Tyree's Tuppence

by Tyree Campbell

Meanderings At The End Of the Year

Sometime toward the end of this century a burly man with hair on his arms and a tattoo on his what's-is will stomp into the library of the University of West Virginia in Morgantown, WV, to deliver unto the archivists therein the notes, working papers, and personal letters of the famous Erin Donahoe. He will leave at the desk dozens of crates containing thousands upon thousands of McClafferty's beverage coasters.

Erin will be among the fortunate. She'll have a whole wing of the library, complete with tavern, named for her. They'll stow her picket fence of Rhyslings on the mantelpiece above the fireplace. Still, I daresay the record she leaves behind will be incomplete. It probably will not contain many of my letters to her, or of hers to me. Or of her other letters...

Y'see, right now it is 25 November 2002 as I compose this. Erin and I have been writing each other for almost eighteen months. We're collaborating on an illustrated dark fantasy novel titled Aoife's Kiss [where the name for the magazine came from, riiiiight!]. It's an on-and-off project. We have distractions. She's studying for a JD [legal thing...has to do with something called jurisprudence], and I'm involved in a lot of other projects which need no enumeration here. We'll finish the novel, by and by. But that's not the point.

We've gotten to know one another during this collaboration. Not all of our missives concern our writing. We've talked about things we feel, believe, like, dislike. We've given and taken advice on matters. We've discussed some things that are better left on coasters until we are both long gone. Oh, no, nothing sordid...but we've told each other some things in confidence, which is, after all, what good friends do. These things would be of interest, perhaps, only to researchers who want to know who Erin Donahoe really was and who plan to write a treatise or possibly an historical appendage to her biography.

[And they'll probably wonder who the smeg I was].

Difficult times are ahead for biographers and historians, for people who conduct research into the thoughts of the famous minds of a particular period of time...say, from 1990 onward. The records, by and large, are not going to be there.

Historiographic research used to be easier. For example, somewhere in a hope chest, or a cedar cabinet, or perhaps taped to the back of a dresser drawer, is a sheaf of pastel envelopes, pink or blue or mauve, with the faintest scent of Charlie or Lady Stetson [or, perhaps, in Erin's case, Hai Karate] still lingering around them. These envelopes contain letters which are, or should have been, written in purple ink. "Dearest Poopsy-Woopsy." "My Darling Tangerine." That sort of thing. And in each letter, following the dulcet salutation, will be a few paragraphs that would send Hugh Hefner scurrying for an unabridged dictionary, and a few paragraphs of current difficulties. Imagine:

"My beloved Mynxie,

"Each day is torture without the soft alabaster of your skin against mine as we plummet into the cauldron of desire fed by passion which once was lust but is now the deepest form of unbridled and unending yearningness. I cannot wait to feel your arms around me again, to know that your tangy sweetness once more surrounds my zesty zucchini, and to fall once more into the abyss of you.

"Oh, and I received another rejection slip for "Loose Lips" today. I've no idea how I'll pay the rent next month.

"Love and XXX

"Your Igor"

Nevermore shall we read the likes of that [and some would say, "And a good thing, too"]. And such a great loss.

Seriously.

No longer are the private notes cacheted and secreted away, inaccessible to one's current love. No more "working papers" for the Great American Novel. Instead we have working_notes.doc. Instead we have a subdirectory labeled Correspondence. And whenever we upgrade, how much of our private selves is lost forever?

Yeh, I'm guilty, too. Little remains of the working notes and character sketches for Nyx [my novel...see the Sam's Dot Library, and pardon my shilling], except a notes001.wps with about fifteen kbs in it. But I'm starting to save documents in hardcopy now. Slowly I'm accumulating boxes of the stuff, all properly sorted, all clearly labeled. Perhaps one day, a century from now, someone somewhere will want to know what I really told Erin Donahoe...

[Psst! And Dot, dear, if you are reading this, and you saved all my letters, which you probably did, please remember that we were only seventeen, and had no real idea what we were saying to one another. Because, dear, if you should feel the need to bring these matters to the light of day, I might remember a certain hot summer night in the back seat of the Dodge in Shreveport...:-)]

Brings back memories...

Speaking of which...

I don't want to sound hokey or maudlin at this time of year, but I think Jim Baker is pleased with what we've done these past few months. The magazines he founded are still going strong. We're publishing illustrated storybooks and poetrybooks, and we have some other things to sell. It was always Jim's wish that some money would start coming back...and it is. Slowly, we are earning a solid, positive reputation.

I'm almost afraid to thank everyone by name, because there are so many, and I am certain to leave someone out. But here goes:

J Alan Erwine: thanks for webbing, or whatever the verb is. Sam's Dot goes as far as you can take us. Should prove quite a journey...

Cathy Buburuz: indispensable advice and insights, hard work and dedication to the product, encouragement, and a prod when necessary. Thanks for Champagne Shivers and Expressions Newsletter.

Andree Gendron: the goddess of Creators Club is still looking for more contributions to the main project, and I and others keep promising. She is so patient with us. And I know Cathy has a special thanks for her as well.

Erin Donahoe: go raith maith agat, mo chara.

Teri Santitoro, Janis Marshall, Jennifer Cawthorne, Sandy DeLuca: together with Cathy, Erin, and Andree, these are the illustrators for Sam's Dot's storybooks and poetrybooks. Couldn't do it without you all.

Marge Simon and Bruce Boston: your support through the difficult times has helped more than you know.

And to all the writers, poets, illustrators, artists, creators, and dreamers who have found their expression in the zines of ProMartian Publishing and Sam's Dot Publishing: thanks. Happy Thanksgiving, Happy Holidays...all the very best to all those I've come to know, and all those I'll come to know.

And stick around...it gets better.