Well. I don't recount, I only invent: the above is a fiction about a fiction. But it is a fact that after The End of the Road was publishad I received letters from people who either intimated that they knew where my Remobilization Farm was or hoped I would tell them; and several of the therapies I'd concocted for my Doctor - Scriptotherapy, Mythotherapy, Agapotherapy - were subsequently named in the advertisements of a private mental hospital on Long Island. Art and life are simbiotic.
Now there is money for baby-sitters, but I don't need them. I've changed cities and literary principles, made up other stories, learned with mixed feelings more about the world and Yours Truly. Currently I find myself involved in a longish epistolary novel, of which I know so far only that it will be regressively traditional in manner; that it will not be obscure, difficult, or dense in the Modernist fashion; that its action will occur mainly in the historical present, in tidewater Maryland and on the Niagara Frontier; that it will hazars the resurrection of characters from my previous fiction, or their proxies, as well as extending the fictions themselves, but will not presume, on the reader's part, familiarity with those fictions, which I cannot myself remember in detail. In addition, it may have in passing something to dom with alphabetical letters.