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The Alchemist, v. 1, issue 5, February 1941
Page 12
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12 ----- ALCHEMIST ----- Creeping Danger, June, 1937 Doom Tocsin, Dec. 1937, Jan. Feb. March, 1938 Holes, Holes, Holes, January 1939 Tongue of Beast, May 1939 Return to Mars, Sept, Oct, Nov, & Dec. 1939 Land of No Shadow, of course, was basis for the book of that name. There have been others, both in the American Boy and other places but I forget just when and where! Now as to the writer -- of course, all authors are supposed to love to talk about themselves, wear long hair, burn incense, write to slow music, and wear a halo. I can't qualify. My hair is short, (and thin, alas, also grey!) My incense is a cigarette, K can write in a boiler factory if I have to (old newspaper training) and I've been married far too long to have any halo! I have two boys of my own -- both grown, married; one a doctor, the other an official of the telephone company -- I even have a grandson. I'm supposed to be Executive Secretary of a large national organization in my spare time; I bore people to tears by frequent platform appearances; when I have spare time on my hands I dive head first into a woodworking hobby shop and a sea of sawdust and come up covered with dust and grime with some useless gadget or other I have made; then I do (say once a year') sit in front of an open fire, a cat on my knee, and listen to slow music and think what a helluva guy I used to be when I played football, rowed in a crew, boxed, etc. I comfort myself by thinking I'm not yet too old to climb mountains (as long as a horse under me does all the work!) or camp out, or rough it. I can still build a fire in the rain and sleep on the ground and cook my own meals, and that is not near-fiction! Continued on page 27
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12 ----- ALCHEMIST ----- Creeping Danger, June, 1937 Doom Tocsin, Dec. 1937, Jan. Feb. March, 1938 Holes, Holes, Holes, January 1939 Tongue of Beast, May 1939 Return to Mars, Sept, Oct, Nov, & Dec. 1939 Land of No Shadow, of course, was basis for the book of that name. There have been others, both in the American Boy and other places but I forget just when and where! Now as to the writer -- of course, all authors are supposed to love to talk about themselves, wear long hair, burn incense, write to slow music, and wear a halo. I can't qualify. My hair is short, (and thin, alas, also grey!) My incense is a cigarette, K can write in a boiler factory if I have to (old newspaper training) and I've been married far too long to have any halo! I have two boys of my own -- both grown, married; one a doctor, the other an official of the telephone company -- I even have a grandson. I'm supposed to be Executive Secretary of a large national organization in my spare time; I bore people to tears by frequent platform appearances; when I have spare time on my hands I dive head first into a woodworking hobby shop and a sea of sawdust and come up covered with dust and grime with some useless gadget or other I have made; then I do (say once a year') sit in front of an open fire, a cat on my knee, and listen to slow music and think what a helluva guy I used to be when I played football, rowed in a crew, boxed, etc. I comfort myself by thinking I'm not yet too old to climb mountains (as long as a horse under me does all the work!) or camp out, or rough it. I can still build a fire in the rain and sleep on the ground and cook my own meals, and that is not near-fiction! Continued on page 27
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