First of all, what kind of manufacturing company did you run?

It was a family business, started in 1928 by my grandfather and his brothers. The company made ventilation equipment. We were the V in HVAC. It had nine factories, 80 sales reps, and over 600 employees. When I got there, with the exception of my father and two cousins, its top management was a mixture of quirky relatives and old friends of the founders, all of whom were in way over their heads.

What was your life like?

Suits and suitcases. Lots of airplane travel. Pagers, cell phones, contract negotiations, shmoozing, lawsuits, hiring and firing, and a string of crises punctuated by delusions of glory. I had a wife, a big house in the suburbs, four wonderful children and an overhead that could sustain a small village.

How did you get to be CEO?

As a kid, I wanted to be a writer and a musician – but I chickened out. Out of college, I sallied forth in that direction – managing bands and working as an A&R man for Clive Davis at Arista Records, but in my mid-twenties, I started having kids and got it in my head that if I made enough money, I’d have time to be an artist. Bad logic. The more money I made, the less time I had for myself.

So how did you go from CEO to novelist?

In my late thirties, I enrolled in a low residency program at Bennington College, which is kind of like being an outpatient MFA candidate – traveling to Vermont twice a year for ten days -- reading, writing and sending packets of material to advisors every month. It was a fantastic experience – almost too good. Whereas I couldn’t stand going to work, I found I could spend hours reading and writing poetry. Around this time, the business hit some big bumps. The hardest part was admitting to my family and myself that I wanted to wrench myself away from a lucrative and stable situation to pursue a dream that had very low odds of success.

Was there fallout?

My wife, my kids, my parents, my sister, and several of my cousins, in varying degrees, relied on income from the business. The business itself became distressed and there was a level of shock that accompanied the whole thing. My wife at the time didn’t want to work and couldn’t understand how I would support her as an English teacher. The most logical thing I could do was to have a complete breakdown. At forty, I declared emotional bankruptcy. In a hair-raising finale, we sold the business, my wife and I split up, and I got rid of everything that didn’t fit in the back of my Suburban, including my identity as the dutiful husband and son. I felt I had disappointed everyone who ever relied on me for anything. When it wasn’t agonizing, it was delicious.

What did you do for money?

I started over – found an apartment, made new friends, joined a food coop, started teaching, ran a thing called the Family Business Alliance for Temple University and consulted with CEOs of small companies. I also started writing Backward-Facing Man. In January of 2002, I quit everything except writing and lived off my 401k and my second wife’s salary as a social worker.

What made you decide to do that?

I was lucky to be diagnosed with a potentially terminal illness that it appears I am not going to die from. As Churchill said, there is nothing as exhilarating as being shot at and missed. It was also a fantastic time management tool. I wanted to finish this novel and I really didn’t want to spend any more time helping small business owners process manure and repossess cars.

Any regrets?

Through all this, my kids suffered. No matter how you rationalize it, no matter what positive message they may take away from my story – divorce sucks for kids