"True," Norton agreed. He turned to face Satan, who was now on the street but still locked in reverse. "I trust you will behave now, Lord of Flies. I wouldn't want to have to invoke my power again. Or is my trust misplaced?"
Satan became so hot he suffered a phenomenal implosion of flame and winked out like a reversed nova.
Norton experienced a great relief and satisfaction. He had at last faced Satan directly and held him off! Mars' advice to him had been right; all he had needed to do was keep fighting.
He turned to Luna. "Notice of the recount should be broadcast soon, and your reputation will be restored. You have begun your political career."
"Thank you, Chronos," she said faintly.
Thanatos stepped forward, extending his skeletal hand. "I knew you had power, Chronos; I never suspected its extent."
"Neither did I," Norton said, accepting the hand. He knew this was not the occasion to discuss his first encounter with Thanatos, eighteen years hence. "Farewell, both."
He turned the sand red and returned to his present. He landed on the street outside Luna's estate.
Satan reappeared, horns red-hot. "How dare you—"
Norton lifted the Hourglass and turned the sand brown. Satan vanished.
He steadied the sand on green and turned to the front gate. All the Incarnations were there, and Luna herself. "My stones told me to appear for this meeting, though I have pressing political business," she said. "Now I remember: I owe not only my life but my office to you. You helped me win my first election as a representative, and later my election as Senator. I am deeply in your debt."
"And I in yours," Norton said. "Just do what you have to do when your crisis looms. We all must strive constantly to keep Satan at bay."
"Yes, of course," Thanatos agreed. "But I wish we could reward you for your special effort—"
"There is no need," Norton said, thinking of the bleakness he now had to return to, living his life opposite to them and the world, not even speaking of this matter as he moved into their past, lest that somehow change the course.
"I will attend to his reward," Atropos declared, shifting to Clotho. "Keep the sand green, Chronos, until we reach your mansion, so I won't forget."
Norton looked at her. She had evidently prepared for this occasion, for she was ravishing. And she understood! He realized that there were, after all, compensations to his lonely office.
AUTHOR'S NOTE
This is the second novel in a five-novel series. In the long Author's Note following the first novel, On a Pale Horse, I explained how, since the protagonist was Death, death and illness seemed to strike all around me while I was working on that novel, so that part of it was actually written in the hospital. You probably think I'm going to tell a similar story this time.
Correct. Except that, since this novel features Time, it was time that bedeviled me this time. I hesitate to conjecture what will bedevil me when I work on the next novel, With a Tangled Skein, in which Fate is the protagonist. But I expect it to be interesting, for Fate is a most intriguing and devious female. Stay tuned for the next Note...
I am a slow reader and a slow worker, and I do three drafts of each novel. Since I turn in about a third of a million words of fiction per year, that means about a million words of work per year, though only the first three hundred thousand are really challenging; the rest is mainly refining and polishing, in an effort to make this oft hellishly complex business of writing seem like the simple, relaxed flowing of prose. What I say in the finished draft is much the same as what I said in the first draft, but it comes across more eloquently. Polishing: a useful lesson for the hopeful writer. You say your tormented prose doesn't read as well as mine? Neither does mine, at first! I get about six and a half decent working hours a day, after chores, meals, exercises, mail, and the sundry minutiae of mundane existence. That means I need to run a fairly tight ship and make my working time count—and I do. Other writers will tell you that it is difficult to know when a writer is working, for he may be reading a book or lying on a couch or staring glassy-eyed at a blank sheet of paper. Not so with me; I confine my reading to off hours unless it is direct research, in which case I'm probably making notes on it. I have a couch in my study that I never lie on, and when I'm at my typewriter I'm typing without pause. I don't suffer from that dreadest of maladies, Writer's Block; as with stage fright, I realized early that I couldn't afford it, so I conquered it. I seem to be almost unique among the more creative writers in that respect. I understand some block up for a few hours at a time, and others for a few years or decades at a time. I view such writers as pseudo-professionals who are not really interested in working. If I am balked for a few minutes at a time, there is something wrong. So when I work, I work, and every hour counts. In that way I compensate for my slowness. I see myself, figuratively, as a locomotive, starting slow but proceeding along my limited track with heavy-duty reliability.
