During my relatively brief and successful writing career, I had been like someone who builds houses without knowing anything about engineering or architecture. He builds simply by observing how other houses are constructed — beams here, rafters there, shingles on the outside.
I had written my novels the same way, by reading and observing how other people wrote similar books. Never once had I considered the theory or philosophy of the detective-mystery-suspense genre. I wasn’t even aware that they were important enough to warrant a theory or philosophy.
The comments of Aldo Binder and Sol Faber that morning were a revelation to me. I had been a lucky blunderer, grinding out imitative books people wanted to read. Now, because I really didn’t know what the hell I was doing, my luck was running out.
Aldo Binder had been right: I had lost contact with the real world. Sol Faber had been right: I had forgotten, if I ever knew, what my readers wanted.
Still, I wasn’t about to toss my hands in the air and seek employment as a domestic. It never occurred to me to stop. Obsession? Possibly.