 |
 |
 |
 |
I was born at home in Oklahoma, after my mother spent part of the
morning hoeing in the garden. It was a pretty old-fashioned family even
for that time and place. We subsequently moved to California, where my
memories begin. I remember the first flake of snow I ever saw. (It
disappeared before I got a good look at it.) Since then I've lost track
of snowflakes; we moved back to Missouri (my mother's natal state) when
I was eight, and I have been a confirmed Midwesterner ever since.
I decided, about age six, that I wanted to be a writer. I even wrote a
couple of stories. I concluded that I was not yet ready to be a writer,
so postponed it until I was grown up. At age eleven, I realized that I
was now grown up enough to be a writer, arguing that I now understood
improper fractions. I knew, of course, that I would rarely have
occasion to mention improper fractions in my stories, but I argued that
my knowledge of them indicated that I had acquired a great deal of other
knowledge which I *could* use. I still think this was a sophisticated
argument for an eleven-year-old.
(To this day I have never mentioned improper fractions in a story.)
Eventually I got good enough to start submitting my stories, at first to
the "secondary" markets like AMAZING STORIES. Some "secondary"! Under
Cele Goldsmith, it was publishing Roger Zelazny's first works, and David
R. Bunch.... But I persevered, and though I sold nothing, I finally
felt sufficiently comfortable to submit to the legendary John W.
Campbell, Jr. at ANALOG (formerly ASTOUNDING Science Fiction).
JWC had a system of rejections designed to lead you on. The first was a
printed form rejection, explaining that he lacked time to give a
personal response, and that the problem with your story was either a)
too complicated for a short response, or b) so simple you'd see it
yourself when you looked at it again. His second rejection was a form
letter, not printed, but visibly hand-typed on an electric typewriter
(no computers then), and hand signed, or scrawled, by JWC himself. The
last line of this letter said, "I rather like your style and would like
to see more from you." His third response was the one I eagerly hoped
for: a commentary on your story. He could point out the problem with a
story in a single sentence, or it might strike a spark with him, and he
would go on for pages.
His fourth response was a check, and I finally got to number 4. (It was
a check with no letter of commentary, and while it was for $170, the
most money I'd ever had in my hands in my life, I missed the letter.)
In the end, I sold a round dozen of stories to Campbell. Or at least I
made a dozen sales to him; some of those early items hardly classify as
stories. I hope they're never reprinted. (The bar is much higher now.)
Then one day there came a letter from the ANALOG office. It announced
the death of John W. Campbell, Jr. It was like losing my father a
second time.
After a while I decided to write a book, a rather daunting task, but I
set myself a schedule and kept to it, and sent the eventual result off
to Donald A. Wollheim at DAW Books (back when they all had yellow
spines). He bought it, and the second. Then I hooked up with an agent
who suggested I write a time-travel story for the Laser Books line
edited by Roger Elwood. Elwood turned down THE SHORES OF KANSAS
(possibly because I hinted that the hero had a sex life). Since the old
Futurian days, Wollheim had been feuding with the woman who headed my
agency, and did not welcome submissions from them. So it went to a
now-defunct publisher.
I must add that Wollheim had a bad rep for being surly, grudging, and
parsimonious, but I saw none of that. He did not pay me well, but he
could not afford to, and he was always gracious to me. His wife Elsie
did write that he was unhappy that my third book went to another
publisher, as they had thought it a sequel to my second -- an
understandable reaction. (It wasn't.) Years later, when I asked for
reversion of rights to my books, Wollheim reverted them virtually by
return mail, and even sent me the office copies.
Here I should mention my parents. Both are now long gone. My father
was an old man when I was born, and illiterate. He could sign his name
and spell out a few words, but never truly learned to read or write. It
is from him I derive my large talent for words. My mother completed the
eighth grade, and could read the Bible moderately well (and the King
James Version is not Dick & Jane), but was not a good reader. She was
color-blind, tone-deaf, and I think mildly dyslexic as well.
Fortunately I inherited none of these things from her, except for a mild
problem with music. Though writing was beyond their pale and so they
could not encourage me in it much, they took me seriously and never
*discouraged* me either. I might add that though we boys were a
contentious and competitive bunch, my brothers also never ridiculed my
writing ambitions -- ever. No writer could ask for a better family.
Ill-health, life changes, and simple personal problems hampered my
writing for several years. But one of the changes was moving to the
city; till then I'd mostly lived in the country, from a child. For the
first time I met science fiction fans and started going to SF
conventions. That had a stimulating effect on me. SF fans are highly
intelligent -- brilliance is common with them. This was very good for
me; till then I'd always been the smart one.
Later I met William F. Wu, which had an even more stimulating effect.
--I could fill this page with Bill stories, or with Chil/Wu stories, or
stories by Bill, or stories by Chil & Wu. We naturally started talking
about writing, then showing each other old stories, then collaborating.
The biblio tells most of the story; we sold everything we wrote
together, and all but, mercifully, one of our stories was published.
(They paid us for it, then wised up and didn't print it. If you see
either of us, ask about the sheared velour goldfish.) We lived
together, and went to conventions together, for a few crazy years till
he moved off to the Mojave Desert. --I have two brothers whom I love
like brothers, but Bill is even closer. (Some unobservant people
thought we were gay lovers.) But anybody who's had a close friend
understands; and the other sort will not profit by further explanation.
Meeting Bill was one of the more important events of my life.
It led to the formation of our writers' group, which still meets, and
which has done so much to make my writing tolerable.
The little rest is soon told. My personal and professional lives, while
of some interest to me, are not relevant to this page. My current goals
include finishing a series of stories set 60 million years in the future
and marketing them as a novel. Working title: ACROSS THE STEAMING SEA
(see "The Gardiners" on this page for a sample). And I have a
long-range project to write a series of children's books, rather like
the Oz books. For consistency, I intend to write all 16 before I start
offering them around, so it'll be years before they surface. I just
hope I (and you!) live to see them in print.
See you around....
|
|
|
|