Today I got a phone call from Minnesota, and the person asked me how this book was going. I said it was going fine. Then he asked if I had any hopes for its success.
“Well, here is my hope,” I said. “I hope the book is published and distributed at least six weeks before a rogue terrorist manages to build and unleash a one-kiloton nuclear warhead in the vicinity of Times Square, since I am told that the blast would instantly incinerate at least twenty thousand people, including me and everyone in my office. It is my understanding that—even if I wasn’t killed by the initial blast—it’s almost certain that I would be dead within twenty-four hours of the explosion, probably via intense radiation poisoning but possibly from third-degree burns and blindness, both of which would make evacuation from the urban chaos virtually impossible. And to a lesser extent, I hope that this book is available on amazon.com before the discharge of a cobalt-60 “dirty bomb” that would turn Manhattan into a cauldron of walking death that—if I’m really, really lucky—will only give me a hyperaccelerated case of skin cancer. And of course I’d love to see this book in paperback before somebody detonates a uranium-rich suitcase bomb, stolen from Belarus or Ukraine.”
“That’s interesting,” the caller said in response. “I suppose this technically makes you an optimist.”