This convention is part of that. I think your salvation lies in art, in your drawing and painting. With the assistance of the computer you may be able to paint as well as you could with full use of your body. There are several good artists here, and they will talk to you. There are many other things to see here, and I think you will enjoy it.
And Richard Pini of Elfquest is here, and he has something for you. [Jenny broke into a great smile.] I will fetch him now.
Then I introduced Richard Pini, and got an immense smile from her. Richard gave her a color portrait of Jenny Elf, painted by Wendy Pini, looking just like Jenny but with pointed ears. He treated her like a little princess, and I could see how thrilled she was. Her two favorite realms are Xanth and Elfquest, and representatives of both were here to be with her. It was my hope that she could have a really good day, and it was coming true.
Then Jenny had to rest, and I went with Toni-Kay to look at the art exhibit. There were many beautiful and strange paintings, my favorite kind. After that I had to go autograph books at a Waldenbooks. They were supposed to have Sci-Con flyers there, but didn’t par for the course. They limited it to hardcovers, so it was not pressed; indeed it was quite slack in the middle of the two hours they had scheduled. But it evidently sold a number of Total Recalls, my version of the big Arnold Schwarzenegger movie for next year. I had not had a chance to eat lunch, but they dug up some chocolate doughnuts for me, and I munched on them while signing copies. One of the fans gave me a package of whole wheat crackers and smoked cheese. This business of eating: I am a creature of regular habits, but forget the notion of regular meals during such excursions. Why I don’t like to travel, # whatever.
Back at the hotel, I met Jenny in her convention dress: purple satin (I’m a dunce about such things, but that’s what it looked like to me) with matching high-heeled shoes: her first pair. She was like a doll. She had a corsage of artificial roses, and she gave me one. I wore it for the rest of the convention, and took it home: my memento of Jenny. Toni-Kay presented the painting she had brought: “Cats in the Window.” It showed a cluster of the softest, furriest cats sitting in a boarded cobwebbed window frame. Jenny collects cats; there are twelve at her home, because no stray can be allowed to go unrescued. By one of those supernatural coincidences, the wrapping paper Toni-Kay had chosen matched the shade of Jenny’s fancy dress.
Then Richard Pini and I took Jenny to the art exhibit, along with her parents and the therapists from the hospital and Toni-Kay and Barbara, so it was a party of nine or ten. Jenny indicated which paintings she liked, and Jenny’s mother entered bids for them. Jenny was really quite choosy; her mind is all there, and only the connections between it and her body are weak. Ron Lindahn gave her his personal tour of his art on display, which art was most impressive; he and his wife Val were the Art Guests of Honor for this convention. I have associated with him for two years, since meeting him at the World Fantasy Con in Nashville and making the compact to produce the Xanth Calendars. Kelly Freas, the dean of genre artists, came to say hello; Jenny met him at a convention years ago, as a child long before the accident, and he remembered her.
We emerged to the main hall, and the folk of the convention came to meet Jenny. She was the center of attention, surrounded by people, while Richard Pini and I stood back and watched, ignored. That was exactly the way we wanted it. It was Jenny’s hour. There was a small woman in an Elfquest costume, and three huge Klingons from Star Trek who kissed Jenny’s cheek and posed with her for photographs. Jenny has on occasion been treated by other children at the hospital as if she is retarded; she is not, and it was infuriating. She just can’t talk or move well. Here at the convention there was none of that; no one talked down to her. They even presented her with an award for best costume.
Finally she had to retire to her room, because she can’t remain sitting for long. She was very tired, but also very happy. She hoped to come out again after resting, but couldn’t make it. It was unfortunate that everything had to be jammed into a single day; originally she was to stay for the whole convention, so that her excursions could be properly spaced. But the convention folk had done everything I hoped for, and made it a phenomenal experience for her. Jenny was like Cinderella at the Ball, the center of attention for the occasion.
I signed autographs at 5 P.M. After forty-five minutes someone came up and reported “You’ll be glad to know that the end of the line is now in the building.” It’s a good thing we limited it to one title per person! Someone gave me some homemade chocolate chip cookies; I was amidst signing and didn’t catch the name, to my regret.
