ABOUT THE AUTHOR: WAYNE D. DUNDEE
 I was born, raised, and spent the first fifty years of my life along the state line area of northern Illinois/southern Wisconsin. My dad worked at various blue collar jobs -- farm hand, construction worker, factory laborer -- and we moved frequently. It wasn't that Dad couldn't hold a job -- he was a hard, dependable worker with old school ethics and employers were always pleased with him -- but in those days jobs were plentiful and Dad was always a little restless, always on the lookout for a better deal, a brighter future. I remember him often working two jobs, one in the daytime and one at night, to try and make ends meet, try to "get ahead."
I went to five different high schools and too many different grade schools to keep count. But, like I said, always along the state line -- never moving more than twenty or thirty miles at a hop. On a couple occasions we actually went back to rental houses where we had lived before and to jobs where Dad had worked before. Since he never really had any leisure time activities, it was almost like Dad's only hobby was moving. At one point, when I was a little older, I remember asking him if -- since he had this bug to relocate so damn often -- it ever occurred to him to try someplace a little more interesting or exotic. Hadn't he ever heard of California or Florida or somewhere like that?
Since neither of my parents liked living "in town," not even small communities, we usually ended up in some rural farm house, even the times Dad wasn't actually farming. I suppose it was this frequent moving, getting re-acclimated in different schools, making new friends, being out in the country away from other kids most of the time that caused me to make peace with solitude. I always fit in pretty well wherever we ended up, but at the same time I never minded being alone either. For nine years I was the only child in the family. I filled this alone time with reading, almost as far back as I can remember. Comic books at first, then abridged versions of Tom Sawyer, Huck Finn, Treasure Island, Robin Hood, and so forth; and even a combination of the two-the old Classics Illustrated comic books that were actually a pretty good way to learn at least the basics about the so-called 'classics' that, in many instances, would have been pure drudgery for a kid (actually anybody at any age, in a few cases) to wade through. Whitman Publishers out of Racine, Wisconsin, were also doing a lot of tie-ins to popular TV shows (mostly Westerns) of the time. I devoured all those.
In the meantime, Dad caught his second wind (apparently) and he and Mom began producing siblings for me at the rate of about one every twenty months or so. I guess Dad found another hobby he enjoyed almost as much as moving (although I'm not sure the same could be said for Mom). I ended up with four sisters and two brothers, the oldest nine years younger than me. My times of solitude became fewer and harder to come by, but I still managed to fit them in and to also maintain my reading habits.
And then, in the early 60s, I was hit by a couple thunderbolts of reading material that would make a lasting impact and, looking back, actually alter the course of my life. In the same year -- I don't remember the exact year or the exact order -- I purchased copies of Edgar Rice Burroughs' Tarzan and the Lost Empire (with the first of those wonderful Frazetta covers) and Mickey Spillane's The Girl Hunters. By the end of that year I knew without doubt that some day, somehow, at some level I wanted to be a writer and try to bring to other readers some measure of the kind of thrills and pleasure that Burroughs and Spillane brought to me.
Up to that point I'd always dabbled a bit at writing. At first, because I was a fair hand at sketching faces and figures, I used to block out sheets of paper into four or six squares and create stories in comic book format, with sequential scenes and dialogue balloons. And when I played "Cowboys and Indians" or other play-acting games with my cousins or other kids (this was back in the pre-video game days when kids actually went outside and used their own imaginations to entertain themselves) I was usually the one who came up with the storylines and different roles that we assumed. So I guess what I'm saying is that, along with my reading, I've always been a storyteller, a tale-spinner of sorts.
By the time I was in high school, I'd abandoned the drawing and role-playing and was just plain writing. Always had a story going in my head, always jotting down scenes or bits of dialogue wherever and whenever I could. I took a class in my sophomore year to learn how to type and my parents bought me a monstrous old black Royal typewriter, used, at a bargain barn sale.
