Indeed I wrote so many weekends that some wild charlatan of a tour bus driver, pointing upward, began bringing the attention of his complement of sightseers to me. Unquestionably having been told that I was one of the “struggling artists” said to inhabit the area, these people invariably waved frantically at me from behind the glass dome of their bus, so happy were they to share this fragile moment with one who might one day be hailed a genius, so pleased that they could go back to Omaha and tell Cousin Lucy, “We saw one of them writer fellows—in his underwear!” I never waved back. I thought
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