The Caterpillar's Question by Piers Anthony and Philip José Farmer (40 page)

When I taught English at the Admiral Farragut Academy in St. Petersburg, Florida, I read the story to my tenth graders. They liked it, and offered thoughtful comments. I hope that they profited from this examination of an actual piece in the throes of revision; I was trying to teach them meaningful things, as well as the required material. (If you suspect that I am implying a disparagement of the standard material, you are on target; I feel that much of American education is wasted on irrelevancies.)

So I rewrote it, eliminating the fantasy element, and put it in for comment when I attended the 1966 Milford Writer's Conference. There were a number of comments there; I remember Harlan Ellison advising me that women didn't talk the way Tappy's mother did, condemning her crippled child. Damon Knight criticized Tappy's leg brace, thinking it was inconsistent to mention it once as being on her foot and another time as on her leg. Was it on her foot or her leg? he asked. It was on both, of course; apparently he had not seen such a brace. Gordon Dickson had no problem with his critique, but took time out to walk by himself in order to figure out how to present it in such a way that I would not freak out. That sort of thing makes me wonder just how I come across to others, but I appreciated his sensitivity. I don't remember the critique itself, except that it seemed reasonable. So I eliminated Tappy's mother and tightened the story up in various other suggested ways and clarified references. Then I tried it on the market again.

No luck. Knight rejected it in late 1966, and in 1967 so did Good Housekeeping, Playboy (after four years, changed editors might make a difference), Cosmopolitan, Redbook, McCall's, Atlantic, and Mademoiselle. Tappy had now been rejected fifteen times. But I didn't give up; I included the story along with all my other rejected stories in a volume titled Anthonology and tried that on the market in 1970. You guessed it: that, too, was solidly rejected. Later I used the title for a collection of previously published stories, and that was published in 1986, but it's not the same volume unless you count two unsold stories I slipped in. But "Tappuah" was not one of them. She still languished.

Then in late 1986, I believe, I received a proposal from Hank Stein for a round-robin novel titled Lightyears. It was to have ten or twelve established genre writers, each doing one chapter. A number of noted genre figures were interested, such as Poul Anderson, Robert Silverberg, and Philip Jos� Farmer. In fact, this had the potential of being one of the most star-studded genre novels ever. Naturally I agreed to participate. Then, early in 1987, the word came that I was to do the lead-off entry. This surprised me; I had expected to be buried somewhere in the middle. I was of course jammed for time-- this is a chronic condition with me, perhaps typical of workaholics. How could I start a novel which others would finish, and do it rapidly and well?

Then I thought of Tappy. I reasoned that to achieve bestseller status, this volume should at least start in the contemporary mainstream. Later it would get into the deep space, alien monsters, universe-destroying elements, but it needed to have one or two main characters with whom the average mainstream reader could identify. I remembered how The Wizard of Oz started with an ordinary Kansas girl, then got into full-scale fantasy, and was successful. My story of Tappy fit the criterion. Also, and by no means incidentally, I very much wanted Tappy to have her place in the sun. My characters are real to me, and I hurt when they hurt; I did not want to allow Tappy to be as brutally treated by the market as she had been by her folks.

So I adapted the story in two ways. First I changed it from first person, Jack's viewpoint, to third person. This was because I did not think it was fair to lock other writers into the first person mode. I regretted the necessity, because there was a certain cadence in first person that third person lacked. Such as the line "My mind meanders when I paint." That has a poetic beat and alliteration--"His mind meandered when he painted" just doesn't do it. I do write for sound as well as sight; when I edit my material, I often read it aloud. But it had to be. Second, I added back in some hints of the fantastic, so as to give following writers something to work from. I made it evident that there was more to Tappy than her mundane existence.

I turned it in to the editor, and he loved it. In due course I was paid for it. I had succeeded in finding a place for Tappy. The second chapter was written by Phil Farmer, and the following chapters by other writers.

But there were problems, and the project foundered. Oh, no! Once again Tappy was cast into the street.

