Until this novel. Then trouble struck in the most painful way yet: at lovely Fantasy. She abruptly developed a heart problem. We were amazed and chagrined; if ever a horse did not deserve this, it was Fantasy. Her body was swelling as her heart was unable to clear the blood loop to her lungs, and her appet.i.te was failing. The prognosis was doubtful; medication was not effective and it was obvious that this could not continue long. The vet came and took her away, hoping to treat her with techniques that could not be done in the field; if they were effective, she might survive. d.a.m.n you d.a.m.n you, Satan.

We needed company again for Blue. This time the vet brought a pony who had been left with him to be boarded for a month. Five months pa.s.sed, and the owner never returned to pick her up. Her name was unknown. So we took over the boarding, knowing that at any time the owner could come to claim her. But it was a calculated risk; after all that time, the chances were diminishing. She is white (I don't care what the supposed experts say about there being no white horses) and plump, trained for children to ride, and so short that her tail drags on the ground. We named her Snowflake, after a white foal in my novel Blue Adept, Blue Adept, and she fitted right in. Blue gave her the word about just who was boss of the pasture, and that was that; when frightened, Snowflake would go hide behind Blue. At this writing Snowflake has been with us a month, and this novel is just about done. The farthest pastures are being grazed again, and the two run together-Blue loves to run-and it looks as if we're all right. and she fitted right in. Blue gave her the word about just who was boss of the pasture, and that was that; when frightened, Snowflake would go hide behind Blue. At this writing Snowflake has been with us a month, and this novel is just about done. The farthest pastures are being grazed again, and the two run together-Blue loves to run-and it looks as if we're all right.

There has also been human development. During this novel I received unpleasant news about Cousin d.i.c.k. Let me clarify the background. Cousin d.i.c.k is actually my fifth cousin, about fifteen years my senior; we got in touch because of a mutual interest in genealogy, researching our Jacob lineage. We had the same great-great-great-great grandfather. Cousin d.i.c.k had aspired to be a writer, and had tried a year or so doing full time writing of fiction, with the understanding that if he did not make it, he would give up that ambition and concentrate instead on making money. He did not make it, and so he went into mundane work and provided for his family quite nicely. But there was always that regret: suppose he had had made it? How would his career as a writer have gone? There may be myriads of folk with similar ambition and similar disappointment; failed writers are a dime a dozen, and no one seems to care about their stifled dreams. But then, independently, I tried the same thing-and succeeded. Thus, in a manner, I represented the answer, for I had similar lineage and ambition, and a roughly similar personal history. We compared notes in some detail. I believe, to a degree, he regarded me as the fulfilment of his dream, while I regarded him as my alternate course, the one I did not take, about fifteen years ahead. Thus our correspondence, always amicable, had a certain extra element; we understood each other on a deeper level than is usual. He visited, and met my daughters, and of course he knew other members of my branch of the family. I believe everyone liked him. He was always alert for the appearance of my novels, and sometimes sent reviews I had missed. made it? How would his career as a writer have gone? There may be myriads of folk with similar ambition and similar disappointment; failed writers are a dime a dozen, and no one seems to care about their stifled dreams. But then, independently, I tried the same thing-and succeeded. Thus, in a manner, I represented the answer, for I had similar lineage and ambition, and a roughly similar personal history. We compared notes in some detail. I believe, to a degree, he regarded me as the fulfilment of his dream, while I regarded him as my alternate course, the one I did not take, about fifteen years ahead. Thus our correspondence, always amicable, had a certain extra element; we understood each other on a deeper level than is usual. He visited, and met my daughters, and of course he knew other members of my branch of the family. I believe everyone liked him. He was always alert for the appearance of my novels, and sometimes sent reviews I had missed.

But now the news was grim. Cousin d.i.c.k had lung cancer, and brain tumors, and was having seizures. "It's a h.e.l.l of a way to live," he wrote in NoRemember, "but after 66 years of comfortable health, it seems to be my turn." Then, the day before Christmas, as I completed Chapter 16, I had news from his daughter: Cousin d.i.c.k was dead. One of the last conversations he had had with her was about the third volume in this series, With a Tangled Skein, With a Tangled Skein, and its Author's Note, which covered my own tangled skein of life. and its Author's Note, which covered my own tangled skein of life. d.a.m.n you, Satan! d.a.m.n you, Satan!

