by Isaac Asimov
Still, not all that human beings could do in the wildest excesses of war and rapine could seriously damage the planet until 1945. In that year, the first nuclear bomb was exploded, and the Industrial Revolution, fed by cheap oil, went into high gear. We are now perfectly capable of damaging the planet beyond repair in any reasonable time, and are, in fact, in the process of doing so.
Science fiction writers are more aware of this than many others and, immediately after World War II, stories of atomic doom became popular. In fact, such stories were already being written before the news arrived of the nuclear bombing of Hiroshima on August 6,1945. U.S. intelligence agents even investigated ASF because it published Cleve Cartmill’s “Deadline” in its March 1944 issue. The story described a nuclear bomb with too much accuracy.
As almost always happens, such atomic doom stories became so popular as to dominate the field and to fall victim to their own success as readers grew tired of the endless repetition. Other types of dooms
day stories followed—tales of a poisoned atmosphere, of incredible overpopulation, and so on, and science fiction became tinged with gray and red doom.
This was, in a way, useful. The science fiction writer Ben Bova says that science fiction writers are scouts sent out by humanity to survey the future. They return with recommendations for world improvement and warnings of world destruction. In times like these, when humanity is complacently working its own devastation, it must be warned—over and over again.
However, I have never joined the gloom and doom procession. This is not because I don’t believe humanity can destroy itself. I believe this heartily and have written numerous essays on different aspects of the problem (particularly on the subject of overpopulation). It is just that I think there are enough science fiction writers shrieking, “The day of judgment is at hand!” and I won’t be missed if I am not of their number.
To be sure, in Pebble in the Sky, I described an Earth all but destroyed by radioactivity, but humanity is pictured in that book as existing in a great Galactic Empire, so that the fate of one small world means little for humanity as a whole.
My books tend to celebrate the triumph of technology rather than its disaster. This is true of other science fiction writers as well, notably Robert Heinlein and Arthur Clarke. It seems odd, or perhaps significant, that the Big Three are all technological optimists.
Style
I have already mentioned that I have deliberately cultivated a simple and even colloquial style, and I would like here to go into that matter in greater depth.
Orson Scott Card, one of the best of contemporary science fiction writers, is very generous in his approval of my writing. He thinks it is uniquely clear and that while other writers have idiosyncrasies that make it possible to imitate them, I have none, and that no one, therefore, can imitate me successfully. (I must stress the fact that it’s he who says so, not I. Since I have no talent as a critic I have nothing to say in this matter.)
Others are not so kind. They find my novels, particularly, to be too talky and my style to be too flat. Again, not being a critic, I didn’t know how to defend myself. Fortunately, Jay Kay Klein came to my defense.
Jay Kay is a plump fellow, mostly bald, has a ready smile, a quick wit, and is a much-loved presence at all science fiction conventions. He is science fiction’s ace photographer and is never without his camera equipment. He has taken many thousands of photographs of science fiction personalities, including me. He once collected a few dozen photos of me kissing different young women. He flashed them on the screen, accompanying them with a commentary that had the audience convulsed, especially me.
Jay Kay defined two kinds of writing and I expanded on his thesis, making it my theory of “the mosaic and the plate glass.”
There is writing which resembles the mosaics of glass you see in stained-glass windows. Such windows are beautiful in themselves and let in the light in colored fragments, but you can’t expect to see through them. In the same way, there is poetic writing that is beautiful in itself and can easily affect the emotions, but such writing can be dense and can make for hard reading if you are trying to figure out what’s happening.
Plate glass, on the other hand, has no beauty of its own. Ideally, you ought not to be able to see it at all, but through it you can see all that is happening outside. That is the equivalent of writing that is plain and unadorned. Ideally, in reading such writing, you are not even aware that you are reading. Ideas and events seem merely to flow from the mind of the writer into that of the reader without any barrier between. I hope that is what is happening when you read this book.
Writing poetically is very hard, but so is writing clearly. In fact, it may be clarity which is harder to get than beauty, if you will let me continue with my metaphor of mosaics and plate glass.
