Incarnations of Immortality

by Anthony, Piers

  As I said, this was an extreme case, but it illustrates the type. None of this revelation came to him until I cut him off after he refused to take a hint. Most others have taken the hint, but are nevertheless hurt, and I do get some hate mail. It is apparent that there is no way short of this to protect my time from those who are determined to take it. This letter arrived in FeBlueberry, but isn't one of the 163 because I didn't answer it. I have left a small trail of disillusioned ex-Anthony fans, and I don't like doing it, but the alternative is to allow my working time to become monopolized by just such folk. One of my reasons for getting a secretary was to make my answers less personal, so that those who craved a large collection of personal Anthony notes would be dissuaded without coming to emotional violence. In this sense, ironically, I can sympathize with God: how do I get on with my business when those who idolize me insist on my complete attention? How could God function, with billions of personal demands being made on Hun?

  But, having taken this ex-fan up on his challenge to publish his expose, let me address the points he raises. I make no money from fans like him; I answer them at a financial loss, and would very soon be broke if every one of my readers were like this, It is my business to write novels; I answer correspondence only as a courtesy, sometimes receiving little in return. The ones who put food on my table are the great majority who buy, read, and enjoy my novels, and who do not seek to correspond with me. I also do not attempt to make myself out as "important and wonderful"; in fact these same Author's Notes strike reviewers as "boring and offensive." I simply display my thoughts and activities, positive and negative, for the period during which I write one of these novels. I would call them feisty rather than either wonderful or offensive, but each reader is free to interpret as he chooses. Most seem to consider the Notes to be personal letters to my readers, and that seems close enough.

  This fan thought he could make a judgment on my competence as a writer and my character—by driving by my house. This illustrates the problem with critics in general, who make what amount to similar judgments. Nevertheless, there are indications. A person's residence can tell a lot about him, if the one who looks at it has the wit to understand. You see, this fan did give an accurate description of my house. The roof is dull metal, the siding weathered, the yard overgrown, and there are half-a-dozen dead trees standing in it. (Make that four; two blew down later.) There is little evidence that any of it has been touched in years. But this is not neglect. The roof is terne-coated stainless steel, which a builder will tell you is the finest it is possible to make; it will last without repair just a shade short of eternity. The siding is red cedar shakes which are supposed to weather to their own shade, never needing paint. They look old after a year in the sun, but they are great no-maintenance protection. The "weeds" are dog fennel, this region's natural ground cover. We don't mow them down because they are harmless—and because it is our philosophy to do as little damage to the natural forest and field as possible. Others move to the country and promptly extinguish the natural flora and fauna, rendering their lots into manicured suburbia. We left our forest as we found it, deliberately. No mower has touched our yard, other than horses; no tree has been cut unless it threatened the house. We sought not to drive out the creatures of the forest, but to share with them. We love to see the big burrowing box turtles locally called "gophers" and the occasional armadillo. There are mounds of dirt left by the tunneling pocket gopher—the "vole" of Xanth—and by the dung beetles, who sanitize the pasture by burying clods of dung. Wrens and squirrels nest in our eaves, to our delight; we have come to know families of them. Wild rabbits play hide and seek with our dogs. (Yes, on occasion a dog does catch a bunny. We hate that, and try to warn the bunnies before letting the dogs out.) Those "dead ugly trees" are what is called standing deadwood, and it, too, contributes to the way of the forest. Woodpeckers peck in it, and nest in it. We have a family of the rare, spectacular, crow-sized Pileated woodpeckers which call on our dead-wood; we can watch them right from the house. The national forest service once took out deadwood, but discovered that this despoiled the habitat for woodpeckers, and now lets it stand. Nature does know best. Only after it falls by itself do I saw it up for the stove.