My time is precious. I work efficiently, no matter how far my imagination ranges. I write the first draft in pencil at about five hundred words per hour, though this is highly variable, depending on the nature of the material and the facility of my inspiration; this is the one time I might be observed doing something like staring at a blank page for a few seconds as the gears in my brain squeal and grind. A lost hour of time is a lost hour of work, and it hurts; my schedule is behind by that amount. I catch up by taking pencil and clipboard wherever I go so I can squeeze out a few more hundred words of text and thought. When I'm typing second or submission drafts on one novel, I'll start
the pencil draft of the next, as I can't take my office machine around with me.
I'm not a fast typist, either, though I use the world's most efficient keyboard, the Dvorak Simplified, further modified for my needs; I may be the only writer with the sense to put the often-used quotation marks on the lowercase shift for added convenience. I am slow because my brain is always in gear, analyzing, changing things, catching the sense of the material. Therefore I buzz along at about a thousand words an hour, every hour. I try to avoid typing in the chill of winter in my unheated study, so I'll concentrate on two first drafts then, and type both when the study warms. In the winter of 1982-83, I wrote the science fiction novel Mercenary and most of the fantasy Hourglass.
Most of? What happened—Writer's Block? Of course not! I ran out of time. Let me explain.
My correspondence has been picking up. This year I have been answering about fifty letters per month. Many can be handled by cards, but some require pages. "Dear Mr. Anthony: I love your Xanth books. When is the next coming out, and what is it about? Please send me your picture, a list of all your novels, your philosophy of life, and detailed advice on how to become a professional writer, and tell me how much money you make. P.S., I am twelve years old." That sort of thing. I answer seriously, but it is a challenge to keep up, and it cuts into my fiction-writing time. Twenty-five hours a month, just to answer my mail! My novels have been falling behind schedule. Time—I don't have enough of it.
Why not just stop answering fan letters? I understand many authors ignore their fan mail. I'm sure that simplifies their lives. I just can't do that. I feel that a serious letter— and when a twelve-year-old writes, it is quite serious to him—deserves a serious answer. There may be writers who don't really care about the quality of their fiction or of their personal relations; I do care. I do the best I can in whatever I am doing, whether it is a funny scene or a physical exercise or an answer to a fan. I admit to wondering sometimes why I bother, such as when I explain gently why I can not undertake to become a regular correspondent and get a hurt, sarcastic, or abusive response. But such events are rare and outweighed by the letters of genuine appreciation and understanding, sometimes from the parents of children I have written to. I am trying to do my little bit of good in the world (that will do for part of my philosophy of life), and I have found that the letters I send are far more important to my fans than theirs are to me. No, I don't mean that to sound callou
s; it's just that I do receive hundreds of often-similar missives, while the fans on the other end may never have a more personal interaction with a writer they like. There is a current of desperation that runs through much of the mail I receive; that small personal touch my reply represents is vital. Some fans are lonely and some are ill; they write to me because they enjoy my fiction and perceive in me a person who cares, and in this they are not mistaken. But the time it takes, the time it takes! I am forced to perform triage on my mail: this letter must be answered promptly, though my paying work suffers; this one can wait; this other one does not have to be answered. At what point does my need to earn a living override the hurt feelings of a fan? If my mail continues to increase, I will not be able to answer even the first letter from some fans; this may have happened by the time this novel sees print. That will hurt; the cold equations always do. Sometimes I feel like the national budget: always a deficit. A deficit of time.
Then there are the extraordinary events that consume whole chunks of time. I don't mean they are amazing or unbelievable, just out of the ordinary. I address a class here, go to an autographing session there, submit to an interview, or participate in a convention elsewhere. I turn down the great majority of invitations; even so, there is something almost every month.
