When friends ask me how long it took to write Doorman Wanted, I’m mildly embarrassed to give them the answer: ten years. Actually, truth be told, that’s slightly misleading. It took more like fourteen years, but I fudge a bit with the math around the global pandemic period. I don’t really count those “lost years” when we were all trying to figure out if we had to fast-launder the mail and Amazon deliveries, quarantine incoming groceries for 48 hours, spray the dog with Listerine (“Kills Germs!”) every time she reentered the house, or approach our spouses and say, ‘I think you should sleep in the guest room tonight. You know: coronavirus.’ So, yeah, ten years. I suspect friends are never quite sure how to respond to that stat when I lay it on them. I know what they want to say: “What did you think you were writing? War and Peace? Ulysses? The Bible?” But, for the most part, they’re really polite and say, “Yeah, good books take a long time.” I appreciate their belief in me by tossing in that modifier “good.” I would have been happy with them simply saying, “Books take a long time,” which is true. Now, if it is indeed necessary to defend how long it took to write, which I don’t think it is, let me say that, at the time, I was still working a demanding job and co-raising two teenage boys, so there were those things going on. But I do want to say that I am happy with the end result, I’m proud of it, and I hope you enjoy it. Oh, and I almost forgot, here’s a fun fact: if you don’t like this book, you can thank (read:blame) my wife. She’s the one who said, “I can’t read another draft – let the readers decide.” It’s for her slogging through those drafts that I have dedicated the book to her, with love.


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