It was infinitely possible for me to leave home and become an adventuress, because I was so secure in the knowledge that my father would always be there for me, would always love me, and would always want me to “Come home. Love, Dad.”
November 17, 1971
My dear Shelly,
The days roll on changing their length to weeks and months and going by thro’ the years – which brings to mind a children’s poem”
There was a crooked man,
And he went a crooked mile
He found a crooked sixpence
Against a crooked stile
He bought a crooked cat,
Which caught a crooked mouse
And they all lived together
In a little crooked house.
Well, maybe then again it might have no significance. On the other hand, possibly you could do better and more famously with your writing basing yourself in Chicago in Middle America, with both sides of the continent as your market place. Chicago is a cleaner place for operation than N.Y.C. which is the garbage can of the country. There are hundred of publications of every kind in this city, and opportunities are plentiful. Come home and bring all your manuscripts with you.
