Authors: Piers Anthony
Zeke nodded. That would be effective.
Avoca gave Zeke a straight look. “I'm in. This is a more than worthy inheritance. It seems that Uncle Z did like you best after all. He just didn't care to advertise what he was leaving you, lest someone else try to steal it. You had to figure it out for yourself.” She smiled. “It justifies what I wanted to do anyway: to be with you, you handsome lout.”
So she had liked him for himself! That was almost more important than all the rest of it.
“We suspect there will occur a significant female tourist interest, as females like romantic interactions,” the picture said. “That was perhaps the one thing your uncle was unable to provide.”
“You bet,” Avoca said, closing on Zeke for an ardent kiss.
Oh yes, he liked abandoned stinking privies.
Note:
Early in 2011 I received a request for a story featuring a deserted building, for an anthology titled
The Forsaken
. Unwilling to settle for something ordinary, I made it a special building, in fact an outhouse. How and why could there be such a bad smell when it hadn't been used in decades? Therein lies the story “The Privy.” It was fun to do, and I hope fun to read.
Caution: how-to-write essay
17. Wood Knot Dew
My spot definition for the Science Fiction genre is the literature of the possible. You make one assumption that may be contrary to fact, then build a story around what could be if that fact were true. The reader's willing suspension of disbelief leads you into a thrilling adventure. Thus it is true speculative fiction, and I have written a lot of it in the course of close to fifty years since my first sale.
My definition for Fantasy is the literature of the impossible. Virtually all of it is not only contrary to fact, it is contrary to common sense. You know it never was, is not now, and never will be, but if it is done well, you enjoy it anyway. It is perhaps the purest form of escapism, because you know it lacks all credibility. I have written a lot of that too, and made my fame on it.
The particular fantasy series I am best known for is Xanth. That is so far out that sensible rules of fiction hardly apply. They say you can have an ordinary character in an extraordinary situation, or an extraordinary character in an ordinary situation. Well, I like to have unbelievable characters in an unbelievable situation, and ludicrous puns abound, in violation of any serious rule of writing. For example in
Night Mare
the protagonist is Mare Imbrium, after whom a section of the moon is named: a female horse who carries bad dreams to deserving sleepers. When she communicates, it is in the form of a spot dreamlet that appears over her head, showing a human woman who can speak human. Once when an evil man caught her and put a bit in her mouth so he could ride her, her dreamlet speech was muffled by the gag. So are my readers revolted? Hardly; in three quarters of a moment readers can send me half a slew of puns. So when asked where I get my ideas, I can say from my readers.
What, then, could I possibly have to teach anyone about effective writing? Well, let me make a grunting effort. A cardinal rule is to make it believable. You might think that for me that's like stepping on a stinkhorn: it makes a foul-smelling noise and a pink polka-dot stench that keeps folk away in droves. Yet it can be done with the right approach. You need to get the reader on your side, not only willing but eager to suspend disbelief. If you can make the reader laugh early on, you're probably home free. If you laughed when reading this, I've got you. Now I can get serious. One key is to be consistent in your framework, to the extent feasible, so that it hangs together. I suspect that the person who said “A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds” was thinking primarily of copy-editors, but there is a place for a sensible consistency. Another is to have little human details in your inhuman fantasy, such as your monstrous ogre having a sore toe, or your fire-breathing dragon suffering an itchy wing. That humanizes them, because you remember when that clumsy elephantine oaf stepped on your toe in the dance, and when you were jammed on the plane and got that intolerable itch right in the middle of your back where you couldn't reach it, and folk stared as you contorted. You identify, and then you can accept the ways in which these characters differ from you and still root for them.
And difference is important. You don't want your main character to be just like every other main character in fiction, you know, strong, handsome, beautiful, smart, talented yet intriguingly vulnerable. These qualities are fine, but they don't suffice. You want a significant difference that will distinguish your character from all others in the universe without making him/her too different to be appealing. There is the challenge, and the success of your piece may depend on how you handle it.
