David Dakan Allison
Many people tell me that my story, my autobiography, should be one of my books. I haven’t had a boring life, that’s for sure. An adventurous life is the fodder to great story telling: boring people don’t write fiction.
Since most of my writing is fiction, I couldn’t possibly have done all the things my many characters do. So I do my homework. My first book, The Blackfeet Mystery, begins in Portland, Oregon. I’m from Oregon and know the city. He goes to Browning, Montana to solve a murder mystery. I spent several days in Browning and spoke to many locals, in order to develop my characters. When I write about the medicine man and shaman teachings, its because I was once a student of a shaman medicine woman. The issues Lucky faces regarding intimacy with women, happened to me.
I could go on and on, the point being that a fascinating life leads to fascinating story telling. I have been a life-long investigative reporter, always skeptical of the “official” version. I’ve always wanted to find out for myself, or at least thoroughly study the subject before offering a conclusion. These books are full of historical fiction, the result of hours or years of research.
The beginning of my autobiography
(notes to be edited)
I was the son of a Catholic, Republican, very conservative, set in his ways Civil Engineer: an Army Officer, a drinker and a chain-smoker, and the third child of a devout Catholic German American mother. As the wife of this wanna-be patriarch sperm donor, she birthed seven children, and did all she could to feed and clothe and run the house, like a good obedient wife should. (not my belief) Our father didn’t have a loving or nurturing bone in his body, quite the opposite. His philosophy was that “children are to be seen and not heard,” and when that didn’t work, “go to your room.” His favorite response to me was “You’re dumb.” He offered no help with homework, no constructive advice, and no interest in our sport activities, our grades, PTA or anything. I was on my own up to and during puberty, and from then on.
Books have been written about the plight of the middle child. Unfortunately my younger brother Jerry and I were the lost middle children. We had to fend for ourselves.
Being on my own began soon after birth. My mother got sick and was hospitalized for breast fever two weeks after my birth, for two weeks. She just up and disappeared from my life. After she returned I couldn’t get near her breasts, which meant she stopped nurturing he newborn. This prompted my life-long struggle with abandonment issues, which comes up in several of my stories. Because I was born with a caul, or shroud over my face, she believed that I was meant to be the priest of our family. I think this scared her from the beginning, which led to a reason to physically reject me. Growing up in a Catholic family, where we were forced to do the rituals and never miss mass, I couldn’t reconcile the disconnect between my not very nice after work alcoholic selfish smoking father, who expressed no love or interest in his children, and his insistence that we be good obedient devout Catholics. I left the church when I was eighteen, though I never was into the charade. None of his seven children grew up to be Catholic.
This is an ongoing story, which I will periodically add to.