August 10, 1934

Sigurd wrote this just after he and his family moved into a new home. A two-story cream-colored frame house on top of a hill just south of Ely, it was modest but pleasant, and its location at the edge of the country, next to wide-open fields and a wooded ravine, foretold innumerable family cross-country skiing trips in the years ahead. The home on Greenvalley Road (really a dead-end alley) would be Sigurd and Elizabeth's last. (Eventually, their property and the surrounding area would be incorporated into Ely, and their address would become 106 East Wilson Street.)

Last night strolling around the yard, a revelation of what I was to do came to me in no uncertain manner. for years, I have pondered as to what should be my ultimate sphere, what if I went into writing, what would be my medium, and then it came. I think what started it was talking to that party that went out in the afternoon, a man and his wife by the name of Glesener. When I saw the light in his eye, the joy that shown there at the prospect of taking another trip, the expectancy in his beautiful wife, I sensed something kindred with them all. I see it so often day after day, the joy of going and coming back. Last night watching the children play outside the warehouse, their clean trim little bodies, the joyous laughter, the play, healthy, happy, gorgeously happy little animals, I knew that I loved them all and their aspirations were close to me. I am beginnning to realize that after all the most important thing in life is human emotion, that if I get an understanding of that, my problem of what to do will be solved. For many years, I believed that I was out of sympathy with the race, that I wanted to be alone, that I did not like people. Now I know that it is different, that I do like people, that their aspirations are mine. What gave me despondency was the knowledge that my field was limited. Animal life, well and good, trees and scenery good also, but only worthwhile when used as a background for human activity.

This then is the most important thing that has happened to me since I started writing. There is no limit to this field and what is more, what made it difficult to sell my stuff was that it was lacking in human interest. I shall build up my understanding and though it will be a long row to hoe, still I feel that at last I am ono the right track.

I read Greta Garbo's story last night in Liberty and I see a great resemblance there with my own dreams. She too was a dreamer, different from the rest, aloof from the crowd and still of them. This winter, I am going to try and work up one good story, a story in which the interest is entirely human, of course with a woods setting, for that will always be my forte. That I know, but from now on, I will work in the human angle to the exclusion of all else. I feel that soon I will hit my stride and when that happens, I will be far too happy for any use. I have made something of a mark in the writing game, have at least had a taste of it, know enough about it to know the thrill of seeing my stuff come on. Have also had enough favorable criticism so that I know I have something.

I think Sydney's little visit perhaps helped me as much as anything to get down to earth and know where I was at. Thank you Sydney for coming. You have no idea how you have helped. And now I am surcharged with happiness. The world is again beautiful and lovely and no matter what I do, the fact that I know where I am going for the first time in my life is all that is necessary.

Samuel Scoville, Jr., Herbert R. Sass, Rutledge, all the rest, they have failed and they know it. They can write of the woods, but they have already died and who cares to read a woods story where the actors are limited. Think of the demand for the fictional short story, think of the unlimited material at your fron door, think of all you can do. Dad was right when he said that animal and outdoor stuff was all right but the most important thing was to work in the human side of things. He knew then what was wrong and I was still blind.

Now I know and this winter I will try and work out one good yarn for either the Atlantic Monthly or Harper's. If I can do that and get by with it, I will feel that everything else is O.K. I think of my year away and as I said to Sydney, I failed to find what I went after. I know now that it was a failure. I am not interested in scientific things and never will be. I am not a scientist, never want to work the the Forest Service, the Fish and Game, Biol Survery or any of the rest. That does not appeal to me, no matter how attractive. It is the human side of things that appeals only and it is there my field lies. I am rusty on technique that is true, but the important thing lies in knowing at last where I am heading. No matter what happens now, I will keep working ahead and sooner or later I will land. I haven't given up my dream. It will soon materialize and knowing that I am so happy that nothing can ever down me again.

All of these years, I have been trying to find out what it is all about. For a long time, I despaired of every finding out and those periods were fraught with despondency. If I land and make a go of things think how wonderful it will be. All of these years and the training I have had, has given me an understanding of life that I couldn't have gotten in any other way. It has not been wasted, that I know. I can go ahead now, with all of the knowledge at my disposal and I know success will come.

Up in the new house, we are all so happy. Now with this new knowledge, I can put up with my regular life and keep working always working away at something else. Eventually, I may be able to give up my teaching or the outfitting and put in my time writing. The thing to do now is to polish up your style, study character deliniation and a thousand and one other things. Nothing matters, however, so much as having found out that I am on the road.