I knew I hadn’t exhausted the possibilities in New York, but they had nearly exhausted me. I knew that publishers were men and women like men and women here, that they breathed, ate, read, got bored, watched TV. My novel had been to so many offices it had become dog-eared, but I didn’t want to retype it. That would have been about a two-week job, possibly for nothing.

I sat there looking at it. It was just a stack of typed paper an inch and a half thick. But I knew there was nothing wrong with it. I knew that all it would take would be for the right person to see it. So far that hadn’t happened.

I opened my copy of Writer’s Market to the section that lists commercial publishers and closed my eyes. I flipped pages this way and that, flipped some more, flipped some backwards, then forward again. I stabbed a page with my finger, and then opened my eyes. I located a name, an address, and copied them onto a large manila envelope. I mailed it without hope or dread, without a covering letter, without retyping it. I just mailed it.

11

The letter from the lawyer came in the mail. It said (along with Dear Mr. Leon Barlow):

My fees for handling your divorce trial and proceedings amount to $750.00. I would like to be paid as soon as possible, of course, but Mrs. Barlow has informed me that you are in a state of near penury. Therefore we have worked out a schedule of payments by figuring $150/month along with your alimony payment. This will be deducted by me before turning over the remainder to Mrs. Barlow each month. Your first payment is due immediately and four more payments thereafter on the 1st of each month. Please remit your payment by return mail.

It was signed by that lawyer, I didn’t read his name. I had forty-seven dollars to my name. I wondered if the jail still fed only twice a day. The only time I had been a weekend guest of that establishment, they had.

12

My uncle came by to see me. He was the brother of my mother, the only one who seemed to understand what I was trying to do. He had no love of reading or even movies except westerns, but he admired will and determination in a person no matter the odds, and he liked to see a man try to rise above his station in life.

“What are you doing?” he said.

“Nothing. Drinking a beer. You want one?”

“I might drink one. You’re not writing anything?”

“Yessir, I’m writing. I’m writing every day. I’m just not publishing anything.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is it good enough to publish?”

“Yes. It is.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I read the other stuff they publish.”

“You think it’s politics?”

“I don’t know what it is.”