“I don’t know if it was that or the motion of the train, but I just started writing. “Here you are–you’re surrounded by all these people, and yet there’s this kind of strange silence that you only get with a large crowd who’s not talking to each other,” he said. The Metro-North was humming along now the clapboards and trees of Fairfield County washed by outside the windows. “I found myself to be really productive,” he said. ![]() At some point, he began taking notes on the train for what he thought might turn into a short story. He worked on campaigns for Foot Locker and Miller Genuine Draft. Roughan left the suburbs and commuted to his job as a creative director for Bates North America, an advertising agency on Seventh Avenue and 37th Street. “My wife and I didn’t want to raise a kid who would be more cynical than his parents by age 5,” he explained shortly after the 3:07 began moving. Roughan moved to Weston–a rural version of its flashier neighbor, Westport–to raise a family. It was also the train that made him a writer. Roughan enjoys the Metro-North–its clunky cars, its blue-and-orange leatherette seats. He wore a khaki corduroy shirt, khaki pants and Nike hiking shoes, and he looked happy. Roughan sat in a spacious four-seater, his legs crossed, an iced coffee in one hand. A compact man with neatly combed brown hair, Mr. ![]() ![]() Howard Roughan rode the 3:07 Metro-North out of Grand Central with a visitor on a recent afternoon.
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