  So this disaffected fan did see my house—but how little he understood it or me! It does represent the real Piers Anthony, whose values are not for appearances, and I shall be glad if my readers know it. We did, as I said, move—but our philosophy is unchanged, and the new house is even deeper in the forest than the old. I don't give much of a curse about the opinion of strangers, so my house may look as dull as I do—but it is sound. The same goes for my philosophy. I do what I feel is right, and if a fan can idolize me yet have no idea of my values, then I think the fault is not where he supposes. I really do care about my work, and would much prefer to stay with it than to put effort into a conventional yard or into attendance at conventions.

  But for all that, we have made some compromises with the new house. It does have a grassy yard, which we expect our horses to mow. But the property also has a fox, owl, rabbits, fireflies, dragonflies, and a big box turtle who insists on sharing the dog's yard. We tried to fence that turtle out, fearing what the dogs might do to it, but it plowed back in and the dogs couldn't hurt it. Great; I love having it. There are blue, black and huckle berries aplenty, and passion fruit with its lovely purple flowers. Also some big rat snakes and rattlers, which we leave alone. Our mailbox is half a mile away; we have a drive lined with pines, laurel oaks, hickory and magnolia trees, because we gave orders to curve it around them instead of 'dozing them out. We are deep in our private jungle, and fifty feet out from the house nature is undisturbed. Ye who would judge me by my residence, judge me by that.

  I read an article in Boardroom Reports, a periodical devoted to business management. It was titled, "Beware the Mind Blowers," and described the way some others react to highly successful people. Envy verging on malevolence, it suggests, is common, and there is a desire to diminish the successful one. "Many professional critics, for instance, are in this category," it says. That seems to explain a lot, and not just about reviewers. The article warns that flatterers, too, are dangerous. I agree. Some who have greeted me with fulsome praise have not understood why it turned me off. I don't want flattery or condemnation, I want the truth, whatever it may be. Readers who call errors in my novels to my attention receive my thanks, and sometimes mentions in Author's Notes.

  Meanwhile, as I wrote this novel, events continued. Robert A. Heinlein, perhaps the leading figure in our genre, died. A reader, pained by this news as I was, suggested that I mention this here, and I agreed. Heinlein was a giant, and with him passes an age. Clifford Simak, less well-known but the author of City, one of my favorite genre novels, also died. And, in the adjacent Western genre, Louis L'Amour. It hurts to see such figures pass, yet time is inexorable.

  Then I received a query from another reader, who noted that some of my recent novels didn't have Author's Notes: had I died? she inquired worriedly. I tried to reassure her; I remain reasonably healthy for my age.

  Ah, yes: health. A study was published which showed that vitamin C does halt a cold. For decades the medical profession has disparaged this notion, claiming that there is no way to stop a cold, when actually this is one of several. I am glad to see that the experts are finally trying it, instead of condemning it untried. Another way to stop a cold is heat. I wonder whether this attitude of condemning things untried is like prayer: you have to have faith. The doctors had faith in what wouldn't work, so never had to try it. But those of us with open minds suffer fewer colds.

  Meanwhile, how is my career doing? Two lady editors came to see me at this time about a seven-figure offer—which I did not feel free to accept, because it threatened to commit me too far ahead. It's like signing a contract with Satan: once you take the money, you had better be prepared to deliver. I wasn't quite sure I was ready. I want to get some less commercial projects done before returning to the solidly paying
ones. But never fear; I do not sneer at commercial writing. I just don't want to be totally governed by it.

  At this time my Xanth Pin-Up Calendar was also progressing: luscious half-ladies of many kinds, painted by a number of top genre artists. But we discovered that the publishers had already locked in their calendars for 1989; we had to postpone ours until the calendar year 1990. Sigh.

  I received two letters that put me into a dilemma: both were requests that I agree to complete the novels of hopeful writers who had died. One had been killed at the age of sixteen in an auto accident; the other had been murdered at age twenty-two. Now, I hate untimely death, and hate to have the hopes of aspiring writers cut off. But death is no guarantee that the manuscripts are good ones. So I demurred, but did look at one—and it will be the next novel I do, as a collaboration with a dead teenager: Through the Ice.