Then Charles Platt, who had been editorially involved with the project, made a suggestion: suppose I worked with Phil Farmer, taking our first two chapters and continuing as a two-writer collaboration? That way we could eliminate the major problem of the first attempt, which was such a diversity of styles and directions that there came a point when no other writers would tackle the later chapters. The notion appealed to me, for three reasons. First, I don't like to have anything I start go unfinished; I'm ornery and don't quit readily, as you may have gathered. Second, I have admired Phil Farmer's work since seeing his 1952 novel The Lovers; I am not alone in regarding it as a classic of the genre. That's by no means the only significant writing he has done; I believe it is fair to say that he is regarded as one of the outstanding figures of the genre. (In case you are curious, the consensus of the critical establishment seems to be that I am pedestrian in style and theme, and not a credit to the genre. It has been suggested that I owe my commercial success to the fact that my pseudonym begins with the letter "A.") I have done seventeen collaborative novels, but never with a writer of Phil's stature. I was eager for this chance to work with him. Third, I wanted to save Tappy, and this was a way.

But there were complications. The rights to the material in the Lightyears project were not clear. I finally clarified them the hard way: I bought the project and returned the rights of the entries to the authors. Phil Farmer and I had different literary agents. I settled that with the finesse and politeness for which I somehow seem not to be known: My agent will handle it, I said, refusing to negotiate. I had reasons which made sense to me, and Phil, being a nicer person than I am, yielded gracefully.

We moved on with it, at first alternating chapters, then--well, if you can tell who wrote what, more power to you, but you're probably wrong. Our styles and notions meshed nicely, and I think we have a good book. It was of course impossible to have it absolutely smooth, because each of us had to read the other's latest chapter before deciding where to proceed. This is the first collaboration I have done this way, and I suspect it's not the best way. But it was set by its genesis; we had alternated at the beginning, so we continued.

There is a round-robin story game, done either verbally or in writing, in which each participant tells a segment of the story, setting it up for the next one. Person A may have Boy meets Girl, but as they are indulging in their first kiss, the barricade at the edge of Lover's Leap gives way and they plunge down a thousand-foot cliff. Now it is Person B's turn. He establishes that there is a deep lake at the base, somehow not mentioned before. The lovers plunge in, bob to the surface, finally break their kiss, and realize that something is amiss. So they swim to shore, but are in a strange region uninhabited by man. They make a fire and dry their clothing, then spend the night, preparing for an arduous trek in the morning. But great eyes loom out of the darkness, and an enormous hand reaches down to pick them up, screaming. Oops--it's Person C's turn. And so on, in a gentle contest to see who can mess up whom the worst.

Naturally professionals such as Anthony and Farmer would not stoop to such one-upmanship. Or would they? Well, maybe on a subtler level. We had a mutual interest in having a good novel, because we were not doing this for our health. Amateurs may write just for fun, but professionals write for money. Fun, too, but the professional who does not keep an eye on commercial prospects does not remain professional long. So we tended to be conservative, making sure there was a reasonable continuation. When each of us forwarded his latest chapter to the other, he also sent a few notes indicating what he had in mind and where he thought it might proceed, and what baffled him. Thus, had I been the one to drop my lovers off the cliff, I would have indicated that there indeed was water below, while allowing my collaborator the option of having them go splat on the rocky shore instead if he preferred. As with chess: you don't just wipe your opponent's king off the board, you announce your intention by saying "Check" and giving him a turn to respond. Not that this was any contest; we were going to win or lose together, by the success or failure of the final novel.

Still, there was a current. I hoped that Phil would make contributions with the imagination and vigor of The Lovers or one of his "Mother" stories, or maybe like The Night of Light, in which good wars with evil in a religious setting and at one point the Boy cracks the Girl's head open and a snake jumps out from the shell of the skull. What he hoped for from me I'm not sure; perhaps that I just manage not to drop the ball before scoring. So I did set him up with some brinks to hurdle (or whatever) which he neatly finessed and tossed back to me. Meanwhile, it seems to me that our approaches melded nicely, so that there really wasn't much jerkiness in the progress of the story. That's one reason I prefer to be slightly ambiguous on exactly who wrote what: so that armchair critics can't say, "It's plain that we had one superior writer and one hack; the Farmer chapters are outstanding. Too bad he didn't have a better collaborator." They are going to have to figure it out without merely checking off every second chapter. (If you get the impression that I don't have any more respect for critics than they have for me, you're two for two.)

