sighed and put paper into the type-
writer. "I'd better start," I said. And
I did. Meaning that, unemployable
since I had less than a year to live, I
had to turn myself into a profes-
sional writer.
It was January of 1960 and, according to the prognosis, I had a winter and a spring and a summer to live through and would die with the fall of the leaf. I felt too well. After the long enervation of the trop- ics, my wife Lynne and I were being stimu- lated by the winter gales of t...