Read Online The Fantasy Writer’s Assistant by Jeffrey Ford - Free Book Online Page B

“If only Kreekaw would come,” I thought, “and snatch this frustration from my troubled sleep.”
    I was into my second semester of college and succeeding in the time-honored tradition, when one day UPS delivered a package for me at my parents’ house. My mother called me, and I came downstairs, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. I had been up late reading Swift’s “Battle of the Books” for an exam. She handed me the brown parcel, planted a dry kiss on my cheek, and then left for work.
    Opening the mailer, I slipped out the contents—a brand new, fat, hardcover book. A thrill ran through me when I saw that it was a copy of The Butcher of Malfeasance . Of course, I dropped the mailer and paged frantically to the end of the novel, to the part I had been responsible for. Five pages from the end, I picked up the narrative where Glandar faces off against the monster by the edge of the cliff. Reading it was an experience I will never forget, for Ashmolean had used my exact words. I ran my fingers over the print on the page and when it didn’t brush away, I thought to myself, I created this .
    I saw the battle take place before my eyes just as I had seen it in Ashmolean’s office the day I dictated it to him. The oaths and all were there, perfectly rendered. But when I read to where the ocean washed the fallen bodies out to sea, there was another whole page of writing.
    Puzzled, I continued to find that Glandar returns that night to Kreegenvale. Soaking wet, with urchins in his hair and seaweed wrapped around his neck, he steps into a room of mourners. They rejoice, the flagons are passed, and he tells how the elastic body of the Malfeasance saved him from the fall. Although he almost drowned, he managed to fight the current and come ashore three miles down the coast. Then the novel ends on a high note, promising more drinking, wenching, and wielding to come.
    â€œWhat the hell is this?” I said aloud. A few minutes later, after reinspecting the mailer, I found my answer. In my rush to see my words in print, I had missed the letter from Ashmolean that was addressed to me:
    Dear Mary:
    I’m sorry, but I had to change your ending a little. Think of all the future royalties I would have lost had I let Glandar die. I’m not ready to kill him off just yet—everyone needs a fantasy. He sends his best and apologizes for his part in the fiction I created for you. I knew from the day I met you that you were smart, that you loved books and ideas. I would have realized that even if I hadn’t made a phone call to your school before you even came to the interview. They told me about your place on the edge of the field. I know that place. There are other places you need to go as well. Sometimes an act of destruction can be an act of creation. I felt you needed that to begin your journey. I believe that as your obsessed, blinded, fantasy writer, I was the best character I ever created. What good is the illusion of fiction if it cannot show us a way to become the people we need to be? Glandar says, “Be courageous, squeeze every ounce out of life, and live with honor.” Simple but still not a bad message to sometimes remember in this complex world. I did this because I knew someday you might become a writer, but that you needed a little help. Glad to be of assistance.
    Ashmolean
    At first I was confused, but I read the letter again and laughed like a believer. I never took my test on Swift that day, but instead went to the kitchen and made a pot of coffee. Then, I returned to my room and over the course of two days, my mother and father calling to me from the other side of the locked door, I wrote this story.

This was the first story I published in The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction— the realization of a life-long dream. “The Fantasy Writer’s Assistant” was nominated for a Nebula Award and is probably my best known story. Gordon Van Gelder, in his