Just wishing everyone a Happy Thanksgiving!
I wrote every day after that, for the next sixty-five years.Can you imagine writing everyday for that many years? That's amazing! I no longer think people have any excuse when they say they can't or don't have the time to write everyday. If you're able, it can be done. Bradbury did it. You can and so can I. I'm going to try my hardest to write each day, everyday for the rest of my days.
-Ray Bradbury, Something Wicked This Way Comes
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"Last night, you were still my little boy. This morning--" Blake Hartley was talking more to himself than to Allan. "I don't know. You were unusually silent at breakfast. And come to think of it, there was something ... something strange ... about you when I saw you in the hall, upstairs.... Allan!" he burst out, vehemently. "What has happened to you?"
Allan Hartley felt a twinge of pain. What his father was going through was almost what he, himself, had endured, in the first few minutes after waking.
"I wish I could be sure, myself, Dad," he said. "You see, when I woke, this morning, I hadn't the least recollection of anything I'd done yesterday. August 4, 1945, that is," he specified. "I was positively convinced that I was a man of forty-three, and my last memory was of lying on a stretcher, injured by a bomb explosion. And I was equally convinced that this had happened in 1975."