Let's conclude on a lighter note: the tangled skein of lesser events and impressions occurring while I worked on this novel. Satan uses honey as much as vinegar to distract me. My life is filled to the brim with minutiae. Such as requests for visits and talks. I attended a teenage girl's birthday party: she had been in an automobile crash that affected her memory, so that she could not retain new experiences. She liked my fantasy, so they hoped that if I was there, it would give her something special to remember. If she returned to the hospital, and remembered, they would know she was mending. So I went, bringing her some of my books and a Xanth Calendar, and they had video cameras of the party, so as to refresh her memory. She did improve, and I hope I helped. I also addressed a college cla.s.s about story writing, reading an excerpt from my story "Soft Like a Woman," which is a savage antis.e.xism commentary, because I support education and oppose s.e.xism. Yes, I do get mail calling me s.e.xist; some readers take my parodies for endors.e.m.e.nts. I addressed a local Kiwanis Club meeting; the contractor we are asking to build us a nice house on our tree farm asked me, and I want him in a positive mood as he tackles that house. There's a reason for everything, but everything takes time!

Then there's the mail. Some of it affects my life and writing in devious ways. Amidst this novel, I was concerned because of the blah period in Parry's life between Jolie's death and the arrival of Lilah. I didn't want four chapters of that. Thirty-four letters arrived in one day-they come in batches-taking me three and a half hours to read and a good deal longer to answer. One was from Pat Woods with thoughtful comment about the first four novels in this series. "You have an amazing affinity for your characters," she wrote, and I thought darkly, I wish that were true in I wish that were true in this this novel! novel! And then something clicked, and I realized that Jolie, who really had not been fairly treated, could in a manner be restored. Not only would this redeem her, it would enliven the dull section of the novel. Thus was introduced the Drop of Blood and all it portended. I'm really glad that happened, because I did feel guilty about Jolie. Thank you, Pat. And then something clicked, and I realized that Jolie, who really had not been fairly treated, could in a manner be restored. Not only would this redeem her, it would enliven the dull section of the novel. Thus was introduced the Drop of Blood and all it portended. I'm really glad that happened, because I did feel guilty about Jolie. Thank you, Pat.

Two novels back I corresponded with a fourteen-year-old suicidal girl I called Ligeia, after a character in the novel, and that novel came into print in hardcover in OctOgre. I received a number of letters expressing sympathy for Ligeia, several asking to be put in touch with her; one young man approached me directly about that at NECRONOMICON But I could not oblige, because of the necessary anonymity and the fact that, owing to circ.u.mstances beyond my control, I lost contact with Ligeia. No, I don't think she's dead, merely incommunicado. She would be sixteen by this time. Then came one more letter: from a fourteen-year-old girl who was slashing her wrists. She had read about Ligeia... I do what I can, but it is quite limited, because I am no expert and even my letters are liable to be intercepted by the wrong parties in such situations. How do you answer a reader who wants advice on what her parents do not know about, when the parents read her mail? I have had this kind of letter in other connections, too.

There are also frustrations of a different nature: in this period I had about four of my cards returned "Addressee unknown" though I had them exactly as given. If these are jokes, they are costing me valuable time; there are others who would have been glad to receive that wasted attention. I don't answer every letter I receive, but even so this year, like last year, comes to over twelve hundred I wrote. Most letters are about Xanth; next main topic is the Notes, overwhelmingly approved; it seems that the readers prefer a personal author to an impersonal one. Well, I don't claim to be a great man, but I am personal, just as my readers are. Then the ones that ask for things: contributions, mementoes for auctioning, requests for me to speak-I have to turn the great majority down. Only when the circ.u.mstances are special do I accept. For example, I have had a number of letters from prisoners. Now, I am a liberal, but I am not soft on crime; I dislike the death penalty, but I also abhor the notion of murderers going free to repeat their crimes. I suspect that there are far more guilty folk going free than there are innocent ones in prison. In addition, it is evident that prisoners have a lot more time for correspondence than I do. I can no more solve their problems than I can those of the suicides. So I tend to answer briefly and noncomittally. But one letter, in this period, made a reasonable case: the prison encourages reading as being of a rehabilitative nature, and I am a favored writer, but their budget is limited. Prisoners cannot go out and buy their own. So-I sent a package of thirteen of my recent books, paperback and hardcover. Please, don't deluge me with requests for free books; this was a one-shot deal, about which I have mixed emotions.

