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As an only child, it would seem I should absolutely have had an imaginary friend. But I didn’t. My friends and I played imaginary games, of course, in which we were people other than who we were (usually I was Holmes and she was Watson, or I was Diana and she was Fergie, or I was Indy and she was some unspecified sidekick, or I was David Addison and she was Maddie Hayes . . . Yes, we played Moonlighting. Is that weird?) . . . And so while we had plenty of imaginary friends and foes, there was no one regular imaginary friend for me. Instead it was a cast of thousands, a host of characters crowding my brain. I was never alone.
And that’s how I became a writer. Living with so many people inside and around me. I’ve done some stage work, too, bringing those characters to life in whatever way: on the page, on the boards. That’s my place in life. I’m a medium for those who do not exist, made to channel them into being. It’s schizophrenic in some ways, but wonderful in most.