The Burroughs books led to my discovering Robert E. Howard, Otis Adelbert Kline, Andre Norton, John Jakes, Lin Carter, and other writers of fantasy/science fiction. All were enjoyable but none (with the possible exception of Howard, whose Conan stories I eventually came to consider hardboiled fantasy) approached the benchmark set by Burroughs. Of his works, my favorites were the Tarzan series (I had long been a fan of Tarzan movies, before the novels started being re-issued) and the Earth's Core books.
The Spillane books led to a much wider range of hardboiled detective/mystery/suspense writers -- John D. MacDonald, Donald Hamilton, Mike Avallone, Philip Atlee, Dan J. Marlowe, Richard Stark, and on and on. None may have had the passion or raw energy of Spillane, but as my tastes matured and broadened I found that some of the others -- notably MacDonald's Travis McGee series and Hamilton's Matt Helm -- included a depth of characterization and more complex plot interactions that were like added spice to the stew. I developed a strong preference that lasts to this day for book series, as opposed to "stand-alones."
These three writers, then -- Spillane, MacDonald, Hamilton, with perhaps a dash of pulp action/adventure thrown in on the side courtesy of Mr. Burroughs -- became the biggest influences on what would evolve into my own writing style.
 I can't say my parents discouraged my bent to be a writer but, other than investing in the old used typewriter, they didn't really encourage it, either. They were pretty grounded in blue-collar reality and pragmatism, remember, so I think the concept of someone from our background actually trying to write for publication and pay was... well, just not practical to them. At some subconscious level I suppose they had an influence on my taking the fork in the road that led to trying my hand at detective mysteries, rather than Burroughs/Howard-like science fantasy. Lord knows how they would have reacted if I'd announced I not only wanted to be a writer but a writer portraying deeds of derring-do set on other planets or in mythical worlds.
In the encouragement department, however, I soon got all I would ever need from my lovely wife Pam, who I met and married in 1966 and who remains steadfastly at my side to this day. We eloped and were wed without the proverbial "pot to piss in." For the first several months we ate with plastic picnic forks and spoons, until we could actually afford a set of silverware. But before that, as a demonstration of her love and encouragement and belief in me, my bride allowed our first big expenditure to be a brand new Smith-Corona typewriter, bought on installment payments, for me to write my stories on.
Through the remainder of the 60s and 70s, I wrote. Every chance I got. And when I wasn't writing, while I was working or playing or doing practically anything else, I had a story cooking in my head. I never finished anything. I'd get sidetracked onto another plot idea or theme different from the one I was struggling with, and I'd switch to start something new. But I still wrote steadily. And I continued to read. So, in a way that wasn't productive as far as output I could submit anywhere, I was still honing my skills, experimenting a little here and there, finding my own style and voice.
In the meantime, life -- and death -- went on around me. My daughter Michelle was born. My mother was killed in a car crash. Pam and I, in addition to getting our fledgling marriage off the ground and caring for our own infant, spent time as surrogate parents to my young sisters and brother, moving back in with my Dad for awhile in order to help him cope with his loss and try to get situated with the burden of raising five pre-teen children on his own. It was the kind of time that pulls families tighter together or pushes them apart. We got through it together, but not without some trials. "That which does not grind us into hamburger... " and so on and so forth.
As a husband and father, I had long since entered the job market by then and, like my father, I worked a variety of blue collar jobs. Farm hand, truck driver, construction worker, carpet layer, and factory laborer. And Pam and I moved quite a bit. Not at the pace Dad had in his prime, but still a lot. And, despite my earlier lamentations, neither did we ever stray very far from the Wisconsin/Illinois state line, either.
And I wrote. And continued to read.
Pam had long been after me to try my hand at short stories, since I couldn't seem to ever finish a novel-length work. But I'd never read much in the way of short stories and I didn't think my plot ideas could be condensed into a "short" format. Finally, around 1980, I started reading some of the stories appearing in mystery magazines like Alfred Hitchcock and Ellery Queen. I was surprised to learn how much could actually be fitted into 6,000-8,000 words, and it was like a light bulb went on. My wife was right -- this was something I ought to be trying my hand at! Less than two years later, while recovering from kidney stone surgery (this was back in pre-lithotripsy days, when the surgeons cut you practically in half to get at the pesky little critters), I wrote "The Fancy Case" -- my first story featuring Rockford, Illinois-based private eye Joe Hannibal. Moreover, I then had the unique and lucky experience of having it accepted by Spiderweb Magazine, the first publication to which I submitted it.
