Oddly enough, the clearest thing I remember about that check is an incident that took place that evening in my father’s candy store, where I still worked every day and where I was to continue working for two more years. A customer took offense at my neglecting to say “Thank you” after his purchase-a crime I frequently committed because, very often, I was working without conscious attention but was concentrating deeply on the plot permutations that were sounding hollowly within the cavern of my skull.

 The customer decided to scold me for my obvious inattention and apparent lack of industry. “My son,” he said, “made fifty dollars through hard work last week. What do you do to earn a living?”

 “I write,” I said, “and I got this for a story today,” and I held up the check for him to see.

 It was a very satisfactory moment.