Meet Me at Infinity by James Tiptree Jr. Page B

“Press Until the Bleeding Stops” (on August 31), the latter with the short note: “This one is just bare-faced pain.” Ferman rejected that on October 31, and she sent it to Ted White at Amazing on November 22. When he rejected it, she retired the story.
    In a letter to me on November 23,1973, Tiptree wrote:
     
    Hey, I’ll tell you a secret. Being an incurable weirdo, I decided to send out a couple stories under an assumed name—sorry, I mean a nom de plume. So far neither have sold—the same editors who are ragging me for stuff bounced ‘em out of the slush-pile! Instructive, eh?… I’m just stubborn enough to keep on with it.
    I’ll let you know if one sells. Private entre nous, right?
     
    Earlier, in an undated letter to me (circa Sep. 72), Tiptree told me of:
     
    … an old pal of mine who does drawings. She goes by the name of Raccoona, her own name having been, she feels, used up by a high-voltage media star so it no longer belongs to her. I enclose a sheet of doodles I extracted from her pad… I think she may try writing again, she did once. Doesn’t take herself seriously.
     
    In my reply I said, “Perhaps some time the two of you might be able to work up some words and pictures collaboration. Some of her drawings look a lot like some of your writing.”
    A year later, in the same November 23,1973, letter:
     
    Oh, listen, before I end this—talk about the surprises of people, remember my asking you about drawing because of this Wisconsin friend, “Raccoona” Sheldon? Well, she never sent any drawings but she did send me, I mean, gave me when I was there, a couple very short pieces of writing. One I don’t understand too well, but the other is quite moving. A sort of ecology fantasy, only—pause for scrabbling in my cartoons—6V2 pages of real big type. Want me to send it along? Even if you have no use for it, she’d be delighted to hear any comments. As I think I mentioned, she’s a shy type. Retreated up there after god knows what. But cheerful. (All my old friends are cheerful. We have to be.) I dunno why no drawings, maybe she’s secretly into writing. She has a lot of nuisancy family to take care of—what the world puts on people…
     
    The story was sent to me in January 1974. As usual, there were hand-corrections on it, and at the last minute Alii, afraid that I would recognize them as Tiptree’s, rolled the letter back into the typewriter and typed this out-of-alignment P.S.: “Looking it over I see my hash-tracks and recall I fixed it up a trifle. With her consent, I’m like you persnicky about other people’s mss. Maybe you like her version better.”
    I accepted it a couple weeks later: “It’s really nice. Weird. I’ll keep it and run it in Kyben someday soon. I’ll drop her a line and tell her so. Thanks for passing it on.” I ended up publishing it in the first issue of a new fanzine, Kha-tru, in February 1975.

Go from Me, I Am One of Those Who Pall (a parody of my style)
    Scene: A deserted slaughterhouse, early Sunday morning
    Heroine, stark naked except for a pair of thumbscrews, staggers out of a badly tousled bed. A large box of ten-penny nails falls to the floor. Bed bursts into flames.
    Heroine: “Oh my God, the milkman!”
    Struggles into a hair shirt, opens door.
    Heroine, standing on doorstep: “The air! To breathe the diamond elixir of the great world! Oh, my electric nerves! Where is the milk?”
    Snatches up scrap of lavender johnny paper.
    Heroine, writing furiously: “I must have more milk! The smoldering fires in my bones must be quenched. My blind hunger must be assuaged. What do they call that stuff with the vitamin B in it? Oh, this struggle to communicate!”
    Milkman is heard approaching. Heroine tears off hair shirt.
    Milkman: “All right, Miss, what’ll it be?”
    Heroine: “So! You too are committed!”
    Flings herself around Milkman’s midriff.
    Milkman: “Hey!”
    Heroine, choking: “My love, my love! Mine! Loneliness is finished