Harlan Ellison
In 1971, in college, I heard Harlan Ellison was going to teach a class on how to write science fiction stories. I enrolled, and it turned out the class was to be held once a week at Harlan’s home, “Ellison Wonderland.”
I was told to write a short story and bring it. I did, handed it in and noticed Harlan inspecting it with great satisfaction, as though thinking, “this will do.” I was ecstatic. He liked my story. I felt smug, he held it up to the class and screeched, “This is garbage! This piece of shit isn’t fit to line the bottom of a birdcage! If you ever … EVER turn something like this is again I will beat the fucking shit out of you right here on this living room floor…”
I learned that night if you want to be a writer, you don’t try to impress you relatives or friends. You try to impress editors. And your competition is not the other students in your class, it’s people like Isaac Asimov, Ray Bradbury, Alfred Bester (the big sci fi writers of the time).
Harlan turned out to be a great guy. He took me under his pinion, made me feel like an insider, like I could belong. I decided to quit writing, though, until I had something to write about. Which took ten years.
I ran into Harlan again, years later, at a World-Con. I introduced myself and asked if he remembered our class. He groaned, “Oh, Gawd…,” or something, and we agreed that it was a long time ago and time flies. But I was an outsider, again, which was another important lesson in writing.
If you’re gone from the game for too long, you don’t matter anymore.
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