I really can’t remember a time when I wasn’t thinking of stories, then writing them. When I was seven my oldest brother got a portable typewriter for his Bar Mitzvah. I was transfixed by it. I’d sneak into his room and use it. And I read everything on the bookshelves of my two very smart older siblings.
When I was 15, I sent a short story to the New Yorker. (I kept the rejection letter, on their letterhead no less, for years.) I wrote my first film script the next year.
After studying English literature at University of Toronto, I took a year off to drive cab (my Razor’s Edge phase), hang out and write a book. I drove, I partied, I went to Europe and I think wrote a line or two in a journal. At law school I spent most of my time in the free legal clinic, doing criminal cases, rarely going to class, reading as many non-law books as I could.
After I was called to the bar, desperate to get out of Toronto – and avoid being a lawyer – I went to the London School of Economics to get a masters degree in International Law, and managed to travel all over Europe on various scholarships.
Back in Canada, I finished my bar exams and nine days later hopped on a plane to Paris, where I became the managing editor of an English-language magazine, Passion, The Magazine of Paris. I turned 30 there, living in a tiny basement apartment, working insane hours, with almost no money – a recurring theme in my life.
I had this plan to start a magazine in Toronto, came home and, with a terrific partner, created and published T.O. The Magazine of Toronto. Six years of ridiculously hard work, and, once again, very little money, ensued. We folded T.O. in 1988. I was broke, unemployed. Not a great time.
I had a job offer in New York at Newsweek, but it was time to stop uprooting my life. I worked for a year as a film executive – hated it – then spent as year a producer at CBC Radio – not a good fit.
With our first child on the way and broke yet again, I rewrote my law exams, put $3,000 on my Visa card, rented a closet in a friend’s law chambers, hung up some posters from Paris, and started my criminal law practice. I was 37 and starting all over, yet again.
And I started to write. I wrote another film script. I wrote a novel. My wife’s best friend married a then-struggling young writer, Douglas Preston. We became friends and, as Doug’s career took off, I read his stuff and he read mine.
My first book was good enough to get me an agent in New York. But not good enough. The day I was told it hadn’t sold, I immediately started Old City Hall. It was 2001. By 2004, I’d hit a wall, with the novel half done. I took a nine-day writing course at Humber College and worked with two talented writers, David Bezmozgis and Michelle Berry, who were most generous with their time. (And where I now teach as part of their correspondence course.)
I finished the book in April 2007. Doug read it and, determined to hook me up with a top agent, introduced me to Victoria Skurnick at Levine Greenberg Literary Agency in New York. She read the book overnight, and the next day signed me up. Magic. Victoria is a wonder. Within weeks she’d drummed up a bidding war and soon we had sales in more than twenty countries in all sorts of foreign languages, including French, Italian, German, Spanish, Italian, Polish, Hebrew and Japanese, and an audio book deal.
I’m still practicing criminal law, raising our kids, and, thankfully, writing every moment I can.
Years Participated: 2015
Author Website: http://www.robertrotenberg.com/