The day I married Pam, the birth of our daughter, the arrival of our grandchildren... I've had many fine moments in my life. But I gotta tell you, selling that first story ranks right up there.
Trouble was, the euphoria of that moment was like an addictive drug. I wanted more. Only I soon found out that more wasn't easy to come by. I wrote and submitted more stories and started collecting those lovely little pieces of mail that every writer dreads yet sooner or later is faced with... rejection slips. Some of them I got back so fast they had skid marks on the envelopes.
But I'm a big believer in perseverance. And having gotten a small taste of being a published author, I sure as hell wasn't about to give up at that point. So I forged on. Kept writing, kept submitting. Kept getting rejection slips. And then, also believing that sometimes you have to make your own luck, I made the somewhat brash move of starting my own small press magazine called Hardboiled. I never made any bones about the fact that this was largely intended as a showcase for my work, a way to get my name out there. But it was also a fair showcase for the works of other writers such as myself -- tougher, harder-boiled writers with only a limited market. The response was good, the result most satisfying. I was able to run stories by talented newcomers, as well as work by bigger names like Vachss, Collins, Lansdale, Randisi, Gorman, and others... And I gained the positive exposure for myself that I was hoping for.
I began placing stories (most of them featuring Hannibal) in anthologies and other places besides Hardboiled. Some were lucky enough to receive award nominations -- an Edgar, an Anthony, several Shamuses. No wins, but each time the recognition was truly an honor.
In 1988, The Burning Season, the first novel-length Joe Hannibal mystery, was published. There've been four more novels (all Hannibals) since: The Skintight Shroud (1989), The Brutal Ballet (1992), And Flesh And Blood So Cheap (2001), and The Fight In The Dog (2005). A sixth -- The Day After Yesterday -- is due out in September 2007. Reviews have always been decent, sales have never been so hot. Hence the lean years between 1992 and 2001, when things finally started to pick back up a bit. The market changed, agents came and went... the usual writer's lamentations. My enthusiasm flagged for a while. Also a little thing called Life and the various trials and twists and diversions it tends to throw in one's path sort of got in the way a time or three.
But I never stopped writing. Not for very long.
I wrote and sold a few short stories here and there. In 1995 I had the distinct pleasure of meeting one of my boyhood heroes, Mickey Spillane. First I placed a story in the Murder Is My Business anthology co-edited by Spillane and Max Allan Collins and then, when Max invited me to play a bit part in his movie, Mommy 2: Mommy's Day, I was present for my portion of the shoot at the same time as Mickey, who had a featured role in the film. It was a great experience, made even more so by the fact that Mr. Spillane, in person, turned out to be as gracious and friendly as you could ever hope for.
 Like I said... perseverance. Me and Hannibal are, if nothing else, a couple of durable old bastards. We're still here, and we're still bringing it.
Oh, by the way, in 1998 Pam and I moved again. This time we finally broke out of the northern Illinois/southern Wisconsin rut … and ended up in the rather unlikely setting of west-central Nebraska. Right on the hinge of the panhandle. I find it a fascinating place. The kid who grew up playing Cowboys and Indians is actually walking the ground where much of it really took place. There's still a lot of frontier flavor and attitude out here, and the contrast between the old and the new intrigues me to no end. This is something I hope to capture in some of my writing... which is why, starting with The Day After Yesterday, Joe Hannibal has sort of tagged along. The Wild West may never be the same...
ADDENDUM: With great sadness and regret I must report at this time that my beloved Pam has gone on a journey without me. In February of 2008 she passed away, taking her final breath in my arms. I can't begin to convey the emptiness I feel without her at my side. But my heart will always remain full of my love for her. As a great friend of mine once expressed: If love died with death, then living wouldn't be so hard. So I'll continue living ... sadder, emptier ... but sustained by remembering that I was blessed to have had her in my life for 41-plus years and believing that I will one day, in a better place, see her and hold her in my arms again.
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