they accepted Strange Highways with enthusiasm.
    "Bruno," a science-fiction parody of a private-eye story (!), is just meant to be a 
hoot. I revised and updated it from the original text and had a darn good time with it. 
As you know, virtually all my novels since Watchers have included substantial comic 
elements. Since most of the stories in this book do not have comic elements, I was 
itching to balance the tone with some flat-out silliness, and "Bruno" seemed to do the 
trick.
    "Twilight of the Dawn" is my personal favorite of all the short fiction that I have 
written-and the piece that has generated the most mail in spite of appearing in a 
relatively obscure anthology. I think it appeals to people because it is about faith and 
hope-but is not in the least sentimental. The narrator is a cold fish for most of the 
story, and when he is eventually humanized through personal suffering and tragedy, his 
grudging admission that life may have meaning is effective. At least it was for me when I 
was writing the piece.
    Finally, "Trapped" originally appeared in an anthology titled Stalkers, with an 
introduction that some readers say they enjoyed a great deal. So here's what I said about 
it then:
    A major national magazine, which shall remain nameless, asked my agent if I would be 
willing to write a two-part novella dealing with genetic engineering, scary but not too 
bloody, incorporating a few of the elements of Watchers (my novel that dealt with the 
same subject). They offered excellent pay; furthermore, the appearance of the piece in 
two successive issues would reach many millions of readers, providing considerable 
exposure. I'd long had the idea for "Trapped." In fact, it predated Watchers, and after 
writing that novel, I figured that I'd never do the novella because of the similarities. 
Now someone wanted the piece precisely because of those similarities.
    Well, hey, kismet. I seemed destined to write the story. It would be a nice break 
between long novels. Nothing could be easier, huh?
    Every writer is an optimist at heart. Even if his work trades in cynicism and 
despair, even if he is genuinely weary of the world and cold in his soul, a writer is 
always sure that the end of the rainbow will inevitably be found on the publication date 
of his next novel. "Life is crap," he will say, and seem to mean it, and a moment later 
will be caught dreamily ruminating on his pending elevation by critics to the pantheon of 
American writers and to the top of the New York Times best-seller list.
    The aforementioned magazine had certain requirements for the novella. It had to be 
between twenty-two and twenty-three thousand words. It had to divide naturally into two 
parts, slightly past the midpoint. No problem. I set to work, and in time I delivered to 
specifications, without having to strain or contort the tale.
    The editors loved the piece. Couldn't wait to publish it. They virtually pinched my 
cheeks with pleasure, the way your grandma does when she hears that you received a good 
report card and that you are not into satanic rock 'n' roll or human sacrifices, the way 
that other eight-year-olds are.
    Then a few weeks passed, and they came back and said, "Listen, we like this so much 
that we don't want the impact of it to be diluted by spreading it over two issues. It 
should appear in a single issue. But we don't have room for quite this much fiction in 
one issue, so you'll have to cut it." Cut it? How much? "In half."
    Having been commissioned to produce a two-parter of a certain length, I might have 
been justified if I had responded to this suggestion with anger and a sullen refusal to 
discuss the matter further. Instead, I banged my head against the top of my desk, as hard 
as I could, for ... oh, for about half an hour. Maybe forty minutes. Well, maybe even 
forty-five minutes, but surely no longer. Then, slightly dazed and with oak splinters 
from the desk embedded in my forehead, I called my agent and suggested an alternative. If 
I put in another week or so on the piece, with much effort, I might be able to pare it 
down as far as eighteen to nineteen thousand words, but that would be all I could do if I 
was to hold fast to the story values that made me want to write "Trapped" in the first 
place.
    The magazine editors considered my proposal and decided that if the story could be 
printed in slightly smaller type than they usually employed, the new length would fit 
within their space limitations. I sat down at my word processor again. A week later the 
work was done-but I had even more oak splinters in my head, and the top of the desk 
looked like hell.
    When the new version was finished-and just as it was being submitted-the editors 
decided that eighteen to nineteen thousand words were still too many, that the solution 
offered by a smaller than usual type size was too problematic, and that about four or 
five thousand more words would have to come out. "Not to worry," I was assured, "we'll 
cut it for you."
    Fifteen minutes later, my desk collapsed from the additional pounding (and to this 
day, it is necessary for me to apply lemon-oil polish to my forehead once a week, because 
the ratio of wood content to flesh is now so high that the upper portion of my facial 
structure is classified as furniture by federal law).
    Apparently, major magazines often fiddle with writers' prose, and writers don't care 
much. But I sure care, and I can't bear to relinquish authorial control to anyone. 
Therefore, I asked that the script be returned, told them that they could keep their 
money, and put "Trapped" on the shelf, telling myself that I had not really wasted weeks 
and weeks of my time but had, in fact, come out of the affair with a valuable lesson: 
Nota bene-never write for a major national magazine, on commission, unless you are able 
to hold the editor's favorite child hostage through publication date of the issue that 
contains your work.
    Shortly thereafter, a fine suspense writer named Ed Gorman called to say that he was 
editing an anthology of stories about stalkers and people being stalked. "Trapped" came 
instantly to my mind.
    Kismet.
    Maybe it makes sense to be an eternal optimist.
    Anyway, that's how "Trapped" came to be written, that's why it contains elements 
familiar to readers of Watchers, and that's why, if you see me some day, you'll notice 
that my forehead has a lovely oaken luster. 



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