  Let's see: I promised to get into our new house. Those who hate such detail should now tune out; it's a long story. We got books of designs and pored over them, getting notions for this feature and that. One that appealed was based on George Washington's house, with curving wings for a garage on one side and a guest house on the other. Well, now—there was my separate study, in that two-story wing, with a covered walkway to the main house. We liked the symmetry of it, but my wife had other notions for the main house. So we merged notions, and pulled in the wings, and finally perfected a two-story house with garage and storage room on one side and my study complex on the other, and everything she wanted in the center. At last count it was somewhere over 4000 square feet.

  Actually, after she designed it we saw an article in Popular Science about dome houses made of special insulated cement blocks. The notion intrigued us, and we worked out a dome-house complex that did all the same things: a main dome for the house, an attached study dome, a garage dome, a daughters-bedroom dome, a pool dome, I forget what. But when we talked to the contractor, he said, "What about resale value?" We did a double-take and pulled out the old plans. A house is not just a place to live, it's an investment. Ours, to be built on a tree farm, would represent a nice estate that should hold its value for our grandchildren, when.

  I think the contractor, Lou Dolbow, enjoyed the project. We took him in our four-wheel drive Toyota deep into the wilderness and said, "Build it here." We put colored bands around trees to mark where the access road should be. He had to arrange to build a half-mile road to that spot, and then build the house, deep in the jungle adjacent to the young slash pines. "Don't hurt the rattlesnakes," I warned. The power company wanted to cut a 25-foot-wide swath through the center of the tree farm; Lou hassled until they agreed to bury the line beside the new road. The bulldozer man got lost, and I showed him the route. Right in front of him was a little magnolia. "Curve the road around that tree," I said. Even so, some of its roots got chopped; we're nursing that tree along, and I think it will survive. We have a beautiful lane, to be called Ogre Drive, because we care about what nature offers. No, don't write to me begging for the address; this property is intended to be private. There will be a thorough description of it in my mainstream novel Firefly, but it won't be where the novel says it is.

  Alcoa Aluminum is expanding. It now makes roofing and siding. We used both, and it is our understanding that we used more Alcoa than they sold for any other project in Florida up to this time. They sent a party to photograph it for their records. The roof is aluminum made to resemble weathered wood shakes, and the siding is vinyl made to resemble aluminum. Inside we have teak parquet flooring that we bought over a decade ago for our present house, and couldn't install because of the crowding when our contractor never finished the house. We sued him and put him out of business, and used the bare concrete slab for the floor. Lou did improvements on that house, before building the new one from scratch. And so on—I won't bore you further with details. Take my word that it is a nice house, in a nice setting, though at this writing books and boxes are piled on the floor, as we continue to ferry our things across.

  Yes, of course the dogs and horses went with us. We had a little bam built, just like the one on the old property, so the horses would feel at home. Penny's mare Blue is thirty years old, gray-headed but still spry, and her companion Snowflake is twenty. We had to have somewhere over a mile of fencing done for their pasture.

  I mentioned computers. This novel was done using my Dec Rainbow computer system, with MS-DOS and her garden directories, and FinalWord. No, I don't promise to stay with either indefinitely; computer technology is moving too rapidly. I'm looking toward a so-called 386 machine. You will no doubt learn all about it in some future Note in some future series. Having been satisfied for thirty years with penciled drafts and manual typewriters, I went reluctantly to the computer, but now I am hopelessly spoiled by it and constantly want more.

  One evening a car stopped by our mailbox, at the old address. Oh, no, surely more fans! I went out, and my fear was confirmed: they were college students who had made it a game to locate me. I really don't appreciate such games; I was trying to eat supper at the time, and there was a dull drizzle outside. But then they gave me a plaque commemorating the Incarnations series. It was beautiful. There's a skull for Death, an hourglass for Time, a web and spider for Fate, a red sword for War, and a circling rose vine for Nature, all made of a claylike plastic that didn't exist in my day. It was made by Elisa Velasquez, and will hang on the wall of my new study. Another reader, J. P. Morris, made and sent a string-art portrait of Neysa Unicorn, another beautiful item. I really don't seek gifts from my readers, and don't wish to encourage this sort of thing, but have to admit I like these ones very well.

