Letters to Jenny (27 page)

NoRemember 3, 1989

Dear Jenny
,

I just got off the phone with your mother, and she says she finally told you something, I forget what, and—what’s that? Well, how do you expect me to remember everything your mother says? Something about her jawbone growing back the wrong way, and—that’s not it? I think she also said I needn’t bother to write you a letter next week. Oh, are you getting tired of them? Well, I can’t think what else— OUCH! Why did you run your wheelchair over my foot?!

Oh, that’s right, now I remember: we’ll finally get to meet! I’m going to Sci-Con 11, and by an odd coincidence you’re going there too (I’m sure they’ll let us in, even if we’re not 11), and we can meet all the artists. They already have me jammed in with things, like autographing at Waldenbooks Saturday morning, so I probably won’t see you when you arrive, but Saturday afternoon will be open. I will want to talk to you, and sing you a song, and hold your hand—you mean you thought that was an empty threat? Ha! You’ll have just a few hours to do the whole convention, thanks to that man your mother is running the submarine over. But you should find it interesting. Then on Sunday I’ll visit you at the hospital, so I can read “Tappy” to you (provided you’re still 13), and to Kathy also if she’s interested. I gather she graduated to another ward, but you still keep in touch.

Meanwhile, it’s the usual mouse-race here. A college magazine wanted to interview me, and by the time the publisher forwarded their request, it was a day past their deadline, so I phoned them, and they interviewed me by phone from 9 to 10 last night. About the only other thing of note was a good review in PUBLISHERS WEEKLY. No, that was astonishing; they
never
give me good reviews, only thinly veiled sneers. Must be a new reviewer who didn’t get the word, and he’ll be fired when the chief editor finds out. I mailed out the copies of
Tatham Mound
, and now I’m typing
Orc’s Opal
—except that 22 letters piled in yesterday, after I answered 160 last month, and 10 more today. Sigh. I don’t suppose you take dictation? Only in your off hours, I’m sure. Ah, well, I have found out how to assign more functions to my computer keys, and these facilitate my letters, so I’ll just have to wrap this one up and get on into that pile of 30 letters. I don’t think I need to write you a long missive this time; I’ll save up whatever I have to tell you until next week, and save the postage. I hope you will have half an hour or so to talk to me, before the teeming masses of fans come charging in demanding your attention. Maybe I’ll hide behind your wheelchair so they won’t find me.

We started Friday morning, driving down to the Tampa Airport, and Cam (my wife) put me on the airplane to Charlotte, North Carolina. The plane left late, and I worried that it would arrive too late to make its connection, stranding me; that happened to me with buses, and I’m sure the plane companies have picked up and improved on all the old bus and train tricks. They served a snack, consisting of a ham and turkey sandwich. That’s one of the reasons I don’t like to travel: airlines hardly know what a vegetarian is. I took out the meat and ate the rest without joy; the meat would only be thrown away, so my gesture accomplished nothing. Oh, we could have ordered a vegetarian meal, ahead; but when we did that before, they gave us some kind of Oriental dish that was so fiery hot it was impossible to eat. They do have ways to make you regret making such demands. At Charlotte I found the connecting flight; it was supposed to take off from one gate, but they had changed gates and I had to go searching for the new one. That’s another reason I don’t like to travel. The plane left the terminal on time, but waited twenty minutes in the queue for the ten preceding planes to take off. It was listed as “on time” but was actually twenty minutes late, which suggests that since airlines may be penalized for running late, they find ways to conceal rather than correct their lateness. When it comes to travel paranoia, I yield to none.

I was met by Jenny’s parents, and the ten-minute drive to the hotel took an hour: the lateness of the plane had put us deep into rush hour, and the road patterning was abysmal. Why I don’t like to travel: let me count the ways …

Jenny’s folks had taken out three rooms at the Holiday Inn Executive Center, which was the convention hotel for Sci-Con 11. Two were for their use, and one for mine. They had put mine directly across the hall from theirs, but that one was the Con Suite, open and crowded all hours; I’m glad they bumped mine down the hall a bit, as I don’t think I could have slept very well in the Con Suite. As it was, my room was quiet; I never even turned on the TV set the whole time I was there. The convention folk were glad to see me; I had turned down their invitation, months ago, then changed my mind when I saw how close it was to where Jenny was. I had said I would go to the convention if Jenny did, and though Jenny was limited to one day because of a late reversal of policy by a doctor, she definitely would be there on Saturday. I met Debbie, the Con Chairman, and Cathy, programming. Along with my con badge I got a button: DEBBIE DOES SCI-CON. Well …

I attended the Opening Ceremony, so that the fans could see which professionals had arrived. Laurence Watt-Evans officiated, and we each said a few words. I asked folk not to take my ogre reputation too seriously: “You only need to talk with me five seconds to know that I’m no threat to you.” It happened that five artists who had worked with Xanth were attending, and Richard Pini of Elfquest also drove down from New York state at my behest: he too will be working with Xanth, setting up the graphic version of #13,
Isle of View
, which features Jenny Elf from the Elfquest world. Richard and I have been interested in doing a project like this since we met at the American Booksellers Association convention in Dallas in 1983, but it never quite jelled until Jenny came on the scene.