As Christmas approached, I received many cards. As a rule I don't answer these, and don't send cards of my own, because if I did I would lose another critical chunk of time, but I do appreciate the sentiment. I even received a Chanuka card; I understand that occasion is becoming much like Christmas, in America. I had a letter and a painting from my youngest fan yet: six-year-old Carlitos Castillo. I did unbend enough to "wish a number of correspondents "Harpy Holiday"; I mean, what would life be without some grim humor? I received some gifts that surprised me: from a company with which I do business, and from publishers. Remember, it was only yesterday that I was beneath the notice of publishers, and I am a bit uncomfortable with first-cla.s.s treatment, as any writer would be. Do Do leopards change their spots? But there is of course a price tag: now a publisher wants me to go on an Author tour to promote a novel. I hate to travel, but if it puts my novel on the hardcover best-seller lists... sigh. leopards change their spots? But there is of course a price tag: now a publisher wants me to go on an Author tour to promote a novel. I hate to travel, but if it puts my novel on the hardcover best-seller lists... sigh.

Another problem is interviews. After four consecutive interviews from which I received no feedback-no copy, no news, except some secondhand remark that somebody had seen it somewhere-I decided that it was time to stop. If I never see a copy, I have no notion of the errors that may have been made. The main difference, as I see it, between fiction writers and journalists is that the fiction writers make sure of their facts. Then came news of a fifth: being published in a magazine with which I regard myself to be on bad terms, because of that same looseness with facts. I used to wonder why successful folk tended to isolate themselves from the public; now I am learning the answer. With interviews comes the nuisance of pictures. I had 128 little pictures of me I could send to readers who requested them; I ran out, and can't take the time to have more taken. But I have to make time to pose for photos whose rights do not belong to me, so cannot be used to replace my stock. So, after the session that occurred during this novel, I'll probably cut the line on that too. No, nothing wrong with the picture taker; it's just the time, and the fact that my dandruff reserved this occasion to come out in force. I am however conscious of the anomaly of having an attractive young woman taking pictures of a middle-aged man; s.e.xist that I am supposed to be, I feel it should be the other way around.