There are family events. My daughters like to get me involved in their activities, and if there is one thing I place ahead of my writing, it is my family. Penny is learning how to drive now, and it would not be expedient to have my wife teach her; my wife can't even stand to have me drive when she's in the car. So Penny learns with me, much as she learned to ride the bicycle years ago, and I trust it is no serious affront to her if I remark on how nervous I can get when my fifteen-year-old daughter is at the wheel, demonstrating that she's not afraid of cornering at high velocity, that it is still possible to stall the motor four times when turning the car around, and managing to scrape the chassis against the road on a bump. Sometimes I think small trees quail when they see us coming, and quail are treed. But mainly it takes time, for I will not turn my child loose on the highway until I am reasonably certain she will survive the experience. A car is a powerful machine, a potential killer; she must learn the same respect for it that I have. I took my eyes off the road once, over a quarter century ago; next thing I knew, the car was in mid-air, and my only thought was whether I would ever regain consciousness after it struck the ground. As it happened, I survived the rollover with no more than a bruised shoulder, but I remain highly conscious of the hazards of carelessness.
There is land. My career as a writer has become increasingly profitable, but I have never been foolish with money. I seek to invest any surplus in something that is inflation-proof, and that is land. We can graze horses on land, and burn the deadwood from it in our stove, and grow new trees on it; and if a daughter should choose later in life to settle here, we have the land. We are buying all the acreage around us that we can and, while Hourglass was in progress, we bought the five-acre lot to our west and are now fencing it for pasture. The local railroad track on our east was taken up and the R.R. right of way put up for sale, so we started negotiations for the purchase of some of that. They wanted an inordinate price. We pointed out that not only is this particular stretch inaccessible to anyone but us, the adjacent property owners, it is through the hill with such steep slopes that no vehicle can cross and no developer would build on it. Eventually we agreed on about half the original asking price. So that useless strip is on the way to becoming ours, and we expect to grow trees there and make it a refuge for local wildlife. But all this, however worthwhile, consumes— you guessed it!—time.
One trifling detail I may have neglected to mention about that useless gash on our east: it has a fictive identity, because I used it, in somewhat exaggerated form, in a series of novels. It is called the Gap Chasm of Xanth.
I'm not much for entertainment these days, because for me, writing is entertainment. But I do try to participate in things with my family. We're likely to watch television together; my daughters have learned to call my attention to the screen when a starlet in bursting bikini prances by. We'll go as a family to a movie; we went to Tootsie. Sometimes we can't all go, but we do what we can. I took my twelve-year-old daughter, Cheryl, to the Science Fiction Research Association annual meeting in Kansas, where she and I met the likes of Theodore Sturgeon, Fred Pohl, James Gunn, Jack Williamson, Harry Harrison, Lee Killough, and a host of academics. It was the first time I'd left the state to indulge in a formal science fiction gathering in sixteen years, and it seemed about time. I'm not keen on traveling; I have a lot of work to do at home, and traveling consumes great gobs of time. But I owed Cheryl an experience like this, complete with airplane ride, hotel stay, and her chance to meet the author of The Stainless Steel Rat series she enjoyed. It is not every child who gets the chance to meet a Real, Live Author, after all. Fine; we both enjoyed it, and she had a ball with the swimming pool and restaurant meals and even meeting a Piers Anthony fan her age, Mark Miller.
Then Cheryl spied the ping-pong—oops, I mean table tennis—tables and wanted to play. Now it happens that that game, by its misnomer ping-pong, was the one sport I was good at in my youth. I never went professional— I wasn't that good!—but I did play in scattered tournaments in college and the U.S. Army. After I left the Army in 1959, I regretfully gave up ping—uh, table tennis. But now, with my daughter interested—well, to condense things somewhat, we now have a ping-tennis table at home, and all of us play, at varying levels of skill. But if there is one thing it takes to get in shape in table-pong, it is time. Sigh.