We brought the novel to the halfway point, and my agent marketed it. It was just in time for what appears to have been the worst slump in novels sales and prices in a decade or two. This is the inevitable luck of writers. Nevertheless two or three publishers were interested, and we finally landed a satisfactory contract. Now all we had to do was complete the novel.

I mentioned the luck of writers. Well, about the time we were heading into the home stretch, Phil Farmer's wife, Bette, had to have surgery. They went from Illinois to California for two weeks to take care of it. Right: it took longer than anticipated, and Phil was stuck for months without his notes, prior text, or computer as the deadline loomed. He had to write out his material longhand and type it manually. I'd hate to see the color of the air around his working place while he commented on the situation! So he summarized what he had written for me, so that I could start my section without waiting to receive his. In this manner we moved it along despite his situation.

And so we completed the collaboration. I think its full history is unusual, even for a genre in which the unusual predominates. The result will be for you, the reader, to judge.

Meanwhile, anyone interested in a source for my other titles or newsletter may call my "troll-free" number, 1- 800 HI PIERS. (e-book note: this phone number is no longer valid. For similar information try the official web site at http://www.hipiers.com instead.)

PHILIP JOS� FARMER

My first collaboration was thirty-eight years ago. Up until recently, it was my only one. That is, it's been that long since I wrote a story in partnership with a real person. I have collaborated with some fictional writers derived from one of my schizophrenic personae. The last one, I think, was with Leo Queequeg Tincrowdor. But that's another story.

Other than Piers Anthony, my only partner in the felonious deed of writing fiction was Randall Garrett. If humankind has North and South Poles, Randall was the South and Piers is the North. Or vice versa. I'm somewhere between the two, a sort of Equator. Or perhaps the Tropic of Capricorn.

Inherently a loner, I've never thought, "Hey, I feel like collaborating with someone!" When I did, I did so because someone asked me to do it and it seemed like a good idea at the time. Randall Garrett was residing with my family and me in 1953 when he talked me into writing a novel, The Ballad of Hilary Boone, with him. This was based on a poem which Charlie Tanner had written. Charlie was an old-time science-fiction author whose heyday was in the Gernsback era. His "Tumithak of the Corridors" delighted me when it came out in Amazing Stories in 1932. It's still a good read. He was also a master at composing satirical poems based on s-f motifs.

Hilary Boone, hero of Charlie Tanner's song, "The Ballad of Hilary Boone," was a space pirate who fought--I think--the evil empire of Earth. Or maybe it was some vast monopolistic business corporation. I can't recall the details. One day, while Randall was singing the ballad and both of us had had too much beer (we couldn't afford Wild Turkey in those days), he suddenly broke off and said, "It'd be a great idea if we'd write a novel based on Charlie's song!"

So, we did. In those hoary old days, stories about space pirates and individuals building their own rockets were believed by the readers and purchased by editors. Most of them, anyway. And Randall and I were naive enough to believe in space pirates. Randall would write one chapter, and I'd write the next. So, without really knowing where we were going except for the story outlined in the ballad, we launched into the collaboration. I don't think our styles or approaches melded too well, but we did have a good old-fashioned rousing story. We sold it to Startling Stories magazine, which intended to publish it as a serial. If I remember correctly, it would have been the first serial ever in Startling Stories.

We got paid. But the magazine, which had been around for years, suddenly folded. The novel was returned to us. We sent it to a new agent I had just started with. Then she died, and the manuscript was lost. It might yet be floating somewhere out there, or it might be lost forever. Probably the latter.

It was fun, but it was no classic. In fact, it's probably better that it was never published. Randall and I wrote at a breakneck pace. However, I still hope that it will turn up. I might rewrite it and send it out again. Until Piers suggested that we coauthor the work at hand, I politely turned down the requests of various people (not many) that I collaborate with them. In his Author's Note, Piers has told you somewhat of the circumstances of the round-robin writing of the novel. That procedure failed because those who followed us tended to go off in directions too wild. They also did not develop the ideas Piers and I had planted in the first two sections. Thus, when he suggested that we do it as a twain, I was enthusiastic.