in my nineteenth year i returned to oakland and started at the high school, which ran the usual school magazine.this publication was a weekly--no, i guess a monthly--one, and i wrote stories for it, very little imaginary, just recitals of my sea and tramping experiences.i remained there a year, doing janitor work as a means of livelihood, and leaving eventually because the strain was more than i could bear.at this time my socialistic utterances had attracted considerable attention, and i was known as the "boy socialist," adistinction that brought about my arrestfor street-talking.after leaving the high school, in three months cramming by myself, i took the three years' work for that time and entered the university of california.i hated to give up the hope of a university education and worked in a laundry and with my pen to help me keep on.this was the only time i worked because i loved it, but the task was too much, and when half-way through my freshman year i had to quit.
i worked away ironing shirts and other things in the laundry, and wrote in all my spare time.i tried to keep on at both, but often fell asleep with the pen in my hand.then i left the laundry andwrote all the time, and lived and dreamed again.after three months' trial i gave up writing, having decided that i was a failure, and left for the klondike to prospect for gold.at the end of the year, owing to the outbreak of scurvy, i was compelled to come out, and on the homeward journey of 1,900 miles in an open boat made the only notes of the trip.it was in the klondike i found myself.there nobody talks.everybody thinks.you get your trueperspective. i got mine.