Many of her traits were intentional on my part of course. She would go anywhere, safe or dangerous, and ask anyone questions, while I had been known to become nervous when dialing the phone for the correct time.įiercely independent, that was McCone, a state toward which I was only beginning to struggle. She commanded an amazing variety of skills - marksmanship, judo, bread baking, automotive repair - while I could barely type. She had a job, while I had no prospects of one. She was taller, thinner and braver than I. This was the beginning of my long association with my series detective, Sharon McCone, and as I - endlessly, it seemed - contemplated a career as a novelist, she developed a persona all her own. Granted, she didn't fill much space and was not visible to the eye, but she was a powerful force to be reckoned with.
Thirty years ago, in the fall of 1971, a woman took up residence with me in my small San Francisco apartment.
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