Colored glass of the type used in mosaics has been known since ancient times. Getting the color out of the glass, however, proved so difficult a task that the problem was not solved till the seventeenth century. Plate glass is a comparatively recent invention and was the great triumph of Venetian glassmaking art, kept secret for a long time.
And so it is in writing. In the past, virtually all writing was ornate. Read a Victorian novel, for instance. Read even Dickens, the best of all the Victorians. It is only comparatively recently that writing has, in the hands of some writers, become simple and clear.
Simple, clear writing has its advantages for me. I have received a number of letters from people who tell me that they hated to read until they stumbled across one of my books and, for the first time, found reading to be pleasant. I have even received some letters from dyslexics who found that my books were worth working slowly through and that their reading improved as a result. And I once received a letter from a grateful mother whose son I had lured into reading.
This sort of thing pleases me. I write primarily for personal pleasure and to make a living, but it is delightful to find that, in addition, you are helping others.
But how does one go about writing clearly? I don’t know. I presume you have to start with an orderly mind and a knack for marshaling your thoughts so that you know exactly what you want to say. Beyond that, I am helpless.
Letters
Since I’ve just been mentioning some of the letters I receive, perhaps I ought to go into the matter more fully.
Most of the letters I get are, of course, completely pleasurable. They come from people who have read some of my books (sometimes a great many), enjoy them, and are kind enough to write and tell me so.
In the past I have tried to answer all such letters at least with an acknowledging postcard. I must admit, though, that as the years pass and my energy reserve dwindles while my writing commitments seem to increase, it becomes harder and harder to do so. I’m afraid I’m becoming remiss and no longer answer every letter.
A subdivision of such letters consists of those written by youngsters in pencil on ruled paper, stating they had read some of my stories in school and have liked them. The last sentence is usually: “Please write back.” It is almost impossible not to do so—because the kids don’t understand the “I’m too busy” ploy and are dreadfully disappointed if you don’t reply and I couldn’t bear that, so additional postcards go out.
I might say, in passing, that the postcard is a noble invention. It saves enormous amounts of time and postage. It sacrifices privacy, but I have never written a postcard I haven’t been willing to have the postman read.
Of course, tliere is the case of the jovial woman editor with whom I carried on a genial mock flirtation. (In my younger days, I flirted almost indiscriminately with every woman in sight and not one of them ever took me seriously—which may not be exactly complimentary, now that I think of it.) In any case, I wrote her a brief card and, out of sheer habit, ended with a double entendre.
Back came a letter: “Dear Isaac. I have been propositioned before— but never on a postcard.”
However, I digress—
One version of
the little-boy letter that I view with gathering outrage is the kind that begins: “I am so-and-so in the 7th grade of such-and-such school and my teacher has asked me to write some author and ask him questions about his work.” There would then follow the tritest questions you can imagine—always the same. When did I start writing? How? Why? Where do I get my ideas? Do I intend to write another story?
When such letters first started arriving, I would answer briefly, but as they continued to flood in, I developed a towering burn.
All over the country, it seems to me, idiot teachers are urging their students to assail busy writers and subject them to demands for what is clearly homework. What right have the teachers to do that? The only commodity I have to work with is time and every single day my total supply of time decreases by one day. Must I expend my diminishing supply answering stupid questions from kids who wouldn’t dream of bothering me if they were not egged on by their obtuse teachers who don’t want to waste their time and limited capacities by thinking up better things for their students to do? Undoubtedly, other writers may have secretaries who send off form letters, but I don’t have one.
Occasionally, my anger reaches such a pitch that in particularly egregious cases I write an angry letter to the teacher. In one such case, my letter was sent to a local newspaper (without my permission!), which presented it as an example of an arrogant writer. This was clipped out and sent to me by some friend of the teacher who berated me for refusing to take the “five minutes” required to make a child happy.
She shouldn’t have done that. My cup of wrath boiled over. I wrote to her to ask if she were imbecilic enough to think I only received one letter like that. I receive hordes of such letters, each one asking for five minutes—an indication of the general low level of compassion and understanding in much of the teaching profession. I’m afraid I let myself go and let her have the rough edge of a very articulate and, when necessary, vituperative tongue. I never got an answer, because I probably scared her to death.
