THE HOUSE WASN’T YELLOW when we moved in, but it needed a fresh coat of paint. I regretted the choice almost immediately. All that yellow made the ramshackle building too bright, too cheerful, too . . . yellow. It hardly looked like the home of a serious little magazine. But, for thirteen years, that’s what it was.
The roof leaked. The floors sagged. The pipes froze in winter. There was no central heat, no central air. But there was something at the center, something vital and alive. I put together more than 150 issues of The Sun at 412 West Rosemary Street, pounding out essays on my old manual typewriter, editing and proofreading and worrying about the bills, never knowing from month to month whether the magazine would survive.
