With a Tangled Skein (50 page)

I do try to keep up with my mail, but after doing 702 letters last year-yes, I remain a compulsive counter-I see the handwriting in the figurative bruises my head makes against the wall, and suspect that my performance in this respect will turn the tide and begin to ebb, as with my exercises. They aren't all simple notes, either; I have to try to make meaningful responses to those who wish to become instant successful writers-if I had known how to do that, I could have saved myself eight years!-or who ply me with complex lists of questions for their research papers, or try to convert me to Jesus (I came to know Jesus when I put him in Tarot as a character, but I don't think that's what they mean), or who are contemplating suicide. This is no joke; there are some very real problems out there, and I do not feel competent to address them-yet I have to try, because these folk really do want my input, such as it is. I remind myself that it is much better to be relating to my readers than to be emotionally alone.

If Fate is the plot of life, then feeling must be its content. To be known, to be needed, to be loved-this may be the true problem of our society. We see people turning to alcohol, to mind- and mood-affecting drugs, to gambling, to casual sex both hetero and homo, to violence, to cults, to self-destructive behavior, when these may be but poor sublimations for the recognition, interaction, security and love they truly crave. Isn't it an awful irony that some of us must even turn to fantasy to glean some semblance of the companionship we are denied in mundane existence, and we cannot even cry "Eileen"! We suffer all manner of compulsive behavior, in futile reaction to fundamental inadequacies of emotion we do not comprehend.

As I worked on Skein, a woman was gang-raped on a barroom pool table; when the rapists were tried and convicted, women of that community demonstrated in favor of the rapists. Loveless sex pervades the media. Pre-school children are sexually molested by the staff of the nursery-and this is said to be only a hint of the abuse and incest that is not rare but is typical today. Satan's mischief, surely.

Yet there is also joy in the world. Some find their solace in religion, in the belief that God loves them. Some find it in close family ties. I myself have gained some share of the Heaven of a close family life, after emerging from the Hell of the denial of it, but I remain scarred. I don't like to travel, for as a child I found that my travels had no returning. I don't like to leave my family, because I remember how fragile family existence can be. Some regard me as overprotective as a father, but I resolved at the outset that my children would never be exposed to what I was and, after losing three, I know that no life is guaranteed.

I turn down most invitations to be Guest of Honor at conventions, not from any dislike of people or any fear of public appearances-stage fright, like writer's block, I conquered long ago, and I am quite at ease among fans- but simply because there is nowhere I'd rather be than home. I trust that after reading this Note, those who have been disappointed by my relative isolation from the public will understand that there is nothing frivolous in this. It is one of the ways I have come to terms with the problem of my own existence. I hope that what I write helps others come to terms with theirs.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Piers Anthony was born in August 1934, in England, spent a year in Spain, and came to America at age six. He was naturalized American while serving in the U.S. Army in 1958. He lives with his wife Carol and their daughters Penny and Cheryl in Florida. His first story was published in 1963, and his first novel, Chthon, in 1967. Through 1984 he has had forty-eight books published, with translations in eight languages. His first Xanth novel, A Spell for Chameleon, won the August Derleth Fantasy Award as the best novel for 1977. The fifth novel in that series placed on The New York Times bestseller list, and his five following fantasies did likewise. He is currently writing three novels a year, and answering several hundred fan letters a year. His house is hidden deep in the forest, almost impossible to find, and he does his typing in a horse pasture.