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Living with Schizoaffective Disorder

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The Frog

The Novelist

I quietly opened the door, then stepped into a small study.

Jonathan Swift
mdcrawford@gmail.com

It was everything I could do just to find a place to stand without stepping on the typewritten papers that spilled off the shelves, the file cabinet, the desk then all over the floor.

A man sat with his back to me, hunched over a manual typewriter. I knew I would do well not to interrupt him, so I waited patiently. He sat in silence completely unmoving for several minutes at a time, then placed his hands on the keyboard to type just a few words.

It was hard to stifle my cough, as the air was thick with cigarette smoke. He seemed to have forgotten that he had lit a cigarette then left it in an ashtray. The entire cigarette had smoldered until all the tobacco was gone, its flame extinguished by the filter tip.

Finally, he leaned back, stretched out his arms and yawned. He turned towards me as he rose, startled at first, but then giving me a very warm, gentle smile.

"At least we meet," he said, offering his hand in greeting.

As we shook he said, "Ron. L. Ron Hubbard."

"We are here to speak of Cults."

I whipped out my notebook. There being nowhere to sit, I remained standing as I wrote furiously.

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The Frog

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