he had written the words, “THE END.”
My father loved writing novels. He loved every aspect of the process. He enjoyed thinking of ideas. He enjoyed developing a plot and interweaving sub-plots. He enjoyed creating characters. He even enjoyed the minutiae of novel writing, like paging through the phone book looking for names to match his characters. He enjoyed researching the locations of his stories and he prided himself on the accuracy of his descriptions. He particularly loved the writing itself-putting a blank piece of paper into his typewriter (the same Underwood his parents gave him when he was thirteen years old) and filling it with the thoughts and dialogue of the characters he had created. He even liked, although to a lesser extent, rewriting, proofreading, and responding politely to the suggestions of editors.
My father was born March 19, 1916, in Chicago, Illinois. When he was still an infant, his parents moved to Kenosha, Wisconsin, and it was there that my father grew up and came of age.
I visited Kenosha once in 1978. It was quite a revelation to me and helped me to understand my father’s worldview. The houses he had lived in were still there, with their open yards and their long front porches. His father, in good times, owned a general store. When times were bad, he worked as a clerk in someone else’s shop. His mother always had snacks and sweets ready for my father and his friends. Even forty years after my father left it, Kenosha still exuded the pleasant charm of an All-American town where citizens could feel safe walking the streets at night and where everyone could dream the American dream. It was just like a small town from a Frank Capra film of the 1930s except that the inhabitants were Poles, Lithuanians, Italians, Swedes and Jews.
My father played high school football, edited the school newspaper, acted in the school play and was a star of the debate team. As active as he was in these diverse pursuits, none of them absorbed him as fully as his true passion: writing. At the age of thirteen he was already working as a sports stringer for the
In 1935, he accepted a scholarship to the Williams Institute, a creative writing school in Berkeley, California. But it turned out that the curriculum there emphasized writing for magazines. Because he had already published dozens of magazine articles, my father lost interest in the school after only five months. He headed south: to Hollywood.
Hollywood was a glamorous place in the 1930s, particularly for a 20-year-old. But the Depression was the Depression and, although my father worked hard to earn a living as a writer, there came a point in 1937 when he had to borrow money from a friend to buy the bread, eggs and milk that he lived on for weeks. Financial security was a long way off. Eleven years later, when I was born, my parents had to borrow money again just to pay the obstetrician.
It was in Hollywood that my father developed a writing routine that would last for twenty years. For six days a week he would write to earn a living; on Sundays he would write for himself. In these early days, that meant writing plays, four of which were produced in Los Angeles.
Early in 1940, he met Sylvia Kahn, who was West Coast editor of
In July 1940,
Following the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, my father volunteered to be a combat correspondent for the U.S. Marines. He was rejected because he was colorblind. He tried again with the Army. This time he was accepted. He was assigned to the First Motion Picture Unit of the Army Air Forces and stationed in Culver City, California, a few miles from his home in Hollywood. Later he was transferred to the U.S. Army Signal Corps Photographic Center, also in Los Angeles. For more than three years, my father drove to the War. He worked on twenty-five films, the most important of which was Know Your Enemy Japan, part of the “Why We Fight” series. On this project, my father worked with Frank Capra, John Huston, screenwriter Carl Foreman and a writer named Ted Geisel, who would later gain fame as “Dr. Seuss.” Although he had been working in Hollywood for several years, this was my father’s first contact with filmmakers.
After the war, my father continued his magazine writing. Indeed, even while the war was underway, he had been writing articles at night and on weekends.
By 1948, however, he had gone to work for the movies. Between 1943 and 1959 he received screen credit for fourteen films, most notably
I was old enough during the latter part of this period to know that my father hated working for the movies and television. Once I visited him at “the office”: Warner Brothers Studio. He liked to tell the story about Jack Warner walking into the writers’ room and complaining that the writers were “doing nothing.” What they were doing, of course, was thinking, an apparently inconceivable concept to Mr. Warner.
I recall distinctly my father coming home at the end of the day, having dinner, spending some family time, and then retreating to his makeshift home office to write what he wanted. By this time, that meant books.
He had already written at least five unpublished books before Alfred Knopf paid $1000 for the rights to
For most of his life, my father had dreamed of being free of employers and of doing nothing but writing books for a living. For the first time, he could imagine his dream as a realistic possibility. But not yet. Now he and my mother had two children to support (my sister was born in 1955). He kept working at Warner Brothers.
My father’s next book,
Then came the novel that would change my father’s life.