So how have I handled it? Consider my recent Xanth fantasy novel
Knot Gneiss
. That's a different sort of title. The main character is Wenda Woodwife, who speaks with the forest dialect, saying things like “I wood knot dew that to yew.” In Xanth you can clearly hear the spelling, so you immediately know her origin. Today she is a perfectly ordinary garden-variety fantasy princess who loves children, but her accent makes her immediately distinct. You just know that when she married Prince Charming she said “I dew.” So there is her difference, constantly apparent without interfering with the clarity of her situation in the story.
Exercise:
Find some minor but nice way to distinguish your main character from all others in the past, present, or who may in some alternate future come into being. Maybe even make notes of prospective traits you can draw on at need. I maintain a huge Ideas file of notions for that purpose, because the best ideas are apt to come at odd and often inconvenient moments rather than when you need them. I scribble them down in pencil, then transcribe to the file when I'm at the computer. They can come from anywhere when you're working, playing, eating, romancing, or reading. No, don't copy mine; that wood knot dew.
Note:
In 2011
Now Write!
asked me for a spot essay on writing, complete with a spot exercise for aspiring writers. So I obliged.
Caution: none
18. Living Doll
Tumble was ready to call it a day. His late grandfather's attic was crowded, stale, and hot, and he had been slowly cleaning it out for hours. His folk were cleaning up the house for sale, and naturally Tumble, the clumsy one, got the wearing but safe job. Which was all right; he knew he wasn't much of a person, and he was satisfied to do the best he could. It was sad, though, because he had liked the gruff old man, and was sorry for this evidence of his demise.
There was a small stout wooden chest before him. Very well, he would check that out, then get out of the oppressive heat.
He unlatched the lid and lifted it. Inside was a doll. What was Grandpa doing with anything like this? He had been no girly-man, but a tough old buzzard. The only dolls he liked were the living kind.
It certainly was lovely. It looked to be anatomically correct, garbed in a hula skirt and halter that showed a phenomenal shape, with a pretty face and massive dark hair that extended to her plush bottom.
Curious, Tumble lifted the doll out of her case. She was about a foot tall and perfect in every detail. “I wish I had a girl like you,” he breathed. Of course even the wish was foolish. Girls knew him for what he was, an awkward oaf, and stayed well away. Even if he had one like this, she would soon depart for some better man.
The doll shimmered. She expanded rapidly. In a moment she stood before him, his hand on her petite waist, her hand cupping his. “Your wish is my command,” she said.
Amazed and embarrassed, he sought to jerk away his too-familiar hand. But she held on to it. “Don't do that! You have to keep touching me, or I will revert to doll status. Do you understand?”
“No,” he said candidly. Then, so she would know he wasn't trying to insult her, he explained: “I'm not the brightest candle on the chandelier. I don't know who you are or why you came here or how you relate to the doll.”
She smiled, and he could have sworn the dark attic brightened. “Tell me your name, and I will tell you mine, and clarify things for you.”
“I'm Tumble, becauseâ”
“I get it, Tumble. You must have fallen a few times as a child, so they hung a cruel nickname on you, and it stuck.”
“Uh, yeah.”
“I am Epiphany. I am a woman enchanted to become a doll in my own image. I can resume my natural aspect only when being touched by a man. When he stops touching me, I revert, and am dead to the world. So I am holding your hand not from excess of passion, though I can provide that when requested, but to be sure we can have a dialogue long enough to clarify my nature.”
“Uh, yeah,” he repeated uncertainly.
“Do you have any questions?”
“Yeah, I do. What are you doing here in Grandpa's attic? He wasn't exactly a doll man.”
“Ah, you are Trevor's grandson. There is a family resemblance.”
“Yeah. Except he was ten times as smart as me, for one thing.”
“To answer your question, I was servicing your grandfather. He took me out when he was horny, and put me back when sated.”
Tumble was appalled. “He treated you like aâaâ”
“Exactly. I must obey the man who touches me, and that was his interest, especially when he became a widower.”
