So, Janey, who’d you get? I got good old Uther Pendragon. Not my first choice, necessarily, as a writing partner—I’d kinda hoped to get one of those fledgling girl-type eroticists—you know, shy and demur and sublimely nubile on the surface, and hot, HOT, steamy-juicy HOT inside—and together we’d plumb the depths, explore the crannies, mine the riches of collaborative sexual expression.

At least with Pendragon I thought I’d learn something about the craft of erotic writing, but the man is awfully grumpy, and when I asked him what I could do to help, he pointed to a crate over in the dark corner of the huge room and said, “Sharpen those.” The crate, once I’d crowbarred it open, revealed a dozen cases of Purist pencils, 12 #2 pencils to each packet, 12 packets to the case. And Uther apparently doesn’t believe in electricity. He handed me a tiny wooden implement—a pencil sharpener in the shape of a lion. My wrists soon got so sore.

In a few minutes I had a dozen done. That should be enough, I thought. “How’s this?” I showed Uther the gleaming carbon tips.

“You’re wasting the most of them,” Uther grumbled. “Do them all the way down. Do them all.” Then he turned back to his writing.

As I did his bidding, I tried to get a peek around his shoulders, but Uther’s a big man and he has wide shoulders, perhaps from swinging one of those pole axes. Various old battle instruments hang crossed upon the walls here; they have handles of hardened wood worn smooth with use, and metal blades heavy as boat anchors yet dangerously sharp-looking despite (or maybe because of) the stains. Pencil after pencil I ground down to nearly nothing.

And why Uther might want to work with nubs I didn’t know. After several more hours at my chore, trying to keep my mind occupied with more pleasant thoughts, centuries of sweet sixteen-year-olds’ virgin nipples, for example, I told Uther I was finished. “Now can I...”

“The scraps?” Uther asked. “What have you done with the shavings?”

“Oh, I cleaned them up.”

“Cleaned them up?”

“Threw them in the fireplace. They burn nice.”

“Those are for Fast Show’s litter box,” Uther intoned. Then he sighed. Then he said, “Open that closet.” His burly forefinger pointed to a sturdy door. I did as he asked. Inside—stacks and stacks of crates, each stenciled with the Purist pencil insignia. I took a deep breath. A tiny gray kitten was nudging my ankles. The wee thing was mewing piteously. “Your kitten is named Fast Show?” I asked. “All my kittens are named Fast Show,” Uther said. He turned back to his work. Uther grumbles as he writes; he crouches around the parchment like a bear devouring raw honey. Meanwhile I sat in the ill-lit corner whittling down the pencils, and the kitten watched me with big, slightly-worried eyes, and my wrists ached. “When you’re done...” Uther said. It was an hour later and I was nowhere near done, but I was more than ready for the next task. “What?” I said, trying not to sound too eager. “Foolscap,” he said. “Foolscap?” “Foolscap.” “Oh sure,” I said, “Foolscap.” So, Janey, do you know where I might get foolscap? Do you know what it is? What it’s used for? I don’t want to fail at this. So far, though, this collaborating isn’t at all what I thought it’d be.