At 9
P.M.
I talked with folk in the Con Suite, which was so noisy that I could not distinguish anyone’s words from more than three feet away, and was in danger of wearing out my voice before my reading came up. I was surrounded by eager fans. I can take conventions or leave them; my pride is such that I already know I can write well, even if this is news to critics, and I am not driven to hear it personally from fans. But I can survive adulation too, though I would rather be home writing my next novel. It is my policy to make myself available to fans when I go to conventions, and to avoid them at other times. I had a green ice cream sandwich there, which served for supper.

My reading was at 9:30, from
Isle of View
, introducing Jenny Elf, and then in the Author’s Note introducing Jenny herself. I explained that she would be there, and that though she would understand what was said to her, she was paralyzed and would not be able to respond readily. I felt that with this caution, the folk at the convention would treat her well. I was not disappointed; they made her more than welcome.

Saturday was the big day. I had breakfast at 6:30 with Richard Pini, and we discussed the prospects for the graphic novel. It should be published in three parts, the first part preceding the text novel and the third part following it. We hope that this combination will introduce Xanth readers to Elfquest, and Elfquest readers to Xanth, and be a success. Wendy Pini will not be drawing it; she has other commitments. But they have a good artist in mind, and it should be an impressive volume, and a ground-breaking one: the first cross between these two fantasy realms, unified by Jenny Elf.

I met Toni-Kay, here at my behest, and her friend Barbara, from New Jersey. I have corresponded with Toni-Kay for years, and have several nice paintings of hers— duck, rabbit, horse, piliated woodpecker, alien creature—generally naturalistic, rounded and soft, like Toni-Kay herself. She credits me with turning her back into painting; she may be too generous, but certainly art is in her nature. I had commissioned a painting of cats from her, for me to give to Jenny, and prevailed on her to bring it herself. Because Jenny could not stay the night, the room was available for Toni-Kay and Barbara to use without charge, and Jenny’s family welcomed them. I understand they were most compatible—four Avon Ladies, they said—and perhaps that will be a lasting friendship. Things just seemed to come together in special ways for this occasion.

Jenny arrived at midmorning, and after she had gotten settled—travel is difficult for her, because she gets carsick in addition to her paralysis—I went in to meet her. I have no trouble facing audiences of any size, having long since abolished stage fright along with writer’s block, but I felt a bit of nervousness at that moment. I was finally going to meet
Jenny!
There she was in her wheelchair and her big spectacles, looking just like Jenny Elf only with rounded ears. She can move her limbs somewhat, but has real control only in her right hand, so she is able to finger-spell, slowly. She can turn her head and move her eyes, and will blink to say yes. She suffered multiple injuries and fractures in the accident, but apparently it is damage to the brain stem that is responsible for the paralysis. I think of it as being like a cable that has been mostly severed; only a few strands connect, and it is problematic whether others can be reconnected because the doctors don’t know what is supposed to go where, and might make things even worse if they messed in. She was twelve when it happened, and is now thirteen, becoming a young woman. She can move her jaw, but not enough to close her mouth completely. She can not speak, but can laugh. I sat before her, and took her hand, and tuned out the rest of the world. [What I said to her is a personal report, “Let Me Hold Your Hand,” personal and intense.]

On Saturday, NoRemember 11, 1989, I met Jenny in her hotel room at the Sci-Con 11 science fiction convention. She was in her wheelchair, wearing her big glasses (Mundane spectacles), unmoving, expressionless—or, as her family later described it, rapt. This is what I said to her, from memory—or perhaps what I meant to say, as I may have garbled words or sentences and gotten things out of order. I tuned out the others present; it was Jenny and me in the foreground, and the rest of the world in the background. There was an interruption at one point, and I lost my thread and skipped part of what is here. So this written version may be more complete and precisely worded, though the emphasis and feeling are muted here; the essence is the same.

***

Jenny, I have to do things my own way, and I don’t always go directly to the point. So bear with me while I say some things which may seem irrelevant; I will get to the subject in due course.

When I was in college I learned a folk song, “Come Let Me Hold Your Hand.” The refrain referred to Peel and John Crow, and at first I thought it was racist. But it isn’t; it is Jim Crow who is the symbol of racism in the south. As far as I know, these are real crows: Peel and John, who sit in the treetop and watch what’s going on below.

When I wrote the first Incarnations novel,
On A Pale Horse
, I incorporated a line from that song. It was in a scene with a woman who had just had her father die. She loved him and missed him, and all she could think of was this song. This happens to people suffering grief; they have to block out the big thing, and focus on some little thing that is not so closely connected. So she thought of the way he had held her hand, and that bit of the song kept going through her mind. “It’s a long time, girl, may never see you; come let me hold your hand.”

But when I got the galley proofs, I discovered that the song was missing. In fact the whole scene was missing. It turned out that the editor thought I was borrowing from a Beatles song, and was afraid of copyright infringement. Now that song wasn’t from the Beatles; it was before the Beatles existed. Their song is “I Wanna Hold Your Hand.” But the editor would not relent, and though I got the scene put back, I had to make up other words in lieu of the song that weren’t as good. I regret that, and I am getting more difficult about editorial interference in my novels.

When I got in touch with you, I remembered that song. Now I will sing it to you, as I said I would in my letter: