Viscous Circle (40 page)

My writing never came to a complete standstill, for I am, as claimed, a disciplined cuss. I did a great deal of research reading on World War Two, and in the hospital started writing the first chapters of
Volk
, my projected WWII novel. Thus I actually got a head start on a new project, thanks to my pencil-and-clipboard technique. Now I resumed typing on a limited basis, though it did somewhat aggravate the swelling. I completed the second draft of the novel in the middle of August, typing in the mornings and resting, often sleeping, in the hot afternoons. I also typed second draft on my WWII chapters, since I had them on hand. Then I typed the submission draft on
Volk
, extending my limits on the fifty-page small project before tackling the three-hundred-fifty-page big one, just in case. All seemed well. Gradually I worked back up to a full schedule, typing twenty or more pages a day, and completed the submission draft of
Viscous Circle
on September 20, just two days after the doctor cleared me as cured.

So the novel was done almost entirely in the gradual course of the illness. If it seems sick, blame it on that cat. My clean living, wholesome diet, avoidance of vices, and vigorous exercise, a supposedly sure formula for health, did not preserve me from this experience. Perhaps I will never know the meaning of it, if there is one. But still there lurks the hope that, in some devious way, this ordeal does have meaning. For a while there was one hope: when they drew the sludge out of my swelling and made a culture to grow some of the whatevers that cause this mysterious disease, I thought my case might be the first to reveal the agent of that disease. If so, it would be a significant medical breakthrough, a mystery of decades solved, sparing others a good deal of misery. But no; my cultures came up as sterile as space samples, as is typical for this disease. That medical breakthrough awaits some other cat.

Maybe this narration will help some reader who would otherwise suffer an unknown malady, the hint "cat scratch" putting his doctor on the track. Remember, this particular illness always gets better on its own. It is not nearly as serious as it seems.

When you're sick it's a great time to do research, because you can read in bed. During this period I read Frankl's
Man's Search for Meaning
as part of my research for the WWII project. The thesis of this book is that man truly wants to live a life that is meaningful. Certainly he has strong drives to protect, feed, and reproduce himself, and whole philosophies of psychology have been constructed on the assumption that one or the other of these drives is paramount. But all other animals act according to these same drives, too often with greater enthusiasm and success than man. If man is really the highest of the animals, it is not because of his various physical appetites. Man's quest for meaning may be his truly distinguishing mark. This makes sense to me, and that notion is reflected in
Viscous Circle
.

What, then, of my own quest for meaning? I have plumbed the depths of this illness in tedious detail and found no meaning therein. It cost me a thousand dollars in medical expenses, and perhaps more than that in lost time. I'd hate to have it count for nothing. Yet this does happen to be, coincidentally, a time of transition in my career, and this is the reason for this long Author's Note. Perhaps I can squeeze out a certain amount of Significance after all.

I have written a lot of science fiction, and it has been well received. I am becoming one of the most successful of contemporary genre writers. I get fan letters at the rate of about one a week, and I answer them. Many people seem to enjoy my science fiction and fantasy, and that's nice. I love this genre; it gave me reason to live when I was in doubt, long ago, whether life was worthwhile, and it has been good to me since. But
Viscous Circle
was difficult when it should have been easy, and may lack that spark of wonder that is the essence of this type of writing. Maybe my sickness spoiled my objectivity—but maybe also it cost me some of the necessary magic. I never want to be a hack writer, turning out adventure merely for the money. Perhaps I need some sort of break, to sort it out.

I'm not swearing off science fiction, but I expect to do less of it for a while. This has nothing to do with disenchantment with the field: the field is strong. It's not money either; I am well paid for this writing. It is no animus against this particular publisher, who has the science fiction option on Anthony; Avon has been consistently kind to me, even while other publishers were blacklisting me, and I am grateful. I just don't know exactly where to find meaning in writing.

I'll be trying fantasy and horror and World War Two and general mainstream writing, and anything else that takes my fancy, exploring my parameters, to discover where my true direction lies. I'm not young any more; I don't have forever to experiment. Illness has heightened my awareness of that, once again bringing home to me my own mortality, and that may have been the purpose of this particular Act of God. Perhaps I'll find that there is nothing better for me beyond this genre. Certainly science fiction was my first true love, and that passion will never be forgotten.

But I hope my horizons do expand, and that my readers will approve. Meanwhile, I'm having my study electrified at last, so that I can run a fan on those hot summer afternoons and keep my glasses on my nose. Awareness of mortality tends to enhance the value of the minor creature comforts, such as a breath of breeze at a hundred degrees.

 

 

 

Addendum, 2009:

 

 

The original novel had its own Author's Note, as seen above, the first of the long, personal, candid Notes that were to become a minor trademark of mine, beloved by readers, despised by critics.
 
That was written in 1980, and in the ensuing 29 years some things have changed.

I was then on the verge of a decade of bestselling fantasy sales that were to transform my notoriety and my finances, putting me on the map as one of the more successful fantasy writers extant.
 
One of those novels was
On a Pale Horse
, featuring Death as the main character, so you can see that I capitalized on my awareness of mortality.
 
But my World War Two novel,
Volk
, never got a big print publisher, and finally I self-published it.
 
I also tried horror, but never really got into it.
 
I did a major series of historical novels, GEODYSSEY, but that never did as well as the light fantasy.
 
I did do one other science fiction series,
Bio of a Space Tyrant
, and some erotic fiction.
 
So my career was mixed, apart from Fantasy.

I did attend some fan conventions, taking my family along, and my daughters became instant convention addicts.
 
But I was impatient with the determined amateurism of these amateur assemblies, and now attend only rarely, like once a year or once a decade.
 
I computerized in 1984, jumping from pencil to electronic in a single bound, and in the course of a quarter century went through four operating systems and eight word processors.
 
Plus innumerable frustrations, crashes, and loss of material.
 
Today I'm with Xandros Linux and OpenOffice.
 
I like the computer; it's almost as versatile as pencil.
 
But it can indeed be like the opposite gender: can't live with it, can't live without it.

We bought new property, sent our daughters to college, and built a new house.
 
We live on a small tree farm we own.
 
My wife and I are in our 70s, married 52 years, and suffering the typical health complications of that age, such as osteoporosis.
 
As an indirect result, I now have my hair in a long ponytail.
 
Our children have long since gone out on their own, and we have one granddaughter.
 
I'm still writing; I hope never to retire.
 
I still exercise seriously, maintaining my college weight, though of course my body is slowly declining.
 
Age is a female dog.

And they did finally isolate the virus that causes Cat Scratch Disease.
 
I was simply ahead of my time there.

So how do I like this novel, this time around?
 
I had almost completely forgotten its details, remembering only that somehow things worked out.
 
I was struck by the theme of pacifism.
 
I was raised as a Quaker—the Religious Society of Friends—whose primary tenet may be pacifism.
 
I did not join, not being a pacifist, but remain deeply impressed.
 
How can pacifism prevail in the face of warlike ignorance?
 
I was glad to see this explored here, though I suspect it is not possible to come to an easy answer.
 
I also liked the careful characterization; no good guy, bad guy simplicity here.
 
And the thoroughly conceived alien culture, a worthy continuation of the sympathetically portrayed aliens throughout this Cluster series.
 
And the food fight.
 
So yes, I like this novel.

Meanwhile anyone interested can stay current with me by visiting my Web site, www.hipiers.com, where I have a bi-monthly blog-type column and an ongoing candid survey of electronic publishers and related services.