In the grimy vestibule Harry obsessively paused at the mailboxes, several maimed, hammered in, some torn out; he set down his grocery bag, his right eye twitching in anticipation of a letter from a publisher he couldn’t possibly get until he had completed and sent out his long-suffering manuscript. Reverie: “We have read your new novel and consider it a work of unusual merit. We are honored to publish it.” Praise for the book, not for holding out.

Lesser had held out, thirty-six, unmarried yet, a professional writer. The idea is to stay a writer. At twenty-four and twenty-seven I published my first and second novels, the first good, the next bad, the good a critical success that couldn’t outsell its small advance, the bad by good fortune bought by the movies and kept me modestly at work – enough to live on. Not very much is enough if you’ve got your mind on finishing a book. My deepest desire is to make my third my best. I want to be thought of as a going concern, not a freak who had published a good first novel and shot his wad.