Piers Anthony
Anthonology
POSSIBLE TO RUE
I started writing fiction seriously on the way to my B.A. in Creative Writing. My thesis for graduation was a 95,000 word novel, The Unstilled World, that kept the College President up much of the night. No, he wasn't a science fiction fan; he just had to read all the papers, and hadn't anticipated one that was 300 pages long. That novel was never published, though later I revamped a portion of it that is now part of the Battle Circle volume.
The first story I wrote, "Evening," I submitted to the first Galaxy Magazine amateur story contest in 1954. In 1955 I received notice that my story was among the top ten entries, but that they had decided to have no winner. Sigh—my literary career had been launched in typical fashion. Meanwhile, my later friend andy offutt (that's the way he capitalized it) entered a similar contest sponsored by If Magazine and won it. Fate has generally treated me that way; I seem to have a propensity for just barely missing the cut.
But I have always been ornery. I refused to comprehend the message that I wasn't wanted in Parnassus. This is my advice to other hopeful writers: be ornery, keep trying, don't get the message, so that you, too, can suffer years of frustration, irony and humiliation. Once every decade or so the worm does turn.
I tried other stories on other markets, receiving rejection slips and a curt note from H.L. Gold not to try to compete with the big boys. (And where are you now, H.L.? Suppose I had followed your arrogant advice?) In 1958 my story "The Demisee" was accepted by Damon Knight at If Magazine—which then ceased publication just long enough to unsell my story. I had missed the cut again. But I kept trying, while earning my living in such mundane pursuits as delivery driver, the U.S. Army, electronics technical writer and state social worker.
But still I longed to be a writer; the dream would not let go. Finally my wife went to work, so that I could try writing full-time for one year. This is my second major item of advice to other hopefuls: have a working spouse to earn your living while you grasp for the impossible. We agreed that if I did not succeed, I would recognize the nature of my delusion, give it up, retire to productive mundane work and be at literary peace. One of my fifth cousins did exactly that, ending his writing attempts to become an executive at Sears.
It was now late in 1962. I wrote a fantasy story and sent it off to the Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction—let's just call it F&SF—and a science fiction story that I sent to Playboy. They both bounced. I wrote another fantasy and tried F&SF again, while trying the first two at other markets. They all bounced. I thought I might try a British magazine—I was after all born in England, and was a subject of the King/Queen for twenty-four years—but I didn't have the address. So while I was trying to get it, I sent my second fantasy story to Fantastic, just to keep it in circulation. And suddenly it sold.
After eight years, nineteen stories, and thirty rejections, I had a $20.00 sale. I was a success!
That story, of course, was "Possible to Rue." It was published in the April 1963 issue of Fantastic, and thereafer sank without a trace, until this moment. I make no special claims for its merit; it just happened to be the chip thrown up by the wave. I include it simply because it was the point at which my worm turned, my first success as a commercial fiction writer, of interest for historical consideration. Perhaps scholars more intelligent than I am will be able to trace in this story the genesis of my later career as a writer of light-fantasy novels. The rest of you can take satisfaction in the fact that at least it isn't very long.
I want a pegasus, Daddy," Junior greeted him at the door, his curly blond head hobbling with excitement. "A small one, with white fluttery wings and an aerodynamic tail and—"
"You shall have it, son," Daddy said warmly, absent-mindedly stripping off jacket and tie. Next week was Bradley Newton, Jr.'s sixth birthday, and Bradley, Senior had promised a copy of Now We Are Six and a pet for his very own. Newton was a man of means, so that this was no empty pledge. He felt he owed it to the boy, to make up in some token the sorrow of Mrs. N's untimely departure.
He eased himself into the upholstered chair, vaguely pleased that his son showed such imagination. Another child would have demanded something commonplace, like a mongrel or a Shetland pony. But a pegasus now—
"Do you mean the winged horse, son?" Newton inquired, a thin needle of doubt poking into his complacency.
"That's right, Daddy," Junior said brightly. "But it will have to be a very small one, because I want a pegasus that can really fly. A full grown animal's wings are non-functional because the proportionate wing span is insufficient to get it off the ground."
"I understand, son," Newton said quickly. "A small one." People had laughed when he had insisted that Junior's nurse have a graduate degree in general science. Fortunately he had been able to obtain one inexpensively by hiring her away from the school board. At this moment he regretted that it was her day off; Junior could be very single-minded.
"Look, son," he temporized. "I'm not sure I know where to buy a horse like that. And you'll have to know how to feed it and care for it, otherwise it would get sick and die. You wouldn't want that to happen, would you?"
The boy pondered. "You're right, Daddy," he said at last. "We would be well advised to look it up."
"Look it up?"
"In the encyclopedia, Daddy. Haven't you always told me that it was an authoritative factual reference?"
The light dawned. Junior believed in the encyclopedia. "My very words, Son. Let's look it up and see what it says about... let's see... here's Opinion to Possibility... should be in this volume. Yes." He found the place and read aloud: " 'Pegasus—Horse with wings which sprang from the blood of the Gorgon Medusa after Perseus cut off her head.' "
Junior's little mouth dropped open. "That has got to be figurative," he pronounced. "Horses are not created from—"
" '...a creature of Greek mythology,' " Newton finished victoriously.
Junior digested that. "You mean, it doesn't exist," he said dispiritedly. Then he brightened. "Daddy, if I ask for something that does exist, then can I have it for a pet?"
"Certainly, Son. We'll just look it up here, and if the book says it's real, we'll go out and get one. I think that's a fair bargain."
"A unicorn," Junior said.
Newton restrained a smile. He reached for the volume marked Trust to Wary and flipped the pages. " 'Unicorn—A mythological creature resembling a horse—' " he began.
Junior looked at him suspiciously. "Next year I'm going to school and learn to read for myself," he muttered. "You are alleging that there is no such animal?"
"That's what the book says, Son—honest."
The boy looked dubious, but decided not to make an issue of it. "All right—let's try a zebra." He watched while Newton pulled out Watchful to Indices. "It's only fair to warn you, Daddy," he said ominously, "that there is a picture of one on the last page of my alphabet book."
"I'll read you just exactly what it says, Son," Newton said defensively. "Here it is: 'Zebra—A striped horselike animal reputed to have lived in Africa. Common in European and American legend, although entirely mythical—' "
"Now you're making that up," Junior accused angrily. "I've got a picture."
"But Son—I thought it was real myself. I've never seen a zebra, but I thought—look. You have a picture of a ghost too, don't you? But you know that's not real."