I mentioned the luck of writers. Well, about the time we were heading into the home stretch, Phil Farmer's wife, Bette, had to have surgery. They went from Illinois to California for two weeks to take care of it. Right: it took longer than anticipated, and Phil was stuck for months without his notes, prior text, or computer as the deadline loomed. He had to write out his material longhand and type it manually. I'd hate to see the color of the air around his working place while he commented on the situation! So he summarized what he had written for me, so that I could start my section without waiting to receive his. In this manner we moved it along despite his situation.
And so we completed the collaboration. I think its full history is unusual, even for a genre in which the unusual predominates. The result will be for you, the reader, to judge.
Meanwhile, anyone interested in a source for my other titles or newsletter may call my "troll-free" number, 1-800 HI PIERS. (e-book note: this phone number is no longer valid. For similar information try the official web site at http://www.hipiers.com instead.)
My first collaboration was thirty-eight years ago. Up until recently, it was my only one. That is, it's been that long since I wrote a story in partnership with a real person. I have collaborated with some fictional writers derived from one of my schizophrenic personae. The last one, I think, was with Leo Queequeg Tincrowdor. But that's another story.
Other than Piers Anthony, my only partner in the felonious deed of writing fiction was Randall Garrett. If humankind has North and South Poles, Randall was the South and Piers is the North. Or vice versa. I'm somewhere between the two, a sort of Equator. Or perhaps the Tropic of Capricorn.
Inherently a loner, I've never thought, "Hey, I feel like collaborating with someone!" When I did, I did so because someone asked me to do it and it seemed like a good idea at the time. Randall Garrett was residing with my family and me in 1953 when he talked me into writing a novel, The Ballad of Hilary Boone, with him. This was based on a poem which Charlie Tanner had written. Charlie was an old-time science-fiction author whose heyday was in the Gernsback era. His "Tumithak of the Corridors" delighted me when it came out in Amazing Stories in 1932. It's still a good read. He was also a master at composing satirical poems based on s-f motifs.
Hilary Boone, hero of Charlie Tanner's song, "The Ballad of Hilary Boone," was a space pirate who fought—I think—the evil empire of Earth. Or maybe it was some vast monopolistic business corporation. I can't recall the details. One day, while Randall was singing the ballad and both of us had had too much beer (we couldn't afford Wild Turkey in those days), he suddenly broke off and said, "It'd be a great idea if we'd write a novel based on Charlie's song!"
So, we did. In those hoary old days, stories about space pirates and individuals building their own rockets were believed by the readers and purchased by editors. Most of them, anyway. And Randall and I were naive enough to believe in space pirates. Randall would write one chapter, and I'd write the next. So, without really knowing where we were going except for the story outlined in the ballad, we launched into the collaboration. I don't think our styles or approaches melded too well, but we did have a good old-fashioned rousing story. We sold it to Startling Stories magazine, which intended to publish it as a serial. If I remember correctly, it would have been the first serial ever in Startling Stories.
We got paid. But the magazine, which had been around for years, suddenly folded. The novel was returned to us. We sent it to a new agent I had just started with. Then she died, and the manuscript was lost. It might yet be floating somewhere out there, or it might be lost forever. Probably the latter.
It was fun, but it was no classic. In fact, it's probably better that it was never published. Randall and I wrote at a breakneck pace. However, I still hope that it will turn up. I might rewrite it and send it out again.
Until Piers suggested that we coauthor the work at hand, I politely turned down the requests of various people (not many) that I collaborate with them. In his Author's Note, Piers has told you somewhat of the circumstances of the round-robin writing of the novel. That procedure failed because those who followed us tended to go off in directions too wild. They also did not develop the ideas Piers and I had planted in the first two sections. Thus, when he suggested that we do it as a twain, I was enthusiastic.
Piers is generally regarded as a sort of ogre. In fact, his autobiography is titled Bio of an Ogre. However, if you've read it, you can see that there's far more to him than being an "ogre." He's a writer who won't take any crap from anybody, especially certain publishers, editors, and agents. He fights fiercely for what he believes is right. He is very compassionate and honest. He is also highly imaginative and inventive.
I admire him as a person and as a writer.
There are many good writers around. There are not many people who embody the old-fashioned but still viable principles of honesty, integrity, and high courage.
We melded well in style and inspired each other with challenging ideas and turns of plot. At least, I like to think so.
When the end of the novel was nearing, I had to fight my inborn pessimism (or clear view of reality) to conclude with a tragedy. It seemed to me that the Imago would take over Tappy so completely that she would become alienated from Jack. As the host for the Imago, she would indeed become a goddess; she would be worshipped. Though Tappy would resist that, she would inevitably be a victim of this deification. Thus, Jack would lose her and have no hope of ever getting her back.
Also, the spreading of empathy throughout the universe would not be all good. Every good has its disadvantages and flaws. And vice versa.
But the extrapolation of the full effect of the Imago and Tappy's sufferings is another story. When the novel ends, she and Jack are happy and the good times are to come to the sentients of all worlds. Let it end there.
Copyright © 1992 by Piers Anthony and Philip José Farmer.
ISBN: 0-441-09488-0