I like this feeling, on finishing a tale, that I have just written what may be my best story yet. I have felt it many times before, and it has almost always faded, sometimes as early as the Morning After, when the story fits, spine-out, into the long, polygamous bookcase of once-fancied tales. Mostly it is the product of a short memory of written things when the new tale competes with no more than half-a-dozen remembered ones. But it is good, this sense of wonder upon first sitting back to appraise a finished draft. When it stops coming, I will stop writing.