How Precious Was That While, page 38
Thus as I face the future, I expect to continue with Xanth, which may have taught more children to read than some teachers have, and which has brought comfort to many who could not find it elsewhere. Critics may condemn funny fantasy on principle; critics can be idiots without principles. And I will continue with projects like GEODYSSEY, exploring the nature and history of my species. And I hope to watch my daughters and readers advance in life, again hoping for the best.
Thus my memories are mixed. I have had a fine career as a writer, but I may have alienated more publishers than any other fantastic genre best-seller. I can count the editors who won’t speak to me. There was Betty Ballantine, who treated me unfairly, as detailed in BiOgre; when I attended the World Fantasy Convention as Guest of Honor I understand that she was there, but I never saw her. For sure, she didn’t want to meet me! Later when Lester del Rey wanted to do destructive cutting of my novels, and I balked, he didn’t speak to me for a year or so, until I left Del Rey Books. When Morrow promised me a best-seller in Tatham Mound, then torpedoed it instead, I knew there was mischief afoot when I couldn’t get the editor on the phone. Editors hide when they know they are doing wrong. When I left Morrow /Avon because of that and took Xanth to TOR, Susan Allison, president of Berkeley/Ace, called me: why hadn’t I taken Xanth to them? I told her that they had already taken one best-seller series, Adept, off the best-seller list, so I wouldn’t let them do it with Xanth. That ended things with her; later when I phoned to tell her about the movie option on Killobyte, a novel they published that could profit handsomely, she was out of the office, and has been out ever since, to any communication of mine. In prior times, when my wife and I were in New York and attended a Putnam/Berkley party, Susan Allison took the whole evening to accompany us, though we did not want such attention; later when my daughter introduced herself at the World Science Fiction Convention in Glasgow, Susan Allison broke off abruptly and left the building. Maybe she thought that I was in the vicinity. And when we made a package deal, five collaborations with Xanth, because no publisher would take one without the other, TOR was free to turn down the deal if it couldn’t stomach the notion of publishing good collaborative novels. Instead they accepted it, then tried to renege on the collaborations, as described in Chapter 8, and editor Beth Meacham has not spoken to me since, and seems to be similarly freezing my agent. I think she had wanted dessert without the vegetables. So I have been frozen out by a number of publishers or editors, but I stand by my position in every case. I never wanted either the extra attention at the height, or the snub at the depth; I reject both extremes as pointless affectation. All I wanted was for the publishers to do their job competently, and to treat writers with businesslike integrity. As it was, their efforts remind me of a scene from the M*A*S*H TV series, wherein instead of doing emergency surgery, the doctor kept showing fancy card tricks to a mortally sick patient, and couldn’t understand why the patient didn’t get better. Why focus on conventions and parties, instead of getting the books made so their pages won’t fall out, and into the stores where the readers can find them? When you think of a publisher, think of a used-car dealer, with the editor as the salesman. Much glitter and flash, but that breed has peculiar definitions of business practice and integrity, and the writer must watch his back. Woe betide the writer who stands up for his rights. When I did so in the early days, I got blacklisted; when I did so in the later days, going to law when I had to, I got the freeze treatment. Most writers don’t have the clout to enforce agreements, so most writers die poor. I started poor and finished rich, but my attitude hasn’t changed. I expect publishers to honor their given word—at the point of a lawsuit, if that’s the only way to make them understand. Too often it is. All their card tricks are as nothing, without competence and integrity.
What of my intellectual horizons? I’m a writer, of course; when I was fifty, I had done fifty novels, and when I was sixty I had published one hundred books, with more in the pipeline. But that’s merely the commercial reflection of my career. What of the personal values behind the prolific writer? This volume surely suggests them, but a more compact summary may be in order. When I went to a convention in Virginia to meet Jenny, Ron Lindahn asked me to write a few words and sign his autograph book. I pondered and put down three words that summarize much of my attitude: Honor, Compassion, Realism. Now I’ll explore what I mean by this triad.
