Did Washington free the slaves? Did Lincoln … ?
In two days I buried Ellison under three or four complete rewrites. Becase I was excited. Because I was anxious. And because the next week I had to report to the Army. Yup. And I also wanted to finish the novel I was working on, my first.
I never satisfied Harlan, but I finished the novel. It was rejected. And then it sold. And I—I was lost. I was one of the happy lepers, come what may. I might be a starving leper, I might be a wealthy one, but I had chosen my disease.
I got out of the Army, went to work writing press
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Introduction
releases for a tiny local public relations outfit. I also ran the duplicating machine and cleaned out the fish tank. I made $400 a month, to start. A year and some months later, I began to feel like those fish.
If I could only find something I liked, something to put seafood in my mouth while I resumed writing. I knew nobody made a living writing science fiction, except people like Heinlein and Anderson and Asimov and what the hell, they were immortal anyway, so what difference did it make?
A part-time teaching position opened at Los Angeles City College. I applied and was accepted. Furthermore, I enjoyed it. A course in film history and one in writing. I’ve also taught writing at UCLA, and even a seminar on the works of H. P. Lovecraft.
I kept writing. Things Started To Happen. Books sold, stories sold. Other people would pay to share with me yarns I wrote for my own enjoyment. I was happy, content. Who wouldn’t be? I’ve never known a storyteller who was unhappy when telling stories.