I have a new set of shelves over my desk in the basement. I call it the “Wall O’ Science Fiction.” Yellowed paperbacks by Fritz Leiber, Ursula LeGuin, Isaac Asimov, Clifford Simak, Harlan Ellison, Judith Merril, Cordwainer Smith et. al. etc. All inherited from my mother when she cleaned out her book-freighted manse.
All authors whose boots I will never be fit to polish, of course. But if you let that stop you, you might as well give up writing and go do something useful. Which I refuse to do. I will never be useful. Not in the DNA.
It is entirely possible that this scribbling, done by lamplight where the laundry churns, might not remain totally obscure/uncompensated for long. I received news yesterday most unexpected…