His office was a graveyard of unfinished writings. He printed out his best short stories, and bound each one with a paperclip. They just sat in sliding piles everywhere—like little leaning towers of Pisa. He planned to put them all in boxes because he was dying. He hoped that someone would take the boxes after he died and read each story with interest. But he was too busy writing ever to put any of the writings in the boxes. That is how he knew that they were good.