ABSTRACT
The pressure must have been enormous. Eric Walrond’s plan to become a writera real writer of quality and critical acclaim-had succeeded. It had succeeded perhaps beyond his expectations, quite possibly beyond what he felt he deserved, and now he had to live with it. He had to live up to it. And he had to begin doing so in Wisconsin, of all places, in the dead of winter in February 1928. What in God’s name had he gotten himself into?
