In the fall of 1995 I crouched on a bench in Central Park.  It was a crisp, blue sky day.  I had been writing another novel about the Vietnam War resistance in previous years.  But I had begun fiddling with Ceremonies again.  I pulled out the last draft, which dated from my time in Columbia.  The script was cut and taped together.  Recently I had acquired a computer but I was still working with paper.  Back in my apartment sat a four foot high batch of drafts.  I struggled to imagine a story in Ceremonies.