ABSTRACT
A few minutes before the library was to close at midnight on a mild midOctober evening in 1987, I wrote the last words of the manuscript, stacked my books, stood up, and walked out of my carrel toward the elevator. I stopped, smiled, and with the clarity of an epiphany thought to myself: “I am ready to do this again.” I had finished my first book. I had found my voice, assumed my authority, and discovered that I loved the work.