Honor: I believe in honesty, but it is not necessarily easy to apply, as when folk really don’t want the truth. If a woman asks how she looks, she doesn’t want to be told she is fat as a pig; she means are her clothing and hairstyle all right, and is she doing well with what she has. So what is true is not always relevant. Honor, as I see it, is integrity with a moral dimension. It is a whole system of righteousness in life, based on understanding and consistency. Honor does not seek to use the truth to hurt others, but to deal fairly with the larger situation. Honor can keep a secret. Thus when I know a young reader of mine is suicidal, I don’t write to her parents about it, because I regard it as a privileged communication. I try to do what I think is right, and I try my best to understand what is right. That doesn’t mean that I am always right; I do make mistakes. But I constantly try to eliminate the errors in my own thinking, and to home in on the fairest standards. Others have said that I seem very sure of myself, as if that is a disparagement. Actually my certainty is constantly being challenged by my own thinking and observation, and I am adjusting my views in much the way I adjust my course when driving a car, to stay on the proper course. I try to be fair and balanced in my outlook. When I took judo classes I learned that you can’t throw a person who is physically balanced. It’s also hard to throw a person who is mentally balanced. So when others challenge me, I normally respond, refuting them. They assume that I am in error, and I seldom am, because all my life I have striven to eliminate error. But I don’t simply assume that I am right; those who substitute certainty for judgment are very likely wrong. I do my best to understand the opposing position, and sometimes it does prevail. When I interacted with Neil Shulman, an ardent gun advocate, author of Stopping Power, and one-time Internet distributor of Volk, I found some of his arguments persuasive, and I am in the process of shifting my position on guns, from abolition to free access. Because he satisfied me that the Constitution does guarantee the right to keep and bear arms, and that an armed person is less likely to be a victim than an unarmed one. I am disgusted with those who habitually coddle error, like the racists and bigots, lying to cover what they have to know is falsity. When one of them comes at me, I may let him have it, and I prefer to do it in a public forum, so that others can see where the truth lies. I don’t pretend to be sweet or peaceful about it; it is an expressive sword I wield. It isn’t a crusade to eliminate dishonor; that’s impossible, and I normally live and let live. But when dishonor comes at me, I destroy it if I can. Thus I can say almost categorically that when a story circulates about my supposed hypocrisy or cheating or error, it is a lie promulgated by those who know they can’t face me directly and spread by those who ought to know better. In some cases such charges come from folk who seem to resent my efforts to maintain a standard of honor that they lack the gumption to emulate, so they try to pretend that mine is false. I have encountered few who seem to know or care about the nature of honor, but it is an underlying tenet of my fiction and I have heard from young readers who do pick up on it. More power to them. Honor is truly a way of life.
Compassion: human beings are not machines, and should not try to be. I remember a story by another writer—I wish I could remember the title and author-telling of a man in a spaceship who had been injured and was dying. There was a doctor aboard who could have helped the man, but did not. Why? Because the man had not asked for help. But because of his injury, the man was unable to ask for help—and the doctor knew this. So why didn’t the doctor act? Because the doctor was a machine that acted only within its set parameters, and these required that help not be given unless specifically requested. A human doctor would have cut through this folly and saved the victim. But the machine would not. Thus the plaque on that ship: A MACHINE DOES NOT CARE. And there it is. The machine may have an inhuman standard of honor, being incapable of violating its directives. But it doesn’t have compassion. So this is one of the things that separates living creatures from nonliving ones: living ones care. They are sympathetic, and wish to alleviate suffering. It is true that many animals are indifferent to the fate of others, apart from their immediate relatives or associates, but they do have the capacity to care. It is also true that many people are indifferent or even hostile to the welfare of others. But the ideal person, as I see it, does have compassion. It is one of the liberal virtues, in contrast to the me-first, the-hell-with-you conservative credo. This may be limited by practical concerns, but most folk will try to help neighbors in distress, or others who come to their attention. Most people will not be cruel to animals simply because they have the power to hurt. Thus I answer my mail responsively, though it costs me enormously in lost working time and, indeed, in lost relaxation time, because I care about the feelings of my readers. I hold in a certain contempt those writers who don’t care about their readers. Without compassion, how is a person better than a machine?
