Ever wonder why so many authors start out as journalists?

Well, there are a few reasons. The first, and most obvious reason, is that they already write for a living, and since that means they make very little money and have no marketable skills, their only chance at financial stability is writing a best-seller. The second is that they have a lot of time on their hands to think about the kind of things they would actually like to be writing—usually while staring at a blank computer screen, trying to figure out how to make another boring press conference seem interesting. The third is simply that there is no shortage of material in a journalist's life. Whether you're David Halberstam in Vietnam, or me, sorting through Glastonbury's police log, one thing is for sure: once your byline hits the page, the crazies come crawling out of the wood work.

Being a reporter, even at a tiny weekly, has its advantages, though.  For instance, I wasn't going to attend my five year high school reunion until my editor told me I could write about it. Working for the local newspaper makes you a weird kind of celebrity—one most people only recognize by name—but at your high school reunion you're practically a rock star. So my former classmates couldn't stop asking about my job. Some of them were practically clamoring for my attention, with hopes of getting on the front page. More importantly, they seemed completely oblivious to the fact that I would be using the opportunity to make fun of them in a public forum.

But writing for a newspaper in a small town–or, in my case, a town that likes to pretend it's still small—isn't all glamour and opportunities for revenge. No, for the most part it's boring meetings, soccer games, and irate phone calls. Every once in a while the monotony gets interrupted: like the day I went to investigate a large road kill on Main Street that turned out to be two dead beaver, placed tail over tail; or the time the Connecticut River flooded and nearly drown dozens of expensive dogs, and horses that happened to be in town for a field trial. Since I, as usual, was doing nothing, I made it onto the scene first, and got to spend my morning on a horse named Memphis with a dude named Regis wading through the flood waters.

It's hard not to love a job like that, but eventually I moved on. A couple of jobs later, I'm writing and editing for a tech magazine about stuff that could bore the socks off of the Town Plan and Zoning Committee. These days, no one ever comes up to my desk to tell me about their crazy neighbor who built a Y2K bunker and drinks urine to save money on vitamins. But on the bright side, people who read my new magazine don't write me nearly as much hate mail as the loonies who read the newspaper.

I miss the days when I actually got paid to sit around in the sun and take pictures of baseball games, or ride along with the Animal Control Officer. Lucky for me, though, I got plenty of material out of my days as a reporter in Glastonbury, and I've been working on the best-seller to help pay off my student loans. So stay tuned folks: the first dirty little secret I'll be tackling is the town's mythical foot tickler.

Ever wonder why so many authors start out as journalists?

Well, there are a few reasons. The first, and most obvious reason, is that they already write for a living, and since that means they make very little money and have no marketable skills, their only chance at financial stability is writing a best-seller. The second is that they have a lot of time on their hands to think about the kind of things they would actually like to be writing—usually while staring at a blank computer screen, trying to figure out how to make another boring press conference seem interesting. The third is simply that there is no shortage of material in a journalist's life. Whether you're David Halberstam in Vietnam, or me, sorting through Glastonbury's police log, one thing is for sure: once your byline hits the page, the crazies come crawling out of the wood work.

Being a reporter, even at a tiny weekly, has its advantages, though.  For instance, I wasn't going to attend my five year high school reunion until my editor told me I could write about it. Working for the local newspaper makes you a weird kind of celebrity—one most people only recognize by name—but at your high school reunion you're practically a rock star. So my former classmates couldn't stop asking about my job. Some of them were practically clamoring for my attention, with hopes of getting on the front page. More importantly, they seemed completely oblivious to the fact that I would be using the opportunity to make fun of them in a public forum.

But writing for a newspaper in a small town–or, in my case, a town that likes to pretend it's still small—isn't all glamour and opportunities for revenge. No, for the most part it's boring meetings, soccer games, and irate phone calls. Every once in a while the monotony gets interrupted: like the day I went to investigate a large road kill on Main Street that turned out to be two dead beaver, placed tail over tail; or the time the Connecticut River flooded and nearly drown dozens of expensive dogs, and horses that happened to be in town for a field trial. Since I, as usual, was doing nothing, I made it onto the scene first, and got to spend my morning on a horse named Memphis with a dude named Regis wading through the flood waters.

It's hard not to love a job like that, but eventually I moved on. A couple of jobs later, I'm writing and editing for a tech magazine about stuff that could bore the socks off of the Town Plan and Zoning Committee. These days, no one ever comes up to my desk to tell me about their crazy neighbor who built a Y2K bunker and drinks urine to save money on vitamins. But on the bright side, people who read my new magazine don't write me nearly as much hate mail as the loonies who read the newspaper.

I miss the days when I actually got paid to sit around in the sun and take pictures of baseball games, or ride along with the Animal Control Officer. Lucky for me, though, I got plenty of material out of my days as a reporter in Glastonbury, and I've been working on the best-seller to help pay off my student loans. So stay tuned folks: the first dirty little secret I'll be tackling is the town's mythical foot tickler.