Nowadays, I have no trouble. As soon as I come to the magic words “my teacher has asked me to”—my wastebasket finds itself richer by one letter. It saves a lot of time and a lot of wear and tear on my emotions.
Sometimes I get letters pointing out errors in my nonfiction writing (or, more rarely, in my fiction). Cards of thanks go out routinely in such cases and when the mistakes are real bloopers, I make changes for the book version, or for the next edition if it is already in a book. A bad mistake is embarrassing, but unavoidable now and then when one writes as much and as quickly as I do. The wonder is not that I make mistakes but that I make so few.
I can always count on my readers to backstop me. I have had men as great and as famous as Linus Pauling write to point out errors. Of course, there is the very occasional letter denouncing my writing and telling me what a monster of arrogance and conceit I am, and describing other character shortcomings from which I suffer. These I don’t answer. If they want to dislike me, let them. A number of letters ask for information, and if the question is spe cific and can be answered briefly, I try to oblige, especially if it is an interesting question and the answer is not easily available. It is very odd, but I almost never get a letter of thanks in return for answering such questions. I honestly don’t know why that is. Sometimes the request for information clearly shows I am mistaken for a public library. “Please send me all the latest data on the space effort” is a common request—usually from youngsters who, having been told to write an essay on new developments in space, think it would be a good idea to have me write it for them. —Wastebasket.
Sometimes (and surprisingly often) someone from prison asks if I can send them a book or two because they have read all the Asimov books in the prison library and want more. I always feel a pang of pity for prisoners, whatever they may have done, especially if they read my books (which convinces me at once that they may have been wrongfully convicted). In such cases, I arrange to have Doubleday send out a book or two and invariably they refuse to deduct the expense from my royalties—which, of course, prevents me from abusing the privilege.
Sometimes I receive a request for money, but I never send out money to strangers. I may be a soft touch, but I’m not that soft.
A still more embarrassing type of request is one in which I’m asked to read a beginner’s manuscript and give him a careful critique of it. That’s impossible. I lack the time and I lack the critical ability, but no matter how I explain that, I am always left with the uncomfortable feeling that the letter writer considers me a fat cat who is too selfish and meanspirited to help a beginner. Some even take unfair advantage of my frankness in describing my life by saying, “John Campbell helped you when you were a beginner, so why can’t you help me?” The answer to that is that helping was Campbell’s business and he had the talent for it; it is not my business and I have no talent for it. Nor did Campbell help all beginners indiscriminately. He was careful to pick and choose. He waited for an Isaac Asimov and he knew how to recognize him when he saw him; I don’t. But how do I explain all that?
The same goes for the many beginners who think there’s some special trick to selling stories, a trick I know and could easily pass on to them. No matter how earnestly I try to tell them that there is no trick, that it is a matter of inborn talent and hard work, I’m sure they think I’m just hugging the secret to my breast out of fear of competition.
Some letters are argumentative, disputing some view I have expressed. On occasion, a particularly well-reasoned letter forces me to
modify my views and I usually answer in that case and sometimes find an excuse to write an essay expressing my modified view. More often, such letters are merely unpleasant and argumentative and I ignore them.
A subset of such disagreements involves my openly expressed lack of religious feeling. I receive letters from people who sorrow for me and pray for me and I don’t mind. It makes them feel better, I’m sure.
It is a little irritating when I am sent little tracts touting some sectarian belief in the fond hope that this will make me “see the light.” I don’t know why it never occurs to such people that my views are fixed firmly and are not to be swayed by little tracts.
Sometimes I am irritated into answering. Once, when a religionist denounced me in unmeasured terms, I sent him a card saying, “I am sure you believe that I will go to hell when I die, and that once there I will suffer all the pains and tortures the sadistic ingenuity of your deity can devise and that this torture will continue forever. Isn’t that enough for you? Do you have to call me bad names in addition?” I never received an answer, of course.
Then there are the autograph hounds. (What people want with autographs is more than I can figure out.) The letters asking for them (particularly from youngsters who will throw them away once they get them) are like snowflakes in a constantly accelerating blizzard. The flattery of it wore off long ago, and if someone wants an autograph and sