Fine. That was my resolution. I still had to find a storyidea to do it with, as I was between stories just then.Now, I do not know how other people do it, but there isa certain receptive state of mind that I switch on whenI am looking for a short story notion. This faculty isdulled when I am working on a novel, as I Usually amthese days, so that if I want it now it generally takes mea full day to set up the proper mental climate. It comesfaster if I am between books. Whatever, in those days Ikept it turned on almost all the time.

The government wanted everyone in my class to havea physical examination. They gave me the forms and Idrove up to Euclid over a weekend to see the closestthing we had to a family doctor, to have him completethem. When I sat down in his waiting room, I pickedup a copy of Life and began looking through it. Partwayalong, I came upon a photospread dealing with the deathof the racing driver Wolfgang von Tripps. Somethingclicked as soon as I saw it, and just then the doctor calledme in for the checkup. While I was breathing for himand coughing and faking knee jerks and so forth, I sawthe entire incident that was to be this short short. I couldhave written it right then. My typewriter was in Dayton,though, and I'd the long drive ahead of me. The storyjust boiled somewhere at the back of my mind on theway down, and when I reached my apartment I headedstraight for the typewriter and wrote it through. I evenwalked three blocks to a mailbox in the middle of thenight, to get it sent right away.

Cele's letter of acceptance was dated March 28, almosta month after I'd begun writing. Strangely, the day thatit arrived I had gotten the idea for what was to be mynext sale ("Horseman!", Fantastic Stories, August, 1962).I returned the contracts on "Passion Play" and followedthem with "Horseman!" 1 sold fifteen other stories thatyear. I was on my way.I cannot really say whether I owe it to that resolutionI made on reviewing my rejects, but it felt as if I did andI have always tried to keep the promise I made that dayabout not insulting the reader's intelligence.

Another factor did come into operation after I soldthis story. It is a subtle phenomenon which can only beexperienced. I suddenly felt like a writer. "Confidence"is a cheap word for it, but I can't think of a better one.That seems the next phase in toughening one's writing—a kind of cockiness, an "I've done it before" attitude. Thisfeeling seems to feed something back into the act of composition itself, providing more than simple assurance. Actualchanges in approach, structure, style, tone, began to occurfor me almost of their own accord. Noting this, I beganto do it intentionally. I made a list of all the things Iwanted to know how to handle and began writing theminto my stories. This is because I felt that when youreach a certain point as a writer, there are two ways youcan go. Having achieved an acceptable level of competence you can keep producing at that level for the restof your life, quite possibly doing some very good work.Or you can keep trying to identify your weaknesses, andthen do something about them. Either way, you shouldgrow as a writer—but Ihe second way is a bit moredifficult, because it is always easier to write around aweakness than to work with it, work from it, work throughit. It takes longer, if nothing else. And you may fall onyour face. But you might learn something you would nothave known otherwise and be better as a result.

These are the things I learned, or fancy I learned, from"Passion Play" and its aftereffects. I do have one otherthing to say, though, which came to me slowly, muchlater, though its roots are tangled somewhere here: Occasionally, there arises a writing situation where yousee an alternative to what you are doing, a mad, wildgamble of a way for handling something, which mayleave you looking stupid, ridiculous or brilliant—you justdon't know which. You can play it safe there, too, andproceed along .the route you'd mapped out for yourself.Or you can trust your personal demon who delivered thatcrazy idea in the first place.

Trust your demon.At the end of the season of sorrows comes the time ofrejoicing. Spring, like a well-oiled clock, noiselessly indicates this time. The average days of dimness and moisturedecrease steadily in number, and those of brilliance andcool air begin to enter the calendar again. And it is goodthat the wet times are behind us, for they rust and corrodeour machinery; they require the most intense standards ofhygiene.

With all the bright baggage of spring, the days of theFestival arrive. After the season of Lamentations comethe sacred stations of the Passion, then the bright Festivalof Resurrection, with its tinkle and clatter, its exhaustfumes, sorched rubber, clouds of dust, and its great promise of happiness.

We come here each year, to the place, to replicate aclassic. We see with our own lenses the functioning promise of our creation. The time is today, and I have beenchosen.

Here on the sacred grounds of Le Mans I will performevery action of the classic which has been selected. Before the finale I will have duplicated every movementand every position which we know occurred. How fortunate! How high the honor!

Last year many were chosen, .but it was not the same.Their level of participation was lower. Still, I had wantedso badly to be chosen! I had wished so strongly that I,too, might stand beside the track and await the flamingMercedes.

But I was saved for this greater thing, and all lensesare upon me as we await the start. This year there isonly one Car to watch—number 4, the Ferrari-analog.

The sign has been given, and the rubber screams; thesmoke balloons like a giant cluster of white grapes, andwe are moving. Another car gives way, so that I can dropinto the proper position. There are many cars, but onlyone Car.

We scream about the turn, in this great Italian classicof two centuries ago. We run them all here, at the place,regardless of where they were held originally.

"Oh gone masters of creation," I pray, "let me do itproperly. Let my timing be accurate. Let no random variable arise to destroy a perfect replication."

The dull gray metal of my arms, my delicate gyro-scopes, my special gripping-hands, all hold the wheel inprecisely the proper position as we roar into the straightaway.

How wise the ancient masters were! When they knewthey must destroy themselves in a combat too mysticaland holy for us to understand, they left us these ceremonies, in commemoration of the Great Machine. Allthe data was there: the books, the films, all; for us tofind, study, learn, to know the scared Action.

As we round another turn, I think of our growing cities,our vast assembly lines, our iube-bars, and our belovedexecutive computer. How great all things are! What awell-ordered day! How fine to have been chosen!

The tires, little brothers, cry out, and the pinging ofsmall stones comes from beneath. Three-tenths of a second, and I shall depress the accelerator an eighth of aninch further.

R-7091 waves to me as I enter the second lap, but Icannot wave back. My finest functioning is called for atthis time. All the special instrumentation which has beenadded to me will be required in a matter of seconds.

The other cars give way at precisely the right instant.I turn, I slide. I crash through the guard rail.

'Turn over now, please!" I pray, twisting the wheel,"and bum."

Suddenly we are rolling, skidding, upside-down. Smokefills the Car.

To the crashing noise that roars within my receptors,the crackle and lick of flames is now added.

My steel skeleton—collapsed beneath the impactstresses. My lubricants—burning. My lenses, all but for atiny area—shattered.

My hearing-mechanism still functions weakly.