In his preface to Three Plays for Puritans, George Bernard Shaw extols the virtues of prefaces and berates Shakespeare for never writing one. "I would give half a dozen of Shakespear's ^{(Shaw had his own unique way of spelling things. Shaw had his own unique way of doing practically everything.)} plays for one of the prefaces he ought to have written."

Far be it from me to take sides in the famous (one-sided) fight between Shaw and Shakespeare; but I confess, I like prefaces and enjoy reading what writers have to say about their writing. One of the great formative influences in my youth was the Dangerous Visions anthology edited by Harlan Ellison. Every story in the book started with an introduction by Ellison and ended with an afterword by the author—some of them chatty, some of them evasive, some of them talking about what goes through a writer's head as he or she tries to make a story work. It was the first time I really got a sense that people sat down and wrote this stuff: real people with real lives, not godlike beings who exuded words effortlessly. In Dangerous Visions, Ellison talked about getting together with these people, shooting the breeze, or maybe just walking with them down the streets of Greenwich Village…and the authors themselves talked about rewrites, struggling with characters, inventing details, and putting them down on the page.

This was a revelation to me when I was twelve or thirteen. It made writing real; it made the writers real. I won't say it made me think I could be a writer—I'd been writing stories since kindergarten, so writing was already in my blood—but it made me think of writing in a different way. Instead of tossing off imitations of stuff you saw on television, writing could be something you thought about: something you put your heart into rather than scribbling words as fast as possible so you could show off to all your friends.

Therefore, when I started to write the introduction to this book, I wanted to offer the same kind of inspiration to anyone reading this preface. I wanted to tell potential writers there's no magic involved: just work and discipline, gradually developing your insight and technical skills. There is, no doubt, some indefinable quality called talent, but neither you nor anyone else will ever be able to tell if you have it. All you can do is write and write and write—and of course, read and read and read—in the same way that Olympic marathoners simply run and run and run. (Yes, I know marathoners do more to train than just running…and there are useful training exercises for writers, too. But the heart of running is running, and the heart of writing is writing. Everything else is auxiliary.)

Unfortunately, when I tried to write that kind of inspirational material for this book, the results truly sucked. They reeked. They blew dead bears (as teenage boys were fond of saying around the time I read Dangerous Visions). The whole write-up was godawful claptrap, so utterly pompous and idiotic my computer started to make gagging sounds. It only went to prove another thing Shaw said in his introduction to Three Plays for Puritans: the reason many writers don't publish prefaces is that they can't write them.

So what can I say? If you want a good preface, go read Shaw or Dangerous Visions… or another of my favorites, Samuel R. Delany's preface to Distant Stars. All I'm going to do is talk about the stories in this book: how they came to be, why I wrote them, and perhaps what I think of them now.

One more note about talking about one's work. There's a story (probably false, but I still like it) that the first time Beethoven played his Moonlight sonata, someone came up to him afterward and said, "The music was very beautiful, sir, but what did it mean?"

Beethoven answered, "An excellent question. Here's what it meant." Whereupon he sat down at the piano and played the whole piece again.

I agree with Beethoven on this one—some things ought to speak for themselves. That's why I decided not to clutter up the stories themselves with forewords or afterwords. Instead, I'm putting all the chat right here in the preface, and it's up to you to decide if or when you want to read my commentaries.

A Note on the Text: It turns out short-story collections aren't magically assembled by pixies. This particular collection was put together by yours truly, starting with the story manuscripts as I originally wrote them, not as they finally appeared when published. In my experience, editors sometimes make tiny cosmetic tweaks before stories go to print…which only makes sense, considering these people are called editors. Anyway, I didn't want to go through the slogging dog-work of comparing my original text to the final printed version in order to make faithful copies of what was actually published. Instead I went through the slogging dog-work of perusing all the original texts and making my own cosmetic tweaks. In other words, I've lightly edited every story in this book to tighten up the language, make a few points more clearly, and so on.

That's the nice thing about being a writer—you can keep working on stories until you get them right.

And now for the commentaries…

"Muffin Explains Teleology to the World at Large": This is my most reprinted story, based on an idea I'd had for years before I finally found the right way to put it together. Believe it or not, the first time I tried to write a story on this premise, it was a sordid tale about a shipwrecked sailor and a dockside whore. I won't even try to explain how the one story changed into the other—I like Muffin too much to sully her reputation.

Incidentally, this was the first story in which I decided to have fun with the title. Science fiction stories typically have terse no-nonsense titles…and for a long time, I thought titles like that were absolutely necessary if you wanted to be taken seriously as a writer. Finally, of course, I realized what a ridiculous notion that was—not only did many great stories have out-and-out florid titles, but one doesn't always want to be "serious" anyway. Therefore, I chucked out my preconceptions on what titles "must" be and have felt better ever since.

"The Children of Crèche": Once upon a time, there was a thing called gonzo journalism. It's not entirely dead—I still stumble across delightfully over-the-top pieces of supposed reportage that are really just an excuse for mouthing off in extravagantly purple prose—but I fear the glory days of gonzo are gone, gone, gonzo. Readers of "Crèche" have told me they're sure I'm imitating someone, but they can't tell who. Sigh.

(The answer is I'm not imitating anyone specifically; I'm simply having flashbacks to Hunter S. Thompson, Tom Wolfe, Harlan Ellison in Tick-Tock mode, and a whole bunch of other writers who fed my gonzo cravings in the late sixties/early seventies. Hee-whack indeed.)

By the way, this is my earliest story featuring a scalpel. Don't ask me why, but scalpels keep popping up all over my writing…scalpels and mutilating corpses. It's a good thing I despise Freudian psychology, or I'd be really, really worried.

"Kent State Descending the Gravity Well: An Analysis of the Observer": This is the one story I've written as me, Jim Gardner, rather than from some fictional point of view. It's not quite a true story—I never actually sat down and wrote out the "scribbles" as they appear—but the ideas did cross my mind as I saw how the press tried to deal with the twentieth anniversary of the killings at Kent State University. Our beloved media (as they so often do) wrote around the facts without ever truly connecting to the reality of what happened.