Last Plane to Heaven

Afterword

Once upon a time, I read a book.

It was on a college roommate’s shelf around 1984 or 1985. I picked the paperback up in a moment of careless boredom, sat down to idly turn a few pages, and was hooked forever. On the author, on the language, on the notion that fiction could be joyous, transcendent, and substantial. That novel was quite literally why I became a writer.

The book was Shadow of the Torturer, and the author was Gene Wolfe.

Once upon a time, I sold a story.

It was one of my first major market invitations. I was thrilled to send the manuscript to Peter Crowther of PS Publishing. The acceptance put me over the moon. Then the signature sheets for Postscripts issue one came around in the mail. This was one of the first times I’d ever had to work my way through a stack of a thousand loose papers. And the other names on the page. Oh, my. A who’s who of American genre fiction, from Ray Bradbury to Joyce Carol Oates and beyond. And some newcomer named Jay Lake.

The last name eventually to be signed on the page was that of my favorite author, Gene Wolfe.

Once upon a time, I went to an awards ceremony.

It was the Locus Awards in 2007 in Seattle. They were also holding an induction ceremony at the Science Fiction Hall of Fame. I was wandering about in the EMP building poking at things when I realized that one of the inductees had entered the hall early, presumably to rest his weary feet. I approached to congratulate him when he broke into a huge smile, turned to his wife, and said, “Rosemary, do you know who this is?”

I literally looked over my shoulder to see who it was that Gene Wolfe was so pleased to see. There was no one present but me.

Once upon a time, I contracted a fatal disease.

I am dying of metastatic colon cancer. Chances are very good that by the time these words reach print I will either be on my deathbed or in my grave. I don’t write anymore. A career that was first born in the 1980s as the merest dream, and blossomed in the 2000s after years of diligent effort, was finally stopped by a small mutation and some clusters of runaway cells that wouldn’t fill a cereal bowl.

Putting together my final collection, I was discussing with John Pitts who I might ask to write the introduction. We bandied about various names of people I liked and admired. John asked me who I would have if I could have any writer.

My answer of course was Gene Wolfe.

When I wrote him to very politely inquire of his interest, his response was instant and enthusiastic.

So I have come full circle, from following Severian the Torturer through the distant future past of Urth, to putting the finishing touches on a manuscript introduced by the man who introduced me to the idea of what writing could ever be.

My debts to the people in this field are immense and unredeemable. So many have helped me. So many have given me a hand. So many have given me the literary equivalent of a good thrashing when I needed it.

But my gratitude to the man who is almost literally my patron saint for helping me introduce this final collection to you knows no bounds. Neither does my gratitude to you for reading it.

I love you all. It has been a real privilege to know you.