Jack Lane was born in August 1968 – a year also memorable for being in the sign of the Chinese Earth Monkey, the Prague Spring and the election of Richard Nixon. When he is not writing, he is committed to performing the duties of a loving family father and husband, who tries to gain the family’s favors, patience and some quiet by wearing a jacket and tie to dinner. When he is writing, he is wearing a different jacket and tie in an attempt to convince others that the creative process absorbing him is something important and respectable. When the silence around the author reaches suspicious levels, he occasionally hammers away at random keys to give an audible impression of work in progress. At other, less remarkable times, those keystrokes are stringed together to compose the melody of the narrative. If this sounds fascinating, you’ll love his work.

In the civilian domain, he has worked as a translator and interpreter, with the quirk of charging extra for words and information deliberately “lost in translation.” Whether it is a matter of some erased zeroes in the company accounts or hushed up verbal insults about professional attitudes, extra income is always welcome for a writer. Omission and interpretation are also the hallmarks of creating fiction, so this is a wonderful coincidence in the author’s life, bound to earn him spiritual compensation if the sales measured in dollars and other earthly currencies do not shoot through the roof.

Lane is sincerely hoping that the investment in his writing attire will be recovered through sales of his first book, “Ten Cents a Dime” – a collection of ten short stories dealing with the eternal themes of betrayal, deception, frustration, vanity, disappointment and hope, and other issues that keep shrinks and tabloids thriving. Lane wears a Post-it note on his forehead, so when he ventures to the mirror, he is reminded of the wise words of Chip Garbunkle: “Make ‘em laugh. If you’re not makin’ ‘em laugh, you’ve only done half the job.”



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