Then we saw Jenny off. They tucked her Xanth cushion behind her head—my wife made that for her, and she keeps it with her—, loaded her into her wheelchair, and the wheelchair into the van and she was gone. She was tired, and I understand was falling asleep already, and that was surely best. But for me, and I think for many others, it was like the lights going down; the main event was over. She had been queen for a day, but now it was done.
In the early evening Richard Pini and I met with Kirby McCauley, who represents both of us, to discuss details of the graphic adaptation of Isle of View. Normally an agent represents the writer against the publisher, but this is a special project I’m into for love rather than money; my only concern was that the contract be fair to all parties. I hope the adaptation is a wild success and sells millions of copies and makes everyone rich—but I’ll settle for Jenny Elf coming to life in pictures as Jenny’s fantasy self.
I went to the Green Room, reserved for guests (as opposed to fans), and inquired what leftovers there were, as I had not had time for supper, and lunch had been those doughnuts. They dug up tofu salad, bagels and hot chocolate, being most accommodating. In fact the convention proprietors were good throughout; I told them how much I appreciated the way they treated Jenny. They knew that I had attended only for Jenny; in fact the program book lists me as the guest of Jennifer Elf, and they donated the proceeds of their Sketch-A-Thon to the Ronald McDonald House in Jenny’s name. I think that came to something like $900. I don’t have much use for McDonald’s, but I certainly approve of their House, which serves the families of those in distress, as it did for Jenny’s family when the accident was new and it was uncertain whether Jenny would live, let alone recover.
There were other programs, such as the Costume Dance, but that started at 11 P.M., past my bedtime. I would have stayed up for it if I could have gone with Jenny. As it was, I read myself to sleep on Conan the Defiant by Steve Perry; it was one of several books he sent me, when we were setting up for a collaborative project which I then scuttled for reasons unrelated to his merit as a writer. (I turned out six novels—almost 700,000 words—in 1988, and it will be only four in 1989—but one is the 200,000-word historical Tatham Mound, perhaps the major novel of my career. My schedule for 1990 stands at five, and I was simply getting overextended.) They say that Robert Jordan is the best Conan writer, but I liked this Perry Conan better than the Jordan Conan I read. Which is not to disparage Jordan; I am highly impressed by his major fantasy.
Sunday morning I discovered what had been there all the time: a big basket of flowers and fruit sent by Jenny’s family. I am a professional writer, an experienced observer who notes the nuances as well as the larger picture in all things. So how come I can’t see what’s under my nose? Had my wife been with me, she would have noticed the basket as we entered the room. But she had to stay home to feed the horses, because both our daughters are now in college and can’t do it. This was the first time I had traveled alone since the 1966 Milford Conference. Why I don’t like to travel—oh, never mind.
So my meals thereafter consisted of wheat crackers, chocolate chip cookies, bananas, apples and grapes, all provided as gifts from those attending the convention. The pears, unfortunately, were like rocks, being unripe, and the apples were borderline; apparently the folk who provide these items are more interested in appearance than consumption. Thus the best intentions of those who pay
for these things are diverted by those who assemble them. I did not dare touch the oranges; the acid sensitizes my teeth, so that I can’t even brush them without pain. But the rest helped, and I got through, despite getting sensitive on the left side. Well, a week or so would see that fade. Why I don’t like to—forget it.