Realism: I mentioned practical limitations. I wish the whole world could be happy and at peace, with every person achieving his desired destiny. But I know that not only is the world not that way, there is nothing I can do to make it so. I can’t even bring about perfect harmony within my own immediate family. I also would like to meet every person worth meeting, but know that there are many more worthwhile people than I could ever meet, even if I spent my whole life going around doing it. I would like to read every good book, but know that there are many more books available that would genuinely please me and profit me than I can ever catch up on. So I school myself in realism: it is not possible to have it all. And this is a necessary condition of life. A certain tolerance is required, for the things a person can’t do much about, though he may not like them. How can one act with perfect honor, when faced with choices that are imperfect? How can one help every person or creature or tree that needs help, when that person’s resources are woefully inadequate to the challenge? I am constantly deluged with appeals for money or time, and every cause is worthy, and I have lost track of how much I have contributed where, but if I try to oblige them all, I will be broke and worn-out, and still will have made no discernible difference on the global scale. So lines have to be drawn, boundaries made, realizing that only a limited amount can be accomplished. This is why I don’t try to change the whole world: realism gets in the way. So I try to target certain aspects and causes, to understand them, and focus most of my attention and effort on those. Otherwise my money and time and effort may be foolishly expended, or even have a negative impact. My wife and I carefully consider each case, and we have given in six figures to three different educational institutions, and in five figures to other worthy causes, and in lesser figures to individuals, trying to use our money wisely as well as generously. We spend more on others than on ourselves. But the need on every front overwhelms our resources. We have heard of do-gooders who don’t do their homework, so wind up hurting the cause they seek to help. It is best to consider before acting, and to study any prospects, to ascertain how best to approach them. Sometimes a seemingly token effort can have enormous impact. Sometimes enormous effort will be almost unproductive. A person needs to be rational, to view things with a clear eye, and to understand his own purposes and abilities. Without realism, honor and compassion may be wasted.
Honor, Compassion, Realism: these are by no means the only concepts in my philosophy, and I could ponder similarly on Intelligence, Love, and Decency, or on other triads, but these do serve as a convenient framework on which to build. I’m still building. Having by whatever fortune achieved considerable success, I am trying to be worthy of it. It is my hope to leave the world marginally better than I found it, through my efforts: personal, monetary, and literary.
I’ll finish on a related matter. I encountered a simple question, whose answer turned out to be un-simple. “What would it take to make you happy?” I realized quickly that top-of-the-head answers like winning the lottery and becoming a millionaire did not relate; I already have that kind of money. Neither does the pat twofold wish: to be happy, and not to know that this was the result of a wish. If I wanted simply to shut out the world and cater to my own appetites, I could do so. To a degree I am already doing so, as I live in a forest and spend my time doing what I love, writing novels. But I am minded of a story told me by my one-time roommate Ronald Bodkin in high school: a wise man was deploring the hunger and misfortune of the world. A friend said “But you have a good life here; why not ignore the rest and enjoy yourself?” And the wise man replied, “It’s not the kind of happiness I care for.” Indeed it is not; I could not be happy when others are not. I finally broke my answer down into three parts, with three sections in each part, to keep it manageable. The parts are Personal, Interpersonal, and Global. The sections of Personal are: 1) Health, wherein I would be free of my fatigue, depression, bad knees, and any other malady. 2) Success, wherein I would be a bestseller again, writing truly meaningful books, with an oxymoronically perfect publisher, and competent and honest reviews. 3) Knowledge, wherein I could learn and appreciate all the secrets of the universe. The sections of Interpersonal are: 1) Health, wherein my wife would have the body she had at age nineteen and lose her cigarette addiction, and all my correspondents and acquaintances would be similarly well off, including especially Jenny, who was paralyzed by a drunk driver but who would now rise, take up her bed, and walk. 2) Success, wherein all of them achieve their respective delights of whatever nature. 3) Attitude, wherein all of them would know that it was my wish that brought them this good fortune. The sections of Global: are: 1) Society, wherein the social order and economics of all human cultures would be equitable, with decent folk rewarded and indecent folk put away, and there would be no starvation, torture, bad reviews, or otherwise unkind treatment of anyone. 2) Knowledge, wherein the arts and sciences are universally valued and encouraged, so that research continues to make breakthroughs to amaze people, including especially me, and the Perfect Computer Program would be distributed free. 3) Environment, wherein the human population of the world is reduced painlessly (maybe by emigration to other planets) to perhaps a tenth of its present level, disease is eliminated, and the habitats and population of all wild species are restored and extended so that all flourish, and the air, earth, and waters of the world are made clean and whole. I realize that all this is a tall order, unlikely to be fulfilled, and that I am therefore doomed not to be happy. It is nevertheless the kind of unhappiness I care for.
