I wrote the first novel in this series, Virtual Mode, in 1990, and in the two following years completed the sequels Fractal Mode and Chaos Mode. My literary agent got me a very good contract, but—well, when we called a bookstore to inquire how the hardcover edition of Virtual Mode was selling a month after publication, the man said, "You mean that's in print? Why didn't they tell me? I've been waiting for it." It seems the book salesman for that area hadn't even made his rounds that month, and rather than clean up that act, the publisher simply cut the print order. It had to rush back to press twice in the month of publication, because of demand as readers discovered the book, but of course had forfeited the real chance the novel had had to make the bestseller lists. Since publishers typically limit the print order for the following novel to the early sales of the first one, it virtually guarantees that each will do worse in hardcover. Paperback printings tend to be a function of the hardcover printings, so this series was doomed, and folded after the third novel. Ever since, readers have been asking where the next novel is. I have had to tell them that a series that has readers but not a publisher has little chance. There was no point in writing a novel I couldn't get published. I hate having the corporate bottom line be in charge of the arts; as I like to put it, the money changers have taken over the temple. But this is reality, and not just in novels.
Then came the Internet. Because I do feel that readers should have some say in what is made available for them, and I also feel that the myriad hopeful writers who are essentially shut out of the system because there is room for only one in a hundred novels written should have their chance. So though at this writing I haven't been on the Internet myself—just email, which I learned while writing this novel—I have supported Internet publishing. In fact, I invested in two Internet publishers, Xlibris.com and Pulpless.com, and gave each one of my novels: my World War II historical Volk and the science fiction Realty Check. Whether these publishers will be successful I don't know at this writing, but at least I have done what I can to make it possible. Xlibris enables any writer to self-publish for a nominal fee, which is different from the notorious vanity publishing, where hopeful writers get taken for huge amounts. Pulpless is trying to "sell" its books to readers free, supported instead by advertising, in the manner of so much of the Internet. Both publishers produce physical copies identical to those of regular publishers. This is the sort of thing that I hope will open up publishing, and enable writers to have a better shot at realizing their dreams. I think that regular commercial publishing should continue, but that there should be this alternative for those who need it—which means the great majority of hopeful writers.
(Note: In the interval between the writing and the publishing of this novel, much changed. Pulpless.com folded, and Xlibris became Global Publishing Service. I developed an ongoing Internet publishing survey at my site, www.hipiers.com and also have a bimonthly column there.)
So while I was writing this novel, my involvement in Internet publishing became significant. If this novel does not find a regular publisher, it well may go to one of these Internet publishers. You, the reader, have the benefit of seeing the future in a way I can't: check the title page to see what kind of publishing this novel achieved.
Otherwise, my life while writing this novel has been routine. I started it in Dismember after catching up on jobs such as reviewing thirty years of writing accounts and updating my accounts database: what a chore. I also clipped back the foliage and pulled down long grapevines encroaching on our three-quarter-mile-long drive, in the process twisting my left knee so that I limped for three days. Those grapevines do fight back. The Christmas season also slowed things; think how much more efficient life would be if there were no holidays. Then in Jamboree I went to autograph copies of Dream a Little Dream with my lovely collaborator Julie Brady, who has also contributed to this novel. In FeBlueberry our new 450 MHz Pentium II computer system arrived, with a scanner so we could start scanning my old novels into the system for Internet republication. Naturally the system fought us at every step, and at this writing still refuses to recognize the scanner. It is evident that the computer industry has little concern for the convenience or welfare or peace of mind of those who try to use the infernal machines. In Marsh we did manage to get the system grudgingly performing on email, and I learned how to receive and send such letters. In Apull I expect to start cruising the Internet; I have read three good books on the subject and believe I can do it without making too much smoke pour out of the system. So in my time of writing this novel, I have come to the very verge of the Internet, and that I think is significant. It means I am lagging behind much of the rest of the world by less than a decade.
My wife and I and our dog Obsidian live on our tree farm. Six days a week the dog gets to ride in the car with my wife to fetch in the mail, and she loves that. Sundays I take Obsidian for a walk through the tree farm; she loves that too. Have you any idea how much there is to smell in a forest? On the day I wrote most of this Author's Note, we followed the path I have cleared from the house to the lake—our property is a peninsula in the marsh, shaped rather like Florida—around to the pines, and across one of our myriad sink holes. My wife was nervous about our excursion, because there are feral pigs in the neighborhood. They can get to be several hundred pounds, and the boars can have tusks and attitudes. But this day we saw no fresh signs of pigs, which was a relief. I may buy a spear—no joke—to carry in the forest, to fend off a boar if I have to. I'm a vegetarian, because I don't want to hurt animals, but that does not mean I want any animals to hurt me. The pigs chew things up so badly that we fear other wildlife will suffer, and we do regard this property as a wildlife sanctuary. So our neighbors have our permission to catch and kill any pigs they spy; they're not vegetarians. Thus an innocent dog walk in the forest begins to assume ethical complications. Life at times seems barely simpler than computers.
