Doylestown, 1977 (or, On Becoming a Writer) -originally broadcast on NPR's All Things Considered (May, 2005) I have a framed picture from about second grade. It's 1977 -- I'm standing with my best friend, Shannon Hall, her little brother Colin, and their dad Larry. Shannon's mom Gimone was behind the camera. It looks like a family picture, and if the definition of family is those who understand you best and accept you unconditionally, then that's exactly what it is. The Halls were our neighbors in Doylestown, Pennsylvania. Larry and Gimone were writers, which meant they were always in the house. My parents were seldom in the house, so I went home with Shannon and Colin every day after school. Our afternoons were busy: we wrote and staged elaborate plays in the living room and on the porch, from the life of George Washington to reinterpretations of the movie Grease. Larry and Gimone came to every performance and paid us in pennies. Bread with butter and sugar was Shannon's favorite snack, so Gimone made it for us -- every day. Little Colin hurt his leg one summer, so Larry carried him -- everywhere -- for weeks. My parents thought the Halls were a little bit crazy. To this day I have no idea what the Halls thought of my parents; Larry and Gimone were originally from Texas and seldom expressed their opinions in public. Larry was a newspaper reporter, and ghostwrote for a series of detective novels. Gimone was a successful novelist, of historical romances. We came home every day to the clack clack clacking of two typewriters going at once, Larry in the little office behind the kitchen, Gimone at her desk up in their bedroom. The only times I remember Larry getting angry was if we got too loud in the living room. If we heard his typewriter stop we'd run fast for the front door. At four or five o'clock we'd come in for apple juice and Larry and Gimone would be together at the dining room table, deep in conversation using words I didn't understand: theme, pacing, plot. Gimone would run her fingers through Shannon's hair and stand to pour us more juice while Larry talked to her about her characters as if they were real people standing there in the house with us. In the top five questions asked of any published novelist -- among them: "How do you get an agent?" and "My God, is that based on you?" -- somewhere around number four is "Where did you learn to write?" I used to answer this by saying, "I learned to write by reading the back of a Froot Loops box when I was a kid." Truth is, though, my parents were health conscious and didn't allow me to eat Froot Loops. And high school didn't work out for me, never mind thoughts of an MFA in writing. I finished the first draft of my first novel when I was 29 years old and spent the next year trying to sell the thing, not understanding why no one seemed interested in my bloated, self-absorbed book. Finally, like a scared child, I went running for the comfort of the best home I ever had: Although I'd seen them only occasionally since I was 10 and had moved to New Jersey, I sent my manuscript to Larry and Gimone Hall. A week later I drove to their house in the rain. Gimone cooed and sighed on the couch for ten minutes, telling me how wonderful a writer I was, and then she left the room. Larry cleared his throat, tapped my manuscript with his fingertips, and said, "Chris, you and I need to talk.?" He talked for two hours. There's never really an answer to the question "Where did you learn how to write," any more than there's an answer to "Where did you learn how to raise children?" But no matter the different ways I could answer either question, I only ever see one thing in my memory -- Shannon and myself taking a bow in the living room, and Larry Hall applauding and laughing then saying, "Y'all scoot now. Gimone and I have work to do." Bio: The book that Larry and Gimone Hall saved was Christian Bauman's first novel, The Ice Beneath You. Bauman's second novel, Voodoo Lounge, will be published in September.