by Isaac Asimov
“Do more,” they said.
“You bet,” I said, and for days and days and days I sat in the recreation hall with them and worked on the lyrics of song after song, and showed them how to sing them, and rehearsed them over and over, and, in the end, sang the lead role myself. Gertrude was, predictably, furious. Apparendy, we were spending a lot of money to be at die camp for a couple of weeks and I spent it indoors, working; for the camp.
I tried to explain that it was money well spent considering that I was in seventh heaven working on the musical and that the alternative was a stint in purgatory playing volleyball. It was no use. She didn’t under stand.
Actually, the man who ran the camp gave me twenty dollars when I was leaving as payment for my help, but I didn’t do it for money. I gave it to the staff and told them to divide it among themselves.
Automobile
As long as I lived in New York City, there was absolutely no need for an automobile. Thanks to the candy store, the family rarely went anywhere. Of course, I had to get to school, but the city was rich in public transportation facilities and you could get anywhere for a nickel
(and then another nickel to return). And, of course, if you only had to go a mile or so, you walked.
In Philadelphia, public transportation facilities were also satisfactory. Besides, it was wartime and gasoline use was carefully restricted, so I was a passenger in a car pool.
Once I got to Boston, I found myself in a city in which rapid transit was less satisfactory, especially if you wanted to live in one of the suburbs. In 1950, I came to the conclusion that I would need a car. Aware of my lack of deftness, I despaired of ever learning to drive a car safely. My plan was to have Gertrude learn to drive and then have her chauffeur me.
I was, however, sport enough to be willing to take lessons, and as soon as I felt the car moving with myself at the controls, I found, to my utter astonishment, that I loved to drive. Having learned to drive, I bought a Plymouth.
The best advice I ever got in driving was from Sprague de Camp. I told him about driving to New York and boasted about the speed with which I drove and my utter confidence.
He said, “Goodbye, Isaac.”
I said, in surprise, “Where are you going, Sprague?”
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said, “but if you drive a car at speeds like that, you haven’t got long to live, and so I’m saying, ‘Goodbye.’ “ I’m a quick learner, and I slowed down.
Fired!
My history, well into middle age, was marked by my inability to get along with my fellows and my superiors. Even as a professor at a medical school, I demonstrated this unlovely aspect of my personality for one last time.
Perhaps it was not all my fault. I suspect I was not popular with much of the faculty and perhaps couldn’t be no matter how sweet I might try to be. Being the best lecturer in the place might please me and please the students, but it would not necessarily win me medals from the other lecturers.
Furthermore, it was impossible for me to hide the fact that I had an outside career and that I made money out of it. That was another reason for struggling faculty members not to love me. Nor was the range of my writing something to be approved of. I wrote The Hu man Body (Houghton Mifflin, 1963), a very good book (if I do say so myself) on anatomy. I asked one of the professors of anatomy to go over it to see if I had made some egregious errors. She found a few, the most important of which was that I had placed the spleen on the wrong side of the body, something she found very amusing. As I left, I heard one of the anatomists say, “How would he like it if I wrote a book on biochemistry?”
Finally, I had completely abandoned any pretense of doing research and spent all my spare school time on the writing of nonaction, which could not help but displease the administration.
I tried to make up for my outside income by never asking for a raise. (It would be ridiculous for me to scramble after a few more school dollars when my writing earnings were steadily increasing.) The result was that in 1958 I was earning only $6,500 a year, an additional thousand dollars having been given me over the course of nine years without my having asked for it. It was the lowest professorial salary in the medical school, and perhaps in all the university. This, which I considered, in my innocence, to be ethical behavior on my part, proved to be another point against me. To be paid so little was interpreted as meaning that that was all I deserved.
Worse than any of this, of course, was the offense I had given Henry Lemon in abandoning his research. He dedicated himself to the task of getting rid of me. I was reasonably safe, however, as long as James Faulkner was dean and Burnham Walker was department head. Both seemed to like me despite my peculiarities.
But then Dean Faulkner announced he would resign at the end of the 1954-55 school year. This was a terrible blow, for not only was the loss of a highly placed ally disastrous but he was likely to be replaced by Chester Keefer, perhaps the medical school’s most renowned faculty member. Keefer was a close friend of Lemon’s and I was sure that he would fire me.
Walker must have thought that too, for in May 1955, just a month before Faulkner left, Walker obtained a promotion to associate professor for me as of July 1, 1955. That automatically gave me tenure, so that I could not be fired without cause. I imagine he did that before Faulkner left because he knew there would be no chance thereafter. And to be sure, Keefer did succeed as dean of the medical school.
Keefer had a handle on me. In 1956,1 had received a small government grant in order that I might write a book on the bloodstream. (It had been offered to me; I had in no way asked for it.) I wrote the book, and it was eventually published as The Living River (Abelard-Schuman, 1960). Keefer waited.