While we're on the subject of evil, there is the matter of reviews. These seem to vary inversely with a writer's success, and I am getting the brunt of it now. Some of it is the arrogance of ignorance. One fan reviewer berated me for publishing a 27,000-word story as a novel. He was talking about Steppe, Steppe, on sale in paperback at this time. That novel is actually 61,000 words long. He also commented on the Incarnations series: #1 was wonderful, #2 was "simply bad," #3 was awkward because "Anthony has always had trouble writing decent female characters." About the Notes he said: "Anthony's are getting longer and longer, and more and more boring and offensive." But the pro reviewers aren't much better. on sale in paperback at this time. That novel is actually 61,000 words long. He also commented on the Incarnations series: #1 was wonderful, #2 was "simply bad," #3 was awkward because "Anthony has always had trouble writing decent female characters." About the Notes he said: "Anthony's are getting longer and longer, and more and more boring and offensive." But the pro reviewers aren't much better. Publishers Weekly Publishers Weekly remarked on Incarnations #3: "...The novel comes alive only at its start (set in a charming, early 20th century America, where magic has equal footing with science) and in its afterword-Anthony's cranky, contentious and revealing author's note." The setting, of course, was Ireland; you will have to make your own judgment about the Author's Note. On #4 it said: "...In fact, most of this weak entry in the series is concerned with finding a proper mate for the hapless Mym. As before, though, the liveliest part of the book is the author's note, a 30 page open letter to his fans in which Anthony feels free to be cantankerous, boastful, whimsical and self-revealing." Well, remarked on Incarnations #3: "...The novel comes alive only at its start (set in a charming, early 20th century America, where magic has equal footing with science) and in its afterword-Anthony's cranky, contentious and revealing author's note." The setting, of course, was Ireland; you will have to make your own judgment about the Author's Note. On #4 it said: "...In fact, most of this weak entry in the series is concerned with finding a proper mate for the hapless Mym. As before, though, the liveliest part of the book is the author's note, a 30 page open letter to his fans in which Anthony feels free to be cantankerous, boastful, whimsical and self-revealing." Well, PW, PW, here's another! These are actually relatively mild; reviewers get savage about my s.p.a.ce Tyrant series, and I believe I got my first "killer review" on here's another! These are actually relatively mild; reviewers get savage about my s.p.a.ce Tyrant series, and I believe I got my first "killer review" on Ghost. Ghost. At least it gives us a notion where Satan's mouthpieces are. I like Danielle Steel's comment: "A bad review is like baking a cake with all the best ingredients, and having someone sit on it." I have this mental picture of grouchy people walking around with squashed cake crumbling off their backsides. They might feel better if they tried appreciating the cake for what it was, rather than being asinine. At least it gives us a notion where Satan's mouthpieces are. I like Danielle Steel's comment: "A bad review is like baking a cake with all the best ingredients, and having someone sit on it." I have this mental picture of grouchy people walking around with squashed cake crumbling off their backsides. They might feel better if they tried appreciating the cake for what it was, rather than being asinine.

It goes on and on. We agreed to sell some small oak trees to a nursery, as those trees will have a hard time here as our pine trees crowd them out; they should be happier in individual lots. Then a second nurseryman asked. Then the first said the second was tearing up our property-and indeed, I found that he had destroyed twice as many young pines as he had taken oaks. Sigh; the simplest and most seemingly right things become complicated. I learned of the trouble a small press had with its special edition of the first novel in this series: it invested in printing and cover, then the distributor had a change in personnel and pulled the rug out. They sent me the beautiful color-separation version of the cover; the original had somehow been destroyed. Another small press, setting up for another of my novels, got illness in the family, and an IRS audit. My American literary agent came down with strep throat and was too hoa.r.s.e to speak; he does most of his business by phone. My British agent sent a large check, and the bank that translated it from to $ deleted the information about the exchange rate used; when I looked it up, I found that they had apparently shorted me by $800. I can't even update my accounts until I get that straight; just figuring it out cost me about 500 worth of my time on a 1200 entry. I heard from a beginning writer whose story was in a volume that was squelched by the prospective publisher before publication; she was warned that she would be blacklisted if she talked about the circ.u.mstances. Satan was not only working me over, he was working over anyone who a.s.sociated with me! But perhaps I can do something about that last; I was blacklisted myself, in earlier days, for challenging similar dealings, and I remain militant. I mean, if the wrongdoers can win by blacklisting the innocent parties, what kind of a genre do we have? I find it hard to believe that I am the only person who objects, though that did seem to be the case before. I do sometimes get the impression that G.o.d is sleeping at the helm. Speaking of which: this was also the period in which the scandal dubbed the Reagan Watergate broke. It seems that no level is immune.

And so another novel and another year draw to a close, each with its highs and lows and ironies. Though I complain (reviewers call it bragging) about the volume of mail I receive, because it costs me the time to write approximately one more novel a year, I do appreciate the tremendous affinity and support my readers give me. Each letter is a little window into another life, and I only regret that so many of those lives are desperate ones. As the second Ligeia says: "It's as if the whole world is moving to the key of C and I'm somewhere in B flat." I have news for you, honey: the whole world is in B flat, but thinks that all the rest is in C. It is an illusion Satan has fostered, and we lack the wit to dispel it. But do not give up hope; things are changing all the time, and this too may pa.s.s.

One correspondent expressed dismay because he could not tell when my Notes were written and asked me to date them. Very well; this one is complete DisMember 27, 1986. I still have perhaps a week of editing and printing to go, and it may be two years before the novel sees publication, but this is now. I wish all of you a harpy new year!