Ron Lindahn showed me eight of the pictures for the 1991 Xanth Calendar, and they were phenomenal; the artists are outdoing themselves, and it should be an even better calendar than the 1990 edition. I suspect that the existing one is already just about the best calendar in the genre. (I know, I know; let’s just leave the critics out of this. They always have another opinion. I should mention, however, that there is also an Elfquest Wolfriders Calendar for 1990, and yes, Jenny has one of those too.) I am the sponsor of the Xanth Calendars; I pay for them, Ron Lindahn makes them up, and then we sell the package to the publisher for printing and distribution. That way there is no editorial interference, and we can do the best job for the calendar and the artists. Now if only we can get better distribution …
At 10 A.M. I joined Guest of Honor Todd Hamilton for autographing the Visual Guide to Xanth only. We were ready, the fans were ready—but it seemed that every copy of the book in eastern Virginia had sold out and neither stores nor distributor had any more. Now this might be taken as an indication of really hot selling—but the truth was unfortunately mundane. The publisher and distributor had simply not provided enough copies. There is nothing like a self-fulfilling prophecy: decide which books will not sell, and distribute few enough copies to guarantee it, never mind how many folk actually want to buy them. It is not the first time I have been rendered from a best-selling author to a low-selling author by the carelessness of others. I had not even received my author’s copies, though the book had been on sale for several weeks; Ricia Mainhardt had gotten some from the publisher, and she gave me one for myself and one I could take, suitably autographed, to Jenny. Thus it was that I discovered significant errors in the volume. Sigh. I had gone over the text, but hadn’t seen the late charts and illustrations. Most of the fans simply could not get copies, so the signing was a fair flop. This is unfortunately typical. When writers take over the world, things will be run better. Why I don’t like to travel to autograph: begin a list. At any rate, I took advantage of the slack to introduce Toni-Kay to Todd, who gave her advice on marketing her art and passed her on to Ron Lindahn, who gave her more that I hope will enable her to move forward in a career in art. In art, as in writing, there are folk who have talent but who aren’t into the swing of marketing; the right advice can make a significant difference. You need everything to make it: talent, persistence, good advice, luck and compromise.
At noon I went to the panel on Marketing Your Writing which I shared with my agent Kirby McCauley and Ricia Mainhardt, also an agent. My name was underlined, which meant I was the moderator. Ha! I grabbed the mike and started joking about agents. But I think we did manage to provide some solid comment and advice for hopeful writers, and I think it was a good panel.
As soon as it was over, we bugged out. I had a date with Jenny at the hospital. Her father drove me up there; it was about seventy-five miles through lovely autumn-turning forest. It was a nice place, in a parklike setting, with a number of separate buildings. Jenny’s ward was much like a nursery school, only with children of all ages. All of them are there for rehabilitation; their degree of incapacity differs. I suspect that two with the greatest body limitation and most alert minds are Jenny and her former roommate Kathy.
I asked whether Kathy could join us, and she came in her powered wheelchair, which she can control with her right hand on a button. Her range of motion seems almost as limited as Jenny’s, but she can control the wheelchair and also use her little computer to activate preprogrammed sentences. Her ailment has drawn her mouth up so that her upper teeth and gums show, and she is smaller than Jenny though about six years older. What she lacks in appearance she makes up in personality; she is a sweet girl. It is a fault of our species that we tend to judge by physical appearance rather than inner nature, and folk like Jenny and Kathy suffer unfairly. I had the impression that Kathy was thrilled to have been invited.
I showed Jenny the original drawing from Visual Guide to Xanth that Todd Hamilton gave her. I gave her the copy of the Visual Quide which Todd and I had autographed for her. Then I presented a little gift of my own: a “magic” quartz crystal, set with a small purple amethyst, on a silver chain. “You expected a red amethyst?” Jenny finger-spelled archly to her father. I put it on her, fumbling with the tiny catch. I gave another to Kathy, with a red garnet inset, surely surprising her. Then we went into Jenny’s room so I could read to them in private.
What I read was “Tappy,” a story I wrote twenty-six years ago and wasn’t able to sell. I regard it as the most sensitive one I have done. Two years ago I placed it as the first chapter of the ten-author Light Years novel, but when that project foundered I bought it back (actually I’m buying the entire project) and converted it to a collaboration with Philip Josée Farmer, in which we alternate chapters. Why go to all this trouble for a story? Well, it’s a special one, and who would pass up a chance to collaborate with Farmer, one of the remarkable authors of the genre?
So I read it to the two girls, and I believe they liked it. It is an adult story about Tappy, a thirteen-year-old mute girl who was maimed and blinded in the accident that killed her father, orphaning her as a child. The protagonist is a twenty-two-year-old hopeful artist hired to drive her to a clinic in another state. As he comes to know Tappy, his doubts about the nature of his job increase; he fears she is to be incarcerated in an institution so she won’t be an embarrassment to her guardians. He stops at a motel in the Green Mountains of Vermont, reads to her from The Little Prince, takes her hiking to a mountaintop that seems to fascinate her, and treats her like the human being she is. But he is too feeling; when he attempts to comfort her, he is swept by emotion and makes love to her. He is horrified, well understanding the law on statutory rape. But Tappy gains confidence as he loses it, and leads him up the mountain again at night. At dawn she draws him into a large rock which had been solid by day; it is a portal to elsewhere. Neither of them has reason to remain, in our world, and this is their escape. Phil Farmer, in the second chapter, describes the alien world they emerge in, with strange creatures and plants, and an enormous space ship. The novel is on its way.
