal homicide, lawyerly indifference, and parallel battles against breast cancer and the dark depression that often accompanies long-term incarceration and shuts down hope.

When Diane stopped reading, there was silence. Then, applause.

The dam of distrust had been sledgehammered. The women's writing began to flow.

It's been two-and-a-half years since those first sessions. The brave writers who have stayed the course have faced their demons without flinching, revised relentlessly, and become a community.

Through their autobiographical writing they have given voice to a voiceless population, and I have come to know them not merely as the drug abusers, gang members, thieves, and killers they have been, but also as the complex, creative works-in-progress they are. Each 908 908.

woman has discovered the intertwined power of the written word and the power that resides within, even at an institution that exists to render her powerless.

They are tough cookies, these students of mine, not because of their crimes but because they will be neither defeated nor silenced, and I am proud to tell you that the anthology of their autobiographical writing, which I am currently editing, will be published by ReganBooks, an imprint of HarperCollins, in 2003. Its title is Couldn't Keep It To Myself: Testimonies From Our Imprisoned Sisters Couldn't Keep It To Myself: Testimonies From Our Imprisoned Sisters.

I have learned a lot from these gals - important, useful stuff for me to know both as a writer and as a human being. When you give, you get back. The NEA taught me that. Please continue to safeguard the awarding of fellowships to writers of promise and to work toward bringing in from the cold our brothers and sisters who paint and sculpt and dance and make art with cameras. Art, as you know, illuminates life and in these confusing and scary times, we can all use a little illumination.

Thanks for listening.

-Wally Lamb 909 .

Acknowledgments.

I am deeply grateful to Linda Chester, my literary agent and friend, and to her associate, Laurie Fox, who shares equal billing. Glinda and Dorothy in one agency: how lucky can a writer get?

I am indebted to Judith Regan, my publisher and paisana, paisana, for her loyalty, her patient trust, and her passionate response to my work. for her loyalty, her patient trust, and her passionate response to my work.

Grazie, Judith Judith . .

The following writer-compadres offered invaluable critical reaction to this novel in its many stages, and I am grateful for and humbled by the generosity of their collective response. They are: Bruce Cohen, Deborah DeFord, Joan Joffe Hall, Rick Hornung, Leslie Johnson, Terese Karmel, Ann Z. Leventhal, Pam Lewis, David Morse, Bessy Reyna, Wanda Rickerby, Ellen Zahl, and Feenie Ziner.

A novel this size is both a big, shaggy beast and a complex process requiring faith, luck, moral support, and knowledge far beyond what its author brings to it. I bow deeply to the following, each of whom-in a variety of ways-helped me to find, tell, and publish this story (and, in two cases, to retrieve it from hard-drive never-never land): 909 909 Elliott Beard, Andre Becker, Bernice Bennett, Lary Bloom, Cathy Bochain, Aileen Boyle, Angelica Canales, Lawrence Carver, Lynn Castelli, Steve Courtney, Tracy Dene, Barbara Dombrowski, David Dunnack, John Ekizian, Sharon Garthwait, Douglas Hood, Gary Jaffe, Susan Kosko, Ken Lamothe, Linda Lamothe, Doreen Louie, Peter Mayock, Susan McDonough, Alice McGee, Joseph Mills, Joseph Montebello, Bob Parzych, Maryann Petyak, Pam Pfeifer, Pit Pinegar, Nancy Potter, Joanna Pulcini, Jenny Romero, Allyson Salazar, Ron Sands, Maureen Shea, Dolores Simon, Suzy Staubach, Nick Stevens, Christine Tanigawa, David Teplica, Denise Tyburski, Patrick Vitagliano Jr., Oprah Winfrey, Patricia Wolf, Shirley Woodka, Genevieve Young, the morning crew at the Sugar Shack Bakery, and my students at the Norwich Free Academy and the University of Connecticut.

I am indebted to Rita Regan, who helped me with copyediting and advice about all things Sicilian, and to Mary Ann Hall, who put Gabrielle D'Annunzio's Tales of My Native Town Tales of My Native Town into my hands. into my hands.

Special thanks to Ethel Mantzaris for long-standing friendship and faithful support.

Finally, I feel gratitude beyond what I can articulate to Christine Lamb, my life partner and love, who makes my writing life possible.

I acknowledge and honor the following teachers, from elementary through graduate school, each of whom encouraged excellence and nurtured creativity: Frances Heneault, Violet Shugrue, Katherine Farrell, Leona Comstock, Elizabeth Winters, Lenora Chapman, Miriam Sexton, Richard Bilda, Victor Ferry, Dorothy Cramer, Mildred Clegg, Mary English, Lois Taylor, Irene Rose, Daniel O'Neill, Dorothy Williams, James Williams, Alexander Medlicott, Alan Driscoll, Gabriel Herring, Frances Leta, Wayne Diederich, Joan Joffe Hall, Gordon Weaver, and Gladys Swan.

I was fortunate to have the support of the following writer-friendly institutions and organizations during the writing of this 911 novel: the Norwich Free Academy, the Willimantic, Connecticut, Public Library, the Homer D. Babbidge Library, the University of Connecticut, and the Connecticut Commission on the Arts.

This novel would not have come into existence without the generous support and validation of the National Endowment for the Arts.

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916 917 .