Faun and Games (72 page)

coming to like them, and especially the ergonomic keyboard, which looks

like a Salvador Dali painting.
 
The programs were the least

user-friendly to learn, compared to CP/M and DOS and many applications

thereon, but the most powerful.
 
I remain irritated that I can no longer

use the number-pad "Enter" key to do my Saves, and that the keyboard

cursor, renamed the vaguely obscene "Insertion Point," is almost

invisible and can't be made into a visible square as in DOS, and that

there is no ongoing indication which files are Saved or Unsaved (you

have to do a special check on each, which Unsaves it; only an idiot

would set it up that way, but other features are beautiful, such as the

Auto-Correct that fixes things as I type; TrueType that enables me to

ensure that it will print exactly as it looks on-screen, with a wide

variety of fonts; and the range of views and colors and sizes I can have

on-screen for convenience.
 
So now I have green Courier New 12 print on

a brown background for my novel text, and yellow Times New Roman 10

print for related notes, so I know instantly what text I'm in. Revisions

stand out in cyan, and deletions in purple.
 
I made a 42 keystroke macro

that splits the screen, puts postage stamp sized images of my pages in

the upper pane, and 140% size type in the lower pane, so I can see the

whole page format at the same time as reading the comfortable magnified

print, with alternate views on tap when I want them.
 
Ain't magic

wonderful!

Some years back I had a problem with my tongue: it got sore when it

touched one place in my mouth.
 
A host of specialists could not fix the

problem.
 
I remember one: he listened carefully to my description, then

checked it by pulling my tongue about a foot from my face and poking his

finger two inches through the bottom of my mouth.
 
Okay, so this is a

subjective impression; still, it gives me a notion how a horse feels

when the vet grabs its tongue.
 
I think my dentist thought the problem

was elsewhere in my head, but he made me a stint to protect my tongue

from that place, and it works.
 
I still use it.
 
Once I was at a party,

and it came out when I was eating, so I put it on the napkin; then my

wife threw the napkin away.
 
No, it was an accident; she went and fished

through the garbage until she recovered it.
 
And, yes, I did wash it

before I put it back in my mouth.
 
I do keep my mouth clean, whatever

critics may think; I brush my teeth carefully three times a day, use a

special little brush shaped like a Christmas tree once a day, and toss

once a week.
 
I also watch my diet, staying generally clear of sweets

and alcohol, and of course I am a vegetarian.
 
Yet still my gums recede,

making my teeth sensitive and at risk for decay.
 
During this novel it

got worse; my gum was festering in one place and the tooth and bone

structure were deteriorating.
 
What was the matter?
 
So my dentist sent

me to a periodontist, who discovered that it was a specific problem in

an otherwise healthy mouth: one root of a root canal job had gotten

unsealed, and infection had weaseled in. So he in turn is sending me on

to an endodontist, to see if it can be repaired.
 
It seems it's easier

to do a root canal than to repair a bad one.
 
Thus my continuing

adventures in dentistry, strictly of the mundane kind.

I also exercise.
 
For over a decade I ran three miles cross country,

three times a week, but finally the sand-spurs (Florida's version of

curse-burrs), sugar sand, thorny blackberry bushes, biting flies, and

vicissitudes of weather got to me, and I moved it indoors.
 
I used a

stationary cycle with connected handles to exercise the arms as well as

the legs, and I read publications like Liberal Opinion Week and New

Scientist and several health newsletters while doing so, so it didn't

get dull.
 
But those machines wear out or break down, and it happened

again during this novel.
 
This time we bought a self-powered treadmill

with arm handles.
 
But how could I read?
 
So we bought a music stand to

hold the magazines, but it was too short.
 
So we set it up on a stool

with a square of plywood on top, but then it was too far away.
 
So my

wife brought out her needlework stretcher frame stand, which is a weird

multi-jointed wooden device, and clamped it below the top section of the

music stand.
 
It was unbalanced, so we put a small roll of fence wire on

its feet to stabilize it.
 
And it worked!

Now I can read again while exercising.
 
All it takes is a treadmill,

stool, plywood, fence wire, needlework apparatus, music stand, and a

magazine.

In other respects, life had some unusual aspects.
 
The hottest year on

record, 1995, was followed by our coldest winter in some time. As I

finished the novel, the Comet Hyakutake passed; my wife and I went out

at odd hours of the night to try to outsmart the ornery trees and clouds

and moon so as to catch a glimpse of it.
 
I mean, if the brightest comet

in five centuries comes to celebrate the completion of my novel, the

least I can do is look at it.

Folk also ask about Jenny, my paralyzed correspondent who had

been hit at age twelve by a drunk driver, as described in Letters to

Jenny.
 
I still write to her every week.
 