I read this story because aspects of it are similar to Jenny’s situation: Jenny is thirteen, and severely hurt in an accident. Tappy is blind; Jenny is paralyzed. Both are mostly mute, but can hear and understand perfectly. The story’s protagonist is a hopeful artist; so is Jenny. Tappy faced the cruelty of indifference or censure by others, because of her condition; so does Jenny. It was a calculated risk, reading a story involving statutory rape to Jenny, but I felt that it is not appropriate to censor adult material that relates so nicely to her situation. The “safe” course would be to read Xanth, with its puns and simple elements, but how long can a person exist on only that level? “Tappy” relates to what is real, despite being the lead-in to what is fantastic. So I risked it, and hope that what I did was right.
Jenny said she liked the story, and I saw Kathy’s flash of pleasure when I described the phenomenal new world to which Tappy went. So perhaps the reading was a success. I have read to audiences of hundreds with less trepidation than this! I came to the convention to meet and talk to Jenny, and to read to her, and all the rest of the convention was less important to me than my interaction with Jenny. I never concealed this from the folk of the convention. Instead of being annoyed, they applauded my attitude.
Kathy touched a button on her computer, and it said “Please sign my point sheet.” They get points for good behavior and progress, and can use these points somewhat like money for privileges. It’s an incentive system that seems to work. The therapists have to sign the sheets, documenting the points earned in each session. What she wanted was an autograph, so I autographed th
e margin of her point sheet. Then of course Jenny wanted hers autographed too.
As I was leaving, Jenny spelled out something. Her father translated: I had called her Kathy instead of Jenny. Sigh; I do make such slips, and she had caught me.
On the drive back we saw a deer, a stag, standing by the side of the highway. He finally bounded back into the forest. Then we saw a cat who threatened to dash in front of the car, but finally got off the road. Jenny and her mother are vegetarians, as I am; nobody in her family runs over animals.
Back at the convention I talked with Jenny’s family, and we went to the late show: we had missed the Lindahns' slide show, but they were rerunning it for the convention personnel. I had not attended a single convention function other than those where I was onstage; I had been busy with autographings, Jenny, and meetings with professionals. Sometime I would like to go to a convention and see the sights and attend the programs, as ordinary fans do, but I fear that is not feasible. The slide show was of Ron and Val Lindahn’s paintings, with a musical background, and it was impressive and evocative. They are great artists and great people; I respected Richard Pini and Ron Lindahn before, but after seeing how they treated Jenny, I respect them more. I was also impressed with the convention itself, for similar reason; they all worked together to make this perhaps the greatest experience of Jenny’s life since the accident.
Ron Lindahn had me sign his autograph book, in which each person addresses the subject of the Meaning of Life. I pondered, and wrote: “Honor Compassion Realism” and signed it. Each of these words bespeaks volumes in my philosophy.
Monday morning I checked out, using my MasterCard for the first time; it actually worked! I had half expected it to malfunction, because that’s the nature of things when I try to handle them. I remember the one time I tried to make the ATM cash vending machine work; it kept giving me error messages, until my wife explained that it was registering cents instead of dollars, and it didn’t give out cents. Then why was it registering them? I was just supposed to know without being told that a machine that handled only dollars nevertheless registered numbers in cents. Evidently that makes sense (or cents) to the rest of the world. At any rate my bill was in order, except that they had charged me two dollars more for my restaurant breakfast than the bill had showed at the time. I had left a two-dollar tip on the table; maybe they added it to my bill. I don’t claim to comprehend the logic of the world. That two dollars for the tip was the only cash I spent on the trip, which perhaps suggests how I handle money.
Letters to Jenny Page 21