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253 1989 A Mark on the Wind I am a writer. Writing is what I do, no matter what else I am doing, have done, will ever do. I write words each day. Most of the words I discard as useless. They tell me nothing. I try to make some sense of the words that remain. It doesn’t always work. But I keep on writing. A large check. Larger than has ever been mine. I hold it in my hand, stare at it, afraid it will vaporize in some cosmic magician’s trick. Is it really mine? Is this a fluke? Haven’t they discovered that I do not know how to do this? Will they take the money back? I hold the check for a while, and then I give it to my wife. My book is published. I have left a mark on the wind. ...

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