I now use two bicycles, which I alternate for trips out to fetch the newspapers or close the gate. One I call the AweCycle, because I bought it at Awesome Cycles. It is a recumbent bicycle, which feels like a moving deck chair with a big wheel behind and a little wheel far in front. It took me a while to learn to keep my balance on it, because the reflexes for a regular bicycle don't match those for a recumbent, but it's a nice machine. Nevertheless, I sometimes take a spill; my last one occurred on Ogre Drive when a tire skidded in sand and I couldn't correct course because sand destabilized the bike, then a tree was in the way, and then the wheels skidded on leaves, dumping me. No damage done except that I sprung my left knee. That knee just seems to be the one to get it. My other cycle is the RowBike, which is propelled by emulation oars. It was developed by the same man who invented the inline roller skate. It's actually a traveling exercise machine, but I use it just for traveling. That one took me about six months to get used to, and I had my spills, but now I like it well. During this novel a part broke; I phoned to order a replacement, and they said there was a lifetime warranty and sent it to me free. That's an attitude I like.
I exercise regularly, mainly by jogging and with dumbbells and by archery. I have two bows, one a compound bow set at a sixty-pound draw weight, meaning that my arms must be able to pull that hard. The other is a left-handed reverse curve bow I bought from an obliging reader in Kiss-Mee. Twice a week I shoot arrows at a target, right handed and left handed so as to exercise evenly, and the other days I simply draw the bowstring twenty times without firing any arrows. Thus I combine exercise with fun, and possible self-defense if it ever came to that. My aim has gradually improved so that now I seldom miss the target at fifty or one hundred feet. That saves having to use my metal detector to locate lost arrows. So I hope to stay healthy a while yet, even if I do keep injuring my knee.
Actually my mouth is my other weakness. I know, I know: my critics are falling over themselves to agree, this one time. But what I mean is that I have had enough work done on my teeth over the years to finance a college education: sixteen onlays, and I think nine root
canals, and some oral surgery. I take good care of my mouth, but this mischief seems to be genetic. A tooth was bothering me, so finally I went to have it checked: sure enough, it was another thousand-dollar item. Decay had started in below the filled root canal. So while editing this novel I had my second apicoectomy. Specifically, the endodontist cut open the gum, cut off the tooth root, filled in the affected area, and sewed the gum back into place. So for a couple of days while editing I was on soft foods, took a few pain pills, and had the right jowl of a dour Scotsman, until the swelling subsided. Anyone who wants some advice about what to avoid should bear this in mind: stay clear of decay below the tooth roots.
In this period also my father was declining. My mother died in 1991, the time of the original Mode novels, and that was an ugly surprise that caused me to pay closer attention. Thus I have had a monetary and social involvement with my father, who is at this writing just shy of his ninetieth birthday. I have found aspects to be both expensive and emotionally painful as his capacities diminish, not least in their possible foreshadowing of my own future decline. This is of course what most adult children encounter as the eldest generation passes, but that does not make my turn comfortable.
Let's conclude on a small positive note: in the period of this novel we planted one of the fringe trees that were given out locally free; for almost three months it sat there like a dead stem, but then suddenly sprouted and is growing rapidly. I also spied a small hanging nest in the little magnolia tree I stopped the bulldozer from razing a dozen years ago; now it's a medium-sized tree, doing well, and the nest appears to be that of a white-eyed vireo. We see the tip of her beak as we pass, as she sits on her egg. So the tree I saved is helping to bring forth new life.
Several people contributed to this novel. Colene, of course, was derived from a melange of suicidally depressive girls I heard from over the years, but she quickly enough assumed her own identity. As I have done in the prior volumes, I'll list them alphabetically by first names, and not identify what they contributed, with one exception. This is because some of the material is sensitively personal in nature. Most of it I invented, but not all. Some derives from material in Virtual Mode.
Adam Boenig—the microscopic energy creatures
Anne Valley
Julie Brady
Robyn Johnson
And so at last the Mode series is complete. I will be moving on to other projects, wrapping things up as I move into the final segment of my life.
Piers Anthony, DoOon Mode
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