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; sexist 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, 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 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, here's another! These are actually relatively mild; reviewers get savage about my Space Tyrant series, and I believe I got my first "killer review" on 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.
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 hoarse 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 circumstances. Satan was not only working me over, he was working over anyone who associated 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 God 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 pass.
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!
Piers Anthony, For Love of Evil
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