We’re excited to introduce you to the always interesting and insightful Mark Smith. We hope you’ll enjoy our conversation with Mark below.

Mark, thanks for taking the time to share your stories with us today Let’s jump right into how you came up with the idea?

I decided to base my fifth novel on a character. No outline, story board or preconceived narrative. Just a character, based on the theory that character is action and action is plot. No notion of sex, race, height, occupation or hobbies. I would not begin the book until the universe presented the character. After three months of being on the lookout, my wife began to make fun of the process. One night at a crowded restaurant, she asked, “Is your character here tonight?”
I did not respond to her sarcasm. Time rolled around to Labor Day, 2022. All the restaurants were closed except for the truck stop out on the Interstate highway. Jody virtually held her nose as we walked in, even though the place smelled deliciously of burgers and bacon and onion on the grill.
I froze in my tracks three steps into the noisy diner. There she was, my character; tall and lovely with a long brown ponytail and the athletic grace of a volleyball spiker. She was waiting tables and glowing in the dark even though all the lights were on. Jody could see what was happening. “That’s her, isn’t it? Go on. Go talk to her.”
“No,” I caught my breath. “Now that I can feel who it is, I’m going to ;make up everything about her.”

Mark, before we move on to more of these sorts of questions, can you take some time to bring our readers up to speed on you and what you do?

I hitchhiked around the world in 1972 as a Second Lieutenant in the Air Force and came back a conscientious objector.
After four years as a newspaper reporter, I played in a little rock band on Bourbon Street, New Orleans, that evolved into a seven-man group that toured the southern United States. Then I went to law school and became a trial lawyer for forty years. I married a beautiful painter on top of a MIchigan sand dune in 1977, and got clean in 2001.
At the tender age of 63, I began writing novels: The HItchhike, Honey and Leonard, Rock and Roll Voodoo, The Reporter, and The Highway Diner.
I encourage readers to evolve and become their best creative selves.

Can you tell us about a time you’ve had to pivot?

I was on the last gasp of a five-day run on crack cocaine. Many sleepless days and nights in a row cause visual and audial hallucinations. The worst were the voices that wouldn’t stop screaming my name. Floating through courtroom appearances on behalf of clients, I knew to only respond to voices that weren’t shrieking.
But I hadn’t hit bottom. I was sitting alone on the third floor of my granite castle of a successful art gallery. That’s when it hit me. I never have to sleep again. Oh, my God, why hadn’t I thought of this sooner? I could save eight hours a night, and let’s see, that’s fifty-six hours a week. That’s more than most people work. And there’s fifty-two weeks in a year. So how many hours is that?
I took time to get a pencil and paper, knowing I would need them for high math calculations. I wrote the 52 on top and the 56 on the bottom. I put a little X on the bottom line to show I was serious about multiplication. After staring at the numbers for way too long, I realized I could no longer multiply double digit numbers. In an agonizing flash, I realized I wasn’t breaking through to the other side with drugs. I was doing organic brain damage.
Two weeks later, on April 22, 2001, I was in Hazelden Addiction Rehab. That’s still my clean date. Who knew life would be a lot more fun and creative without drugs and alcohol?

Let’s talk about resilience next – do you have a story you can share with us?

I walked across the long bridge into Canada with a heavy backpack. It was past noon and I was sweating hard when I finally reached the immigration booth. “What are you doing in Canada?” a bored man in a blue uniform asked.
“Well, I’m looking for a job.”
“Do you have a work visa?”
Once I said “no,” he ordered me to walk back over the bridge to the U.S.A.
I was angry and dejected at the unfairness. How was I going to get to Europe if I couldn’t even make it into Canada?
Walking too fast, I had to take a break and sit down in the middle of the bridge. I didn’t bother sticking out my thumb. Nobody picks you up on a bridge.
I reached the American side and looked back at the Canadian terminal. “Hmm,” I thought. “I’ll bet that same guy won’t be on duty tomorrow.”
I slept under the bridge with the rats that night. Early the next morning I walked back across and encountered a different bureaucrat. “What you doing in Canada?”
“Just being a tourist,” I said as he stamped my passport and allowed me to pass.