Tom Lewis

As a writer and author, Tom Lewis was a late bloomer. A very late bloomer. Why? Because after being educated in both the United States and Europe, Tom first enjoyed a thirty-eight-year career as a Symphony Orchestra conductor, holding Music Director positions in several American cities and guest conducting extensively here and abroad.

As to his second career — of writing for publication, he whimsically puts it this way:

. . . . . I am only one man, though I have been many. But first, I was a boy. In the Springtime of that boyhood, I rafted with Huck, whitewashed with Tom and became an invisible islander surreptitiously watching Crusoe and Friday struggle. I flew brilliant days with Icarus and Arabian nights aboard magic carpets, made short flights with Wilbur and Orville and a long one with Lindbergh. I chased von Richthofen over French farms and spat fire all over London. I had a dog named White Fang that faithfully followed me everywhere, and together, we went to the horizon and beyond.

I never had to buy a ticket. The public library gave me free passage to the universe. Every book and magazine was a passport to where I wasn’t, so I devoured them like sweet grapes.

But it never occurred to me to write anything. . .

I disagree with that silver-haired sage who said that youth is wasted on the young. Most young men don’t waste a minute! The Summer of my youth was hot. I sowed a few wild oats and in my fantasy scattered enough to feed Russia and China. That hormonal activity, co-existing with serious studies and the beginnings of a musical career, harshly hampered my pleasure in reading, though not for long.

Soon, I discovered a new joy — that of owning books. Book store kiosks pulled me in like carnival barkers. I bought and read and bought more. I joined every book club and read everything between two covers, nearly going broke before discovering the paperback — the greatest invention since Gutenberg’s press.

Fiction remained my faithful fetish, never movies or TV. To this day, I can’t think of more than two films (Tom Jones and To Kill a Mockingbird) that came close to the books they tried to portray. And Television simply became my excuse for not reading so many magazines, as well as my ticket to the Super Bowl.

Wife, two children, and a conducting career all collected their time-toll, but I read on. And on. Somewhere along the way, though, I began to wonder if just reading books (like simply listening to music) wasn’t merely a form of mental masturbation. It gradually dawned on me that, as good composers took me behind their notes and phrases, good writers were taking me far beyond their words to their real thoughts. Was this the beginning of my maturity? Probably. In any event, reading for pleasure seemed no longer enough.

I began a journal.

The Autumn of middle age caught me dozing. Absorbed in my music, I had sleepwalked through important events going on all around me — until Oswald’s rifle shots woke me up. Later, I wished I could have slumbered through the nightmares of race riots, the tragedies of Martin and Bobby and the horror-opera of Vietnam. I wept for our country’s bloody nose and bloodier conscience. Part of me ached for a hero, but Shirer had long since slapped me with the reality of genocide, and Mailer and others had burned away my cataracts of romanticism about war, revealing truth and the stench of death. And what of the cold war? I felt a distant chill occasionally. Nothing more, and eventually the wall came tumbling down.

Autumn is almost gone. December’s near. When I first smelled my Winter approaching, it scared the hell out of me. Then, I realized that I had a few stories of my own to tell. It occurred to me that I, too, had been to many places, seen and experienced a lot, even learned a few things. And maybe, just maybe, others might be interested in some of it. I began to take my journal seriously, and so, began to write.

I read somewhere that to have lived a full life, a man should have raised a son, planted a tree, and built a boat. To this, I would add that he should have written a book. Nowadays, I am writing more than I’m reading. Better late than never? I hope so. Something in me says I know so.

As the old German song goes, In heaven there is no beer. That’s why we have to drink it all here. There are still thirsty readers out there somewhere. Sure, it’s late, but Winter’s a fine season, and to my knowledge, nobody has ever died from writer’s cramp.

In addition to 8 novels and one book of non-fiction, Tom Lewis has written dozens of short stories, essays and articles. He has won numerous prizes and awards for his writing, and is currently working on his 9th novel. He makes his home in New Bern, North Carolina.

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photos of Tom