It was 1969 when I decided to become a professional writer instead of an anthropologist. Not that I’d grown to dislike anthropology. I’d done archaeological field work on the North Slope of the Brooks Range in Alaska (150 miles north of the Arctic Circle) in 1967 and helped dig a cave on Israel’s Mount Carmel in 1968. I loved field work, but I was beginning to realize how few archaeologists found jobs doing only field work. The vast majority taught during the academic year, then hit the field in summer. I dreaded public speaking. So, in spite of the blood, sweat, and beers that went into hacking out a mediocre master’s thesis in the summer of 1969, I decided writing would become my career. I always loved reading. I thought I could put my words on paper and avoid the agony of the lectern. I since discovered that authors are required to promote their books, Speaking at public events is a regular part of that process. It took a few years before I had to face that reality, however, because first, I had to get published.

I immediately began writing short stories, and building an impressive collection of rejection slips. I devoted myself almost exclusively to fiction. An exception turned out to be my first sale. Playboy paid $1000 and up for articles and stories in those days. Most of the magazines I’d been submitting to paid between two and five cents a word. Imagine my delight when I received my check and learned they’d be printing my piece. Unfortunately, however, I hadn’t sold them an article, just an item for “Playboy After Hours.” My check was $25, but I’d put quite an effort into telling a story I’d found in one of Tucson’s newspapers into Playboy style. So, when Miss August and I appeared on newsstands in the summer of 1972, I rushed out and spent one of those dollars for the thrill of seeing myself in print. I may have casually glanced at the centerfold a few hundred times, but seeing my own words in a major American magazine was an even greater motive.

I learned a valuable lesson for that dollar. As well as some humility. Playboy didn’t use my words. They retold the story far better than I had. In fact, I didn’t recognize a single word as mine, unless you count articles like a, an, and the.

The original newspaper story told how a Tucson couple happened on 186 bricks of a manure-like substance while hiking in the desert. Since they wanted a lawn, they loaded them up and took them home. They spread the “manure” and grass seed all over their yard. Arizona sun and a bit of irrigation produced spectacular results. Not “. . . Kentucky blue or Dichondra . . . ,” as Playboy put it. The mysterious bricks in the desert were, of course, marijuana, and that’s what sprouted in glorious profusion. Tucson police used everything from rakes to a giant vacuum cleaner to remove the crop. I’ve always wondered how the original owner reacted on discovering what happened to the stash (1972 street value—$43,000) in the local news or the pages of Playboy.

I don’t have a copy of what I submitted along with the newspaper article. I do remember my clever opening, though: “Our nomination for most valuable lawn of the year goes to the Tucson couple who . . . .”

Playboy outdid me, and taught me the value of grabbing readers with a dramatic opening. “Witless alchemy, or how to turn gold into lead: A Tucson couple recently stumbled on . . . .”

Forty years, hundreds of thousands of words, and seven novels later, I can still brag about breaking into my chosen profession big time with that first sale to Playboy. Or I could until now.