As I consider the way getting rejected by the Clarion Workshop in 1974 helped me break into comics and getting accepted by the Clarion Workshop in 1979 helped me break out of comics, I remember the writing schedule suggested by Harlan Ellison which proved impossible for me, the terrible comics-related advice I got from Damon Knight, Thomas M. Disch’s tips for building better characters, the questions Robin Scott Wilson wanted us to ask when critiquing short stories, the night Joker co-creator Jerry Robinson predicted I’d someday work in comics, the Barbie artist who painted me with tattoos and drew my portrait, the Robert Graves poem which explains why I had to quit writing comics, and much more.

You can eavesdrop on my memories via the embed below or download at the site of your choice.

Here are some images which will enrich your listening experience —

Stan Lee at Carnegie Hall poster

Scott at Nathan’s Con

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Getting hired to work on staff at mid-’70s Marvel Comics was a dream come true. And having the chance to write comics both for them, and after I went freelance, for DC Comics as well, and being able to play with such characters as Captain Marvel, Supergirl, Spider-Man, The Vision, and others was a joy.

So why, when I applied to the Clarion Science Fiction Writing Workshop in 1979, did I beg them to let me in so I could turn my back on comics?

Over the years, I’ve offered up two reasons —

The first is that during my years in the field, my fiction output dwindled severely. Before turning from comics fan to comics pro, I was writing short stories endlessly. Sometimes one a week. Sometimes even more frequently than that, because in an essay for one of the Clarion anthologies, Harlan Ellison explained (or perhaps someone else told of his week teaching there) how he asked students to write a story a day during his stint. I can’t remember the purpose of such an exercise, but whatever its reason, I lasted three days.

But those stories continued to pour out of me … until I went to work in comics. It’s a difficult thing to bring yourself to work on a story which might take years to sell, when every word I could write in comics and hand in one week — from letter columns to splash pages for the British reprint books to ad copy — would earn me a check the following week. Sometimes that payment only took days. Which is why when I encountered the following George Bernard Shaw quote, it resonated mightily: “If you want to be a writer, you must have money, otherwise people will throw money at your head to buy your talent to use it and distort it for their own frivolous purpose.” I knew that if I didn’t wean myself from the comics income, I might never return to working on my fiction in earnest.

More importantly, though, I found my time in comics was damaging my actual ability to write the fiction I wanted. My time at Marvel was spent aping Stan Lee. So facile was I at that task I even wrote the Bullpen Bulletins copy for a while. (Don’t worry — Stan always wrote those Soapboxes himself.) But what I found was that because I was young and immature — I started on staff at Marvel at only 19 — I was unable to maintain a wall between the style of writing I did for myself and the one I used for comics. My short stories were beginning to sound like Stan, filled with bombast and alliteration. I realized that if I didn’t leave comics, I might never find my own voice.

So I broke away, working a series of non-creative jobs which protected that part of myself. It wasn’t until the early ’90s that I’d matured enough to allow myself a creative staff job — creating and editing Science Fiction Age magazine — knowing I no longer had to fear the loss of my voice.

My journey into and then out of the comics industry is much more complicated than that, with many twists and turns, and when asked how I could walk away from such a magical field, I’ve often expounded on all of the above in greater detail. But just the other day, I stumbled across a poem by Robert Graves titled “Epitaph on an Unfortunate Artist” which explains my quandary far more succinctly than I ever could —

He found a formula for drawing comic rabbits:
The formula for drawing comic rabbits paid.
So in the end he could not change the tragic habits
This formula for drawing comic rabbits made.

I consider myself lucky to have gotten away in time, before those tragic habits became unchangeable.

Looks like this is the year for ancient photos of me I didn’t even remember having been taken turning up.

First, Sam Maronie surprised me with a 1974 photo of me threatening the world’s greatest comic book inker Joe Sinnott with a broadsword (plus two other pics). Now David Lubkin coughs up a 1979 photo of me and Damon Knight at Noreascon Two, the 1980 World Science Fiction Convention.

Damon was one of the six instructors during my six weeks at the Clarion Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers’ Workshop in 1979, the others being Robin Scott Wilson, Algis Budrys, Carol Emshwiller, Tom Disch, and (of course) Kate Wilhelm.

I have no memory of this moment. Lubkin had captioned the photo, “Damon Knight admiring Stacy Mandell’s puppetcraft while Scott Edelman shows off his coiffure. Noreascon Two, at which Damon and wife Kate Wilhelm were Guests of Honor.”

When I asked him about the pic, which he’d shared on Facebook, he wrote, “I was sharing the dealer’s table with Stacy and organizing a Clarion reunion party, for which Damon & Kate volunteered their GoH suite and kicked in $150. I’m not sure if you were with Damon or were independently checking in with me.”

I’m not sure either. And if any of you out there think I remember after all these years whether I was trailing Damon or checking in about a party, you have a higher opinion of my memory than is deserved!

