I knew I could have written them in that laundry room, on Tabby’s little Olivetti portable, but as a much older man, even with my craft more honed and my tools-this Macintosh I’m writing on tonight, for instance-much more pricey, those stories were eluding me. I remember messing one up and thinking of an aging sword-maker, looking helplessly at a fine Toledo blade and musing, I used to know how to make this stuff.

Then one day three or four years ago, I got a letter from Katrina Kenison, who edited the annual Best American Short Stories series (she has since been succeeded by Heidi Pitlor, to whom the book you are holding is dedicated). Ms. Kenison asked if I’d be interested in editing the 2006 volume. I didn’t need to sleep on it, or even think it over on an afternoon walk. I said yes immediately. For all sorts of reasons, some even altruistic, but I would be a black liar indeed if I didn’t admit self-interest played a part. I thought if I read enough short fiction, immersed myself in the best the American literary magazines had to offer, I might be able to recapture some of the effortlessness that had been slipping away. Not because I needed those checks-small but very welcome when you’re just starting out-to buy a new muffler for a used car or a birthday present for my wife, but because I didn’t see losing my ability to write short stories as a fair exchange for a walletload of credit cards.

I read hundreds of stories during my year as guest editor, but I won’t go into that here; if you’re interested, buy the book and read the introduction (you’ll also be treating yourself to twenty swell short stories, which is no poke in the eye with a sharp stick). The important thing as it affects the stories that follow is that I got excited all over again, and I started writing stories again in the old way. I had hoped for that, but had hardly dared believe it would happen. The first of those “new” stories was “Willa,” which is also the first story in this book.