REPRISE
My American grandfather was known as The Mushroom King; he had started growing edible mushrooms in his cellar and built it into a business that made him a millionaire. He didn’t have much formal education, but was a savvy businessman; two weeks before the great stock market crash of 1929 he sold the business. I believe that about half of the mushrooms produced in the United States still come from the region around West Chester, Pennsylvania, where he started it, though now it is split between a number of companies. He married, and his wife died of cancer; he remarried, and she also died. He married a third time, Caroline, and she survived him, living to the age of ninety-nine.
My father, Alfred, was the opposite of rich; he was intellectual. I was told that his mother, my grandfather’s first wife, was in the hospital, and he visited her there. She asked him to go out and read the words at the entry to her ward, and he did. They were in Latin, and he didn’t understand them, but he described them to her as well as he could. She thanked him. Next day she was dead. She seemed to have given up the struggle to live. He always felt guilty, because the words he had conveyed to her identified the ward: it was for incurables. He had given his mother the news that destroyed her hope. He went to England, to continue his education where they took it more seriously than they did in America. He was to graduate from Oxford University, but that isn’t my immediate concern. He met a British girl, Joyce, and really liked her. But when summer passed, and a new semester started, she wasn’t there. She had caught a fever, maybe typhoid fever, maybe from polluted water when she went camping, and died. He was never to get over that. Again he had been cursed by death. Indeed, I know of only one person who ponders death as much as I do: my father. Later he met another British girl, Norma, who graduated from Oxford with top honors, and she was the one he married. He sent my grandfather a newspaper clipping reporting the marriage: that was the extent of his announcement. Later they both went on to earn Ph.D.s. The relationship didn’t work out, but in the course of their marriage my sister and I were born. I arrived in AwGhost 1934, and Teresa in OctOgre 1935. Bear with me on the oddly spelled months; I was later to make my fortune in funny fantasy, and I renamed the months accordingly. There are oddities about me that I will try to explain here; I’m not normal, and I relate well to other abnormals. For now it is enough to know that everyone in my immediate family was academically gifted except me. I was the dunce who made up for it all, pulling the average down.
I think we children were something of an afterthought, because our parents did not seem to be unduly interested in us. Instead they went to Spain to do relief work with the British Friends Service Committee, feeding starving children. They were members of the Religious Society of Friends, more popularly known as Quakers, and the Quakers are known for silent meetings for worship, good business practice, integrity, and good works. This was among the latter. In 1936 the Spanish Civil War started, a kind of prelude to World War II, wherein Spain’s own military fought to take over the country from the civilians. In three years it was successful, but it was hell on the children. So my parents were helping to keep those devastated children alive, by importing food and milk and feeding them on a regular basis. It was worthy work, and I don’t fault it, but there was a personal cost.