Tumble realized he was blushing. “I'm sorry, Miss Epiphany. I didn't know.”
“Don't be concerned. I was enchanted in significant part for this purpose, and I'm good at it. I am the ultimate sex toy. It's not a burden to me. I have known many men over the course of decades, and Trevor was by no means the worst of them. But now you must do what he did not: return me to my mistress.”
“Oh sure, Miss Epiphany. Who is she?”
“Call me Pip for short. She is the Sorceress of Bleak Mountain. Surely you know of her.”
“Oh, yeah, MissâPip. She does our village a lot of good, but we are careful not to trespass on her mountain. Only the folk with regular business go there, like the ones bringing vegetables, meats, leather, and the housemaids, who never see her, but they do their jobs and get away quickly. In return she gives us good rains and good crops, and we don't want to mess with her.”
“That is a good attitude. Had she known that I was being used by your grandfather, she might not have been so kind to your village. But I'm sure she'll forgive all, if you take me promptly back.”
“Right away,” Tumble agreed. But privately he wondered what the Sorceress would want with a sex toy.
She gazed at him a moment. “Perhaps tomorrow will do. It seems to be late in the day.”
“Yeah. What should I do, put you back in your box, then fetch it in the morning?”
“Tumble, I am just a bit tired of the box. Take me with you downstairs.”
“But then everyone will see you, and maybe not let you go, because you must be pretty valuable.”
“More than you know,” she agreed, smiling. “But do not be concerned. Only you can see or hear or feel me, when I am animate, and when I am not, I am just an inert doll. Just hold my hand and go down.”
“Oh, yeah, I guess, if that's the way you want it.”
“That's the way it is.”
They went downstairs. She was so light and balanced that her dainty feet hardly seemed to touch the steps.
“'Bout time you came down, Tumble,” his mother said, spotting him. “Wash your hands; supper's almost ready.”
“Sure, Ma,” he agreed, as he always did. Epiphany was right beside him, holding his hand, but his mother seemed not to see her.
“I told you there would be no trouble,” Epiphany said.
Or hear her. “Yeah.”
But his mother heard that. “What's that, Tumble?”
“Nothing, Ma. I was just talking to myself.”
“Don't do that. It makes a bad impression.”
“She's right,” Epiphany said as he walked toward the bathroom. “Do not speak aloud to me when you are in company. Just ignore me.”
He glanced at her beside him, and accidentally saw down inside her halter. He blushed as he snapped his eyes away. “That's sort of hard to do.”
She laughed. “You'll learn. No need to sneak peeks, either; just tell me to take off my clothes, and I will.” She drew down her halter, exposing her breasts completely. They were phenomenal.
“No!” he exclaimed. “I'm not supposed to look! Girls don't like to be goggled.”
“Ogled,” she corrected him. “But I'm not like that. My body is yours any time you want it.”
“Oh no, no, no! I wouldn'tâ” He could hardly contain his acute embarrassment.
She squeezed his hand. “I see. You have no experience with women.”
“Yeah. I don't know what to say to them or anything.”
“How old are you, Tumble?”
“Nineteen. Past time for me to find a job and contribute to the family.”
“And to marry?”
He shrugged. “If I ever find a woman who'll have me.”
“For that you need experience. Which for you is hard to get. Perhaps we can do something about that tonight.” She lifted her halter and was decently covered again.
Was she teasing him? He dared not ask. They were in the bathroom now, and she helped him wash his face and hands, never letting go.
He had a normal supper. No one saw Epiphany as she sat on his lap and kept a hand on his upper arm. For that matter, they hardly saw Tumble. He was pretty much ignored, as usual.
But after the meal, when he was washing the dishesâanother chore that fell naturally to him, since he wasn't good for much elseâhis mother broached him. “Tumble, what's going on?”
She had caught on that he was up to something, as she always did. What could he tell her?
“Tell her the truth,” Epiphany suggested.
That made it easier. “I found something in the attic today.”