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Sally Goldenbaum
Writing about oneself is difficult, especially for fiction
writers who, as Lawrence Bloch so aptly said, "tell lies for
fun and profit." I used to fictionalize my diaries as a
teen, so please read on at your own discretion...I shall try
to stick to the truth, but one never knows.
And in the spirit of the truth (and brevity), I'll position
this as a Q&A, using questions I have been asked in the past
and thereby hoping to avoid the more tedious details.
Where were you born?
An easy one. Manitowoc, Wisconsin, a small city on the
shores of Lake Michigan.
And education?
Undergraduate degree in philosophy and Latin from Fontbonne
College in St. Louis, Mo. It was all-girls back then. And I
pursued the philosophy in graduate school at Indiana
University where I got my MA. I read in the NYTimes recently
that a philosophy degree is becoming popular again,
especially the ethics component. A good thing, I think.
Have you written your whole life?
Well, as I mentioned, that diary was a start. And in my day
jobs, which ranged from working in public television in
Pittsburgh, Pa, to teaching philosophy, to editing a
bioethics journal, I always wrote. And in the back of my
head simmered a desire to write a novel someday.
And your family?
A husband, Don, two sons and one daughter—and a
son-in-law and daughter-in-law and three, under the age of
3, amazing grandchildren. My husband and I live in Prairie
Village, Kansas.
When do you write?
I write in the mornings—from 5 to 7—before going
to my job as editor of custom publications for a veterinary
healthcare publisher. And I write on weekends, some vacation
days, and on long car trips to Colorado.
And your favorite place to write?
(No one has really asked me this question, but I want to
tell you anyway.) I have a lovely spot to write when the
weather allows. It's our screened-in porch. A writer friend,
Nancy Pickard (author of many mysteries, including the
award-winning novel, Virgin of Small Plains) and I have
spent many hours, including a whole summer of weekends,
writing there in tandem, each doing our own work. Winter
takes me inside, but the minute the daffodils pop up, I blow
off the winter dust and settle in again on the wicker couch.
It's a writer's porch, and I share pictures of it now and
then, photos of writer friends settling down to share a
glass of wine or write a chapter or two.
Books:
 Death By Cashmere, August 2008
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