Anne McCaffrey - Decision at Doona

“The herd drink it by the Iva,” he remarked scornfully. “Makes them sleep for hours.”

“It occupies them with something,” Hrrestan said.

“There is something here to keep them occupied,” Hrrula replied crisply, gesturing broadly at the quiet scene. “Something new and vital and stimulating, with a whole new set of experiences and problems.”

“Yes, it will not always be easy,” Hrrestan said thoughtfully, catching Ken's eyes.

Quickly Ken held his hand out, felt Hrrestan's furry palm touch his; extended his left hand to meet Hrrula's.

“We will always understand each other,” Ken vowed, his voice rough with feeling, “if we listen very hard.”

“I get what you mean,” Hrrula purred.

To be born as I was on April first imposes a challenge. In writing speculative fiction, I feel I have not failed the auspices of my natal day.

However, being 99 percent Irish indicates a certain perversity, so I tried out many other things before I settled down to write. I dabbled in the Theatre Arts, studied voice production for nine years before arriving at the horrifying conclusion that I was a better stage-director of opera than a singer. I capped off that facet with the production and stage-direction of the American premiere in Wilmington of Carl Orff's Ludus de Nato Infante Mirificus, which is not as far from speculative fiction as you might imagine.

I balance indifferent housekeeping with superb cooking, sew for anyone but myself, knit well and (would you believe?) embroider; am currently raising three children, five cats, and a french poodle; swim, sail ride horseback – western style by preference – collect Graustarkian romances, and resent being kept away from my typewriter by any one of the above-mentioned diversions.

My eyes are green, my hair is silver, and I freckle. The rest is subject to change without notice.

Anne McCaffrey, 1968