The novelist made his Brooklyn brownstone into a genuine writers colony.
Then he wrote a book about a female American Taliban.
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Its permanently on the Halloween setting, Wray explains.
Were the token freak house of the block, Wray says proudly.
So many writers never had to fully grow up, Wray says with a sigh.
Theres a slightly annoying electric hum that starts when I turn it on, he says.
James chortles at the idea: John may say he works in the basement.
I think he means he plays drums in the basement.
(Wray admits to taking frequent drumming breaks while writing.)
He actually works in the cafe across the street, James tells me.
Sometimes your own house gets on your nerves.
You have to get out for work.
Then someone he met mentioned offhandedly that another outsider had also fought with the Taliban: the American girl.
Wray dug for more details about her but came up empty-handed.
I could never get any more concrete information, he says.
So he set about writing the story as fiction instead.
Over tea in his kitchen, I ask Wray how he managed it.
Im inhibited when I have to write about myself.
Everybody in Afghanistan squats when they piss, Wray explains.
It brought home to me that I should make no assumptions about things being universal.
Wrays personality, so evident in his house, is more difficult to spot in his books.
Wray, who didnt have an office at the time, wrote the first draft while riding the trains.