And then Walker resigned (for family reasons) as of November 1, 1956, and Bill Boyd became acting department head. Bill, I suppose, was hoping to be made the permanent head, but in the summer of 1957 Keefer brought in an outsider, F. Marrott Sinex, to be head of the department. Sinex was a short man with a perpetual nervous smile, a loud voice, a still louder laugh, and, as it turned out, was a rather difficult lecturer to follow. The word reached me that Sinex had gotten the job only after he agreed he would do nothing to keep me from being fired.
Keefer could now act. It had come time to collect the money that was assigned to me in the grant for the book on blood and Keefer refused to let me have it. He said the money had been given to the school. I pointed out that the school had received an overhead, but that a certain sum had been specifically allocated to me. He went on to sneer that any faculty member could write a book if paid to do so. I retorted angrily that I didn’t need to be paid to write a book, that I had already done over twenty, and that if he didn’t let me have my money, he could expect me to raise hell with Washington. He let me have it, and got ready for the more important task of firing me.
On December 18, 1957, I was called into Keefer’s office for the final showdown. Sinex was there, but he did no talking. His role was merely to ratify. Keefer was quiet and simply said that he did not want me to write on school time. I had to do research. As he fully expected I would do, I refused, and pointed out that my duty was to teach medical students and that I was, by common consent, the best lecturer in the school. He insisted that the sole point was research and I finally grew angry enough to say:
“Dr. Keefer, as a science writer, I am extraordinary. I plan to be the best science writer in the world and I will shed luster on the medical
school. As a researcher I am merely mediocre and, Dr. Keefer, if there’s one thing this school does not need, it is one more merely mediocre researcher.”
Keefer, I am sure, interpreted that as an insulting sneer at the medi cal school, and he was right to do so, because that was how I meant it. It put an end to everything. He said, “This school cannot afford to pay a science writer. Your appointment will come to an end as of June 30, 1958.”
I was ready for that too. I said, “Very well, Dr. Keefer. You may refuse to pay me a salary.” (With heroic
self-control I refrained from telling him where he could put my salary.) “In return, I will do no teaching for the school. However, there is no way you can take away my title. I have tenure.”
He claimed I didn’t and I insisted I did and there followed a desultory two-year fight over the matter. Even though my stint at the medical school did come to an end on June 30, 1958, and even though after nine years I had been fired, I continued to come to school fairly regularly to pick up my mail and run other odd jobs, but mainly to maintain the franchise, to show that I was a member of the faculty and was not to be run off.
The rest of the faculty avoided me for fear that too close an association with the school leper might get them into trouble too. One of them, however, approached me cautiously once and, making sure we were not under observation, he told me that he was proud of me and of my bravery in continuing to fight for academic freedom.
I shrugged. “There’s no bravery about it. I have academic freedom and I can give it to you in two words.”
“What’s that?” he asked.
“Outside income,” I said.
It’s true. The average faculty member is under an enormous disadvantage in a fight with the administration. He need not even be fired, he need merely be harassed, and he must start looking for a new position. They are not easy to find and generally, if he waits too long, he might find he is fired and, without a salary, he can be in deep financial trouble.
In my case, though, what did I care what the administration did? I was in no financial trouble at all. After two years, it finally came to a vote by the faculty senate (or whatever the group was that had to approve the decision). They voted against Keefer, and I kept my title. I have it to this day. In fact, on October 18, 1979, I was promoted to full professor.
Looking back on it, I wonder: Why did I bother? There were two reasons. First, I didn’t want to give up my professorial title. I had struggled too long to get it, under sometimes adverse circumstances, and I wasn’t going to give it up lightly. Second, it was a mere matter of mulish pride. They were determined to kick me out, and I wasn’t going to let them do it.
At the time, I was furious with Lemon and Keefer, but they unwittingly did me the greatest favor I ever received since the various medical schools turned me down twenty years earlier. Had they left me alone, my native caution would have kept me at the school and forced me to waste large parts of my time on matters of no importance. By getting me out, they compelled me to turn to full-time writing and that was an important turning point for me.
I’m sure that Lemon and Keefer had not the slightest intention of doing me good, but I can dismiss the intention for the sake of the result. I have therefore long since forgiven them.
In 1961, when one of my science books received particular acclaim,
I was at a party at school. Keefer was also present and he held out his hand and congratulated me. I thought that was a classy thing to do, so I took his hand and thanked him in all sincerity. Lemon also congratulated me and I nodded and smiled, but that was the last time I ever saw him. Later that year, he left the school and joined the faculty of the University of Nebraska Medical School. One postscript— In the spring of 1989, I traveled to Boston in order to participate in the sesquicentennial celebration of Boston Uni versity. I gave one of my talks on the future to a large audience of BU students, speaking with my customary elan, and in the question-and answer period, one of the students said, “We’ve been hearing some very good speeches, Dr. Asimov, and since you are on the BU faculty, why aren’t you lecturing to us regularly?” And I said, “Forty years ago I was placed on the faculty and I gave lectures for nine years, about a hundred of them altogether, and they were the best lectures the students ever had, but”—a short pause of about two seconds to make sure they were listening—“I was fired.”
