Then I received a query from another reader, who noted that some of my recent novels didn't have Author's Notes: had I died? she inquired worriedly. I tried to reassure her; I remain reasonably healthy for my age.

Ah, yes: health. A study was published which showed that vitamin C does halt a cold. For decades the medical profession has disparaged this notion, claiming that there is no way to stop a cold, when actually this is one of several. I am glad to see that the experts are finally trying it, instead of condemning it untried. Another way to stop a cold is heat. I wonder whether this attitude of condemning things untried is like prayer: you have to have faith.

The doctors had faith in what wouldn't work, so never had to try it. But those of us with open minds suffer fewer colds.

Meanwhile, how is my career doing? Two lady editors came to see me at this time about a seven-figure offer

—which I did not feel free to accept, because it threatened to commit me too far ahead. It's like signing a contract with Satan: once you take the money, you had better be prepared to deliver. I wasn't quite sure I was ready. I want to get some less commercial projects done before returning to the solidly paying ones. But never fear; I do not sneer at commercial writing. I just don't want to be totally governed by it.

At this time my Xanth Pin-Up Calendar was also progressing: luscious half-ladies of many kinds, painted by a number of top genre artists. But we discovered that the publishers had already locked in their calendars for 1989; we had to postpone ours until the calendar year 1990. Sigh.

I received two letters that put me into a dilemma: both were requests that I agree to complete the novels of hopeful writers who had died. One had been killed at the age of sixteen in an auto accident; the other had been murdered at age twenty-two. Now, I hate untimely death, and hate to have the hopes of aspiring writers cut off. But death is no guarantee that the manuscripts are good ones. So I demurred, but did look at one—and it will be the next novel I do, as a collaboration with a dead teenager: Through the Ice.

Let's see: I promised to get into our new house. Those who hate such detail should now tune out; it's a long story. We got books of designs and pored over them, getting notions for this feature and that. One that appealed was based on George Washington's house, with curving wings for a garage on one side and a guest house on the other.