  At this time I was reading Samuel (Chip) Delany's autobiography, The Motion of Light in Water. His autobio and mine were published two months apart, so the two invite comparison. I knew Chip briefly, and liked some of his work. He is an award-winning science fiction writer. On the surface the two of us are quite different. He is a black, dyslexic, homosexual literary writer, while I am a white, heterosexual commercial writer. But these differences may be superficial. Underneath there are parallels. Both of us differ from others to more than average degree. I may have been dyslexic myself; in my day there were no learning-disabled children, only stupid or perverse ones, so I had no excuse for struggling to get through first grade. But I made sure that my dyslexic daughter Penny did not have to endure what I did. It may be said that when I finally got fed up with taking it, I started dishing it out, and the evidences of that militancy are all around me and in this Note. Chip seems to have been nicer, and so he may have suffered more and had a less dramatic career. I wonder whether he read my book with as much interest as I read his?

  I finished that book, and started on the next: Chaos, by James Gleick. We had bought a copy through the Book-of-the-Month Club, but I had not yet looked at it. Then a fan, the artist Kurt Cagle, sent me a copy, and I looked at it and saw the illustrations of the Mandelbrot Set. I had seen such pictures before, but this time they registered, because I had a need of a simple way to structure a complex new universe for a new series of novels. The Set offered such a way. Thus the footing of my future work occurred in the late stages of my present work. The Mandelbrot Set is too complicated a matter to get into here, but those who are interested in art and mathematics should find it fascinating. It held me for hours at a time, when I had a novel to finish.

  In Incarnations #4 I discussed "Ligeia," the suicidal teenage girl I tried to help. Mail continues to come in about that, and there have been several other Ligeias. I am pondering whether to write a book on them, titled Ligeia: The Early Part of Dying. I am no expert on suicide, but I find myself drawn into their lives, and I must either respond or refuse to respond. They aren't just girls, and not limited to teenage, and suicide is not the only symptom of depression. Once a runaway came to my house; I wanted to be fair with him, but as a parent myself I insisted that he let his mother know where he was. The relief in her voice was almost tangible when I called her, and he did decide to return hom
e. Another phoned me from the hospital where she had landed after they found her in time, before the pills had full effect; I was able to give her news that improved her outlook. But it isn't always positive, and it's generally chancy. When I hear from one, and then, without explanation, I don't hear, I get nervous. Once a reader told me how a relative had recommended On a Pale Horse to him as the finest novel—and then killed himself.

  I think in most cases the depression is physiological in origin. That is, something in the body causes it. For example, there is SAD: Seasonal Affective Disorder. People suffer from it in the darker winter months, and recover in the brighter summer months. It can sometimes be treated by bright lights. There may also be hormonal imbalance. I feel that a competent physical exam should be the first step in checking out a Ligeia. A person should not be left to suffer in darkness, when relief might be as simple as a bright light. I can't forget how I myself was considered mentally ill because of my depression and fatigue—until a blood test showed that I am diabetic. It isn't necessarily all in the mind. In fact, I suspect that it seldom is. But again this reminder: I am no expert, only a fantasy writer who got involved more or less coincidentally, when the first Ligeia wrote me.

  Let me talk to the other Ligeias out there directly: if you are suffering, and no one seems to care, and you don't know where to turn or whom to trust, and you really would rather be dead but you're afraid to kill yourself, and you cannot talk to your parents—well, I tried to find out what number you could call for help. If your local phone book is like mine, there won't be anything under SUICIDE. But check the index at the beginning and see if it lists "Human Services Guide." Turn to that part, and look for "Counseling." Under that section look for "Suicide Prevention." Call that number. They should help you. If you are worried about getting in trouble, don't give your name, just your problem.