There was a kind of collective gasp from the audience and I was gratified. During my fight with Keefer, I said to the assistant dean, Lamar Soutter (who was on my side), that if the school fired me, then people in the future would find that unbelievable. It had sounded like braggadocio, I suspect, but I knew it wasn’t, and I was glad to get confirmation of it, even at that late date.
Prolificity
I must admit that I was a little nervous on July 1, 1958. There I was, thirty-eight years old (definitely middle-aged), with an unhappy wife, two children aged seven and three, and no job.
Things weren’t all bad. We had bought a house in 1956 and paid off the mortgage almost at once, so that we owned it free and clear. I had a decent sum of money in the bank and now that we had been married for nearly sixteen years I could fulfill my promise and buy some diamonds (rather small ones, I must admit) for my first wife, Gertrude—but she didn’t want them. And, of course, there was my writing, which was now bringing in, all by itself, somewhat in excess of $15,000 a year.
The trouble was psychological. From 1942 to 1945 and again from 1949 to 1958, I had had a job and a fixed salary. The salary wasn’t high but it was something to fall back on and gave me the illusion of security. Now the question was: Could I write full-time without the security of a basic salary as fallback? Could I write full-time without my mind quickly wearing itself out and running dry? Would the basic problems of a writer’s insecurity quicldy overwhelm me?
Gertrude was quite sure it wouldn’t work. She took to her bed for three days, leaving me to take care of the children. That did nothing to reassure me and alleviate my doubts.
In fact, I was sufficientiy nervous to make a halfhearted attempt to find another academic post. I went to Brandeis University, which was quite close to home, and investigated the possibility of a place in the biology department. The head of the biology department was not interested in me, however, and I beat a quick retreat. This was the last time in my life I ever looked for a job.
The only thing I could do, then, was to throw myself into my writing chores with a real frenzy in order to get as much as I could out of my mind while it lasted.
As it turned out, I needn’t have worried. In the years since I turned to writing full-time, I have averaged thirteen books a year (I’m my own book-of-the-month club). I am the most prolific American author on record apparently. Furthermore, whereas most really prolific writers tend to write almost entirely in one genre (mysteries or Westerns or romances), my books range over every division of the Dewey decimal system (according to one enthusiastic librarian). No one in history has written more books on more different subjects than I have. Please understand that I am so modest, it is embarrassing for me to say such a thing, but—I cannot tell a lie.
The question is: How does one become a really prolific writer?
It is a matter to which I have given much thought and it seems to me that the very first requirement is that a person have a passion for the process of writing. I don’t mean that he must enjoy imagining he is writing a book or enjoy dreaming up plots. I don’t mean that he must enjoy holding a finished book in his hands and waving it triumphantly at people. I mean he must have a passion for what goes on between the thinking of a book and its completion.
He must love the actual operation of writing, the scratching of a pen across a blank piece of paper, the pounding of typewriter keys, the watching of words appear on the word-processor screen. It doesn’t matter what technique is used as long as he loves the process.
Mind you, the passion is not required just to be a writer; not even to be a great writer. There are many great writers who detest writing and who turn out a book once every ten years. The book may be a marvel of technique, and the writer may make himself immortal with it, but he cannot be a prolific writer, and I am talking only about prolific writers right now.
I have that passion. I would rather write than do anything else. In fact, some wise guy, knowing of my penchant for gallantry to young women, asked me during a question-and-answer session once, “If you had to choose between writing and women, Dr. Asimov, which would you choose?”
I answered instantly, “Well, I can
type for twelve hours without getting tired.” People say to me sometimes, “How disciplined you must be to get to work at the typewriter every day.” I answer, “I’m not disciplined at all. If I were, I could make myself turn away from the typewriter now and then, but I’m such a lazy slob I can never manage it.” It’s true. It doesn’t take discipline for someone like Bing Crosby or Bob Hope to play golf all day long. It doesn’t take discipline for Joe Six-Pack to snooze in his chair while watching television. And it doesn’t take discipline for me to write. And I am unseducible. The fact that it is a perfect day outside makes no impact on me. I have no desire to go out and get some healthful sunshine. In fact, a perfect day fills me with the nameless dread (usu ally fulfilled) that Robyn will come to me, clapping her little hands in excitement, and say, “Let’s take a walk in the park. I want to go to the zoo.”
Of course, I go, because I love her, but I tell you I leave my heart behind, stuck in the typewriter keys. So you will understand when I tell you that my favorite kind of day (provided I don’t have an unbreakable appointment that is going to force me out into it) is a cold, dreary, gusty, sleety day, when I can sit at my typewriter or word processor in peace and security. Then, too, a compulsive writer must be always ready to write.
Sprague de Camp once stated that anyone wishing to write must block out four hours of uninterrupted solitude, because it takes a long time to get started, and if you are interrupted, you would have to start all over again from the beginning.
Maybe so, but anyone who can’t write unless he can count on four uninterrupted hours is not likely to be prolific. It is important to be able to begin writing at any time. If there are fifteen minutes in which I have nothing to do, that’s enough to write a page or so. Nor do I have to sit around and waste long periods of time arranging my thoughts in order to write.
