There is a myth that a small bug called an earwig is able to enter men s minds. I decided to write about the earwig as a benign creature. I would deny the myth because of my granddaughter, Kate, who is frightened of them. Then one of the earwigs, named Charles, appeared in my story to verify the myth. Now, I was stuck. Kate s mother, my daughter, suggested an alternate direction: my autobiography. Good enough. But gradually, the earwig myth and my past began to merge. Closer, closer, and closer the folk (the earwigs) have come to practice their mythical talent. My autobiography, joining with...

I live in a small town. Perhaps a larger town than I realize: On the streets of Paris, I met a stranger who knew the town I lived in. Why? Because people like John Humphrey Noyes in the 1840s made history that excited even George B. Shaw. Several institutions of learning began here in the thirties and forties of the last century. It was in the center of New England. There were farmers in this area--the so-called hoi polloi--who noticed the sticker on the back of my truck--"Call me Ishmael"--who said to me, "Ah, I see you like Herman Melville." I am writing a story about this town as it might...