-or may, who knows, end up well off?
What snags us into this madness? It’s those phone calls which arrive and inform you that Ischade has gone to hell, but will be back in time to meet schedule in your section, or that tell you there’s something nasty lying in your back garden, or that Strat has this terrible compulsion to come back to Ischade’s house even knowing what she is.
We have our peculiar rhythms, too. Morris always moves first; she sends me what she’s done, and then I know what I’m going to do. I am occasionally tempted to ask her where she gets her ideas, because try as I will to get started, nothing happens for me until I hear from Morris. Duane and I occasionally discuss things. And Abbey and Asprin and I. And Abbey and Asprin and everybody else, some of whom probably consult with each other and don’t tell me or Morris or
Duane. As in real-world politics, we don’t know all the alliances that exist in this town.
Then the organization happens. Abbey and Asprin fling themselves under the wheels of the juggernaut, writing last, bringing the whole scheming mass of us to coherency and making it sound as if we had always known what we were doing and where it was going, all of which is illusion. Usually we know the season of the year, and the situation at the start. Period. The rest works by rumor and inspiration.
Revenge is part of what makes it work. And partnerships and pair-ups. Writers are a curious lot, with expertise in the eclectic and the esoteric: You want to know how Minoan plumbing worked? Ask me. You want to know something medical? Ask