At this writing she's

nineteen, and still mostly paralyzed, but she can say several words in

one breath, can walk several steps when buttressed by leg braces and a

wraparound walker, and uses a computer to facilitate communication. She

hopes to go to college, if it can be arranged.
 
But her life is

complicated by continuing bouts of jaw surgery and the need for constant

attendance.
 
All because one drunk just couldn't wait for schoolchildren

with the right of way to get out of his way.

At this time I also read a book, Robert A.
 
Heinlein's Grumbles from the

Grave.
 
Heinlein was arguably the science fiction genre's greatest

writer.
 
It's a collection of his letters, mostly to his literary agent

Lurton Blassingame, who was also my agent, describing his reactions to

idiot editing, critics who pretended to know what was in his mind, the

demands of fans who thought he should drop everything and give them his

full time, requests for attendance at numerous functions, his travels,

and thoughts on life.
 
I relate to it very well, having encountered the

same problems.
 
It's as if other folk believe that a writer's novels

spring full-blown from the head of Zeus, requiring no effort, so that

the writer's time has no value.
 
One reader angrily stopped reading my

novels when he learned that I normally work from 9 A.M.
 
to 8 P.m.,

seven days a week, catching up on reading during meals and exercise,

always behind on the mail and whatever else is demanding my attention. I

love writing, but it has been decades since I had actual free time; the

mail has taken all of it away.
 
I simply do the things I need to do, and

try to catch up after.

But that mail has its rewards.
 
I have been credited with saving a

number of lives, simply by responding to those who are suicidally

depressive, and with teaching a number of children the joys of reading,

because they found my funny fantasy the first interesting books. I have

grown because of what I have learned from my readers.
 
It is also clear

that I will never run out of ideas; my readers are eager to share theirs

with me.

Here, at any rate, is the list of credits for this novel, roughly in

order of appearance.
 
One of them I am unable to credit, because it

dates from a decade or so back and I no longer have the correspondence,

but it still deserves a mention.
 
It was a letter from a girl in the

neighborhood of twelve who sent me a picture of her ideal planet for a

fantasy setting: a triangle.
 
I pointed out that probably it wasn't

flat, but three dimensional, like a pyramid with four triangular faces,

and she agreed.
 
That was it; she has since disappeared into adulthood,

I'm sure.
 
But the notion remained, and finally I decided to use it.
 
So

if by chance that vanished girl is still reading Xanth, this is my

credit for the notion.
 
Thank you for Pyramid.

Shorter shrift to the others, though they are similarly deserving: Kara

0ke-Sarah P.
 
Bennett.
 
Gladiolas, horse radishes, Ray D 0, Alpha

Centauri, Attila the Pun-Katie Leonard.
 
ComPassion-Gordon Johnson.

Compatible female computer for Com Pewter; Cathyrn Centaur, with talent

of blankets-Karla Sussman.
 
Pewter chipsDana Bates, Gregory Masseau,

Andrew Graff.
 
Cereal port for the mouse-Thomas-Dwight, Sawyer, Dorr.

Demoness Sire, Deanna Fauna-Sarah Curran.
 
Doughnut-Nicole R.
 
Fuller.

Psychologist shrinks folk-Rachel Gutin.
 
Mer-dragon-Thomas Ferguson.

Locomotive, Rave-on, talent of changing things to strawberry jam, talent

of charisma, Ark-hives with books-K.
 
Benjamin Perilstein.
 
Dot, with

spots on wall talent-Eugene Laubert.
 
Talent of frightening folk-Danny

Barton.
 
LA as a name-Chris Seagrave.
 
Air mattresses in the Nameless

Castle-Adam Ross.
 
Kero, winged unicorn-Vickie Roberts.
 
Chemare,

centaur night mare-Lizzy Prosser.
 
Ilura, centaur filly-Ilura Windus.

Imina and Imino Hurry-Rich Frazier.
 
Dear horn, invisible ink pen-Jennie

Metcalf.
 
Vision Centaur, gene-ticPatrick M.
 
Burns.
 
Gallop poll-Misty

Zaebst.
 
Half brother, Glitter Golem-Mandy Owston.
 
Jelly fish; cat

people-Nick Lawton. Sock that punches, jump rope-Lara Petredis and Amy

Baniecki. Bay-bee-Robert Cobb.
 
Polynomial plant with square roots,

turtle recall-Kenneth Cain.
 
Knuckleheads-Carl A Snodgrass.
 
Venetian

blinds-Thomas Sawyer Dorr.
 
See weed-Erin Hoffman. See-an-enemy-Jake

Watters.
 
B's, tactic-Stephen Monteith. Punnsylvania punitentiary-Neil

Ballou.
 
R-tickle bush, head lineAri S.
 
Rapport.
 
Spaghetti plant-Ken