I discovered that there has been a revolution in the sport since my day. I used to use a light, cork-surfaced paddle—they now call them rackets or bats—but today cork is illegal, while sandwich rubber is in; that stuff didn't exist thirty years ago. No, it's not what they serve for lunch in cafeterias; sandwich rubber is a layered deal with sponge rubber inside, making the surface more bouncy and spinny. I was curious, so I started collecting paddles, questing for the Perfect Paddle. I shelled out sixty dollars for a championship-quality racket surfaced on one side with a designedly dead surface and on the other with a superlive surface called Tornado. (Tornado, as in spin.) The dead side makes spin drop dead so you aren't vulnerable to the superspin artists, while the Tornado is what those artists use to make you need the dead side. I discovered soon enough that I am predator, not prey; I had to use the live side, though in all candor I must say that none of this newfangled stuff matches the speed and effectiveness of an old-fashioned, two-dollar cork paddle. Maybe that's why cork was banned: too good, too cheap. I finally settled on a light, fast paddle with one live side and one superlive side, surfaced with the stuff the Chinese use to win world championships. No, having such a paddle does not make a person a world-class player, any more than having a good typewriter or a word processor makes a person a world-class writer. I am a world-class writer, but table tennis is just fun.
And while I was testing Tornado, as you may have guessed, a real, live tornado took aim at us, in the way such things do in my fantasy. Its aim was bad and it missed us by five miles and struck Inverness, Florida, instead, twisting off trees, destroying buildings, hurling a car six hundred feet and killing three people in it, and doing half a million dollars' worth of damage. It carried away the sign of the realtor who is handling our Gap Chasm purchase and damaged Cheryl's Middle School. Sigh—I really should have stayed with cork! But now that I have changed to the Chinese surface, the ill winds should have blown over.
Through all these distractions, I wrote and typed the novel. I had resolved to commence second-draft typing April first (no fooling!), because Hourglass was due at Del Rey June 1 and Mercenary at Avon August 1; at one month per draft, I could just make both deadlines. I prefer to run well ahead of deadlines, but now I was up against the wall, as it were.
There was one small complication: I had not yet finished writing the first draft of Hourglass. Between the correspondence, my da
ughter's driving, the land, and the table tennis, I had gotten behind. Well, no matter; I had eighty or ninety thousand words done. I started second-draft typing on schedule, trusting myself to write the remainder in spare time while the typing progressed.
Spare time? What spare time? Well, in the evenings I like to relax with inconsequentials such as supper, reading one of the squintillion publications we subscribe to, chatting with the girls, and watching TV. By cutting down on the reading and ignoring the TV, I could squeeze in some writing time. Unfortunately, I have another peculiarity: I get sleepy at night. Falling asleep while watching TV is harmless, but now I found myself trying to read and write with my eyes closed. I was coming up on the section of the novel involving relativity, for which I had to do some mind-stretching research, then integrate the material comprehensibly for the reader. So perhaps it is scarcely surprising that the writing was slow, and by April 16 I had typed ninety-eight thousand words and run out of the first draft—just as Norton's party came up against the giant termites, with the heavy intellectual material lurking just beyond. I was in as much trouble as Norton was! Do you have any idea what publishers do to authors who don't deliver on time? I'll give you a hint: I had already had a call from Del Rey Books, telling me to report with my family on June 3, 1983, to Dallas, where the American Booksellers Association was to have a convention. Yes, that's just two days after my delivery deadline, and yes, that's where President John Kennedy was shot twenty years before. I began to sweat. If I had no manuscript...
But hope was not yet quite gone. All I needed to do was take three days to buzz out the concluding six to eight thousand words of the first draft, another day for a brief Author's Note, then crank out the remaining second draft and be ready for the submission draft by the first of May. I mean, it was theoretically possible, wasn't it? I settled down to work—and discovered a few letters had accumulated. They do that when I am not on guard. All right, I'd take one afternoon to clear them out, then move on my text.
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