I was saddened to learn this evening of the death of Lister Matheson, whom I’d met in 1999 due to his role as director of the Clarion Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers’ Workshop when I was invited to be Guest Editor that summer. He died on January 19 of complications arising from a form of aplastic anemia. I remember him as warm, witty, and generating an aura of amusement at life and all its pleasures.

An online obituary described him thusly:

Lister was a natural host whose large heart, expansive soul, and mischievous sense of the silly and ridiculous endeared him to those who knew him and made strangers feel immediately welcome and appreciated. He was a gifted raconteur, actor, reader of poetry, singer of inspired and inane songs, and connoisseur of haggis and single malt Scotch. He lived a full life, travelled widely, and absorbed everything. He cherished his family and friends and was always the animating spirit around any crowded table, sharing good food, drink, and lively conversation. His family and a very large crowd of admiring friends shall miss him terribly.

Yes, I thought, reading that. Yes.

But time has a way of getting away from us, and I regret to say that the last time I saw Lister in the flesh was probably at the 2003 Worldcon in Toronto, where I snapped this photo of him with Amelia Beamer as we chatted in the hallway outside some riotous party.

Remember the line from Auntie Mame that “Life is a banquet and most poor bastards are starving to death”? Lister knew that. Oh, yes he did.

He will be missed.

I woke this morning to learn that Jennifer Swift, whom I’d met in 1979 when we both attended the Clarion Science Fiction Writers Workshop in East Lansing, passed away this morning at 1:15 a.m. after a rapid decline. Her husband, Timothy Bartel, wrote her many friends to pass on the sad news. A memorial service will be held in Oxford, with details to be provided later.

Jennifer had a wonderful laugh. She was intelligent, witty, and grew into a talented writer. She published excellent stories in Amazing, Asimov’s, F&SF, and Interzone. She’d also written articles and essays on bioethics for The Guardian, New Scientist, The Daily Telegraph, and other publications.

Soon after Clarion, Jennifer emigrated to Oxford with her husband, and due to the transatlantic nature of the friendship, we mostly kept up on the details of each other’s lives via e-mail. We only managed to get together in the flesh twice since Clarion, both times in Glasgow, both meetings involving lengthy meals in Indian restaurants. It was odd that these two lunches—in 1995 and 2005—only came about due to the scheduling of World Science Fiction Conventions. Last time we were together (which is when I snapped the picture below), we joked that we hoped we wouldn’t have to wait until a 2015 Glasgow Worldcon to see each other again. Sadly, that next meeting will never take place, at least not in this world.

Jennifer will be much in my thoughts today.

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I dreamt this morning that I was once more back at the Clarion Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers’ Workshop. In the real world, I had attended as a student in 1979, and then returned to teach in 1999 and 2003, and in my sleep I was teaching again.

I had just arrived, and the administrator was giving me a tour of the facilities. We were on the floor of the dorm in which the students were housed, and I had to duck my head the entire time, because the ceiling was very low, much like floor 7 1/2 in the film Being John Malkovich. I was unable to stand up straight, and had to hunch over as I walked down the hall. Bemused by this, I told my guide that I didn’t remember the ceilings having been so low any of the previous times I’d been there. But I accepted the change.

At the end of the hall, we arrived at a student lounge where the ceilings were back to normal. Darrell Schweitzer was there. It turned out that he was going to be one of the teachers that year, which seemed strange to me, since I know that in reality he attended the workshop long, long ago, but I don’t think that he ever returned to teach there. We then headed toward the cafeteria for a breakfast with the students, and along the way I was amazed by how clean and well-decorated the walls were.

It was as if we were in a museum rather than a university building, with white walls adorned with framed book covers and science-fiction movie posters. I complimented my guide on how they’d changed the place since I was there last, and then suddenly, real life intruded in a way, as I realized that Clarion was no longer being held at Michigan State University, and I was therefore somewhere else. But in the dream, I couldn’t remember where I was. I had no idea what facility or even what state I was in. (more…)

Several weeks ago, after Bill Shunn posted photos from his Clarion class of 1985 in the wake of Algis Budrys’ death, I bemoaned the fact that—as far as I know—no photos exist from my own Clarion year.

Then I remembered that I do have one image that reflects how I looked as a member of the Clarion class of 1979, but it isn’t a photograph—it’s a portrait done of me by my classmate Barb Rausch.

After Clarion, Barb went on to become a well-known comic-book artist, drawing Katy Keene for Archie and Barbie for Marvel. Unfortunately, Barb passed away in 2001. She’s the only member of my class to have died … I think.

Not only did she draw me at Clarion, Barb also drew on me, as she painted the fake tattoos I sported when I dressed as a Hell’s Angel for our ’60s party.

So—the class of 1985 has photographs, while the class of 1979 has pencil drawings. I guess this means that if we query the class of 1968, we’ll discover that all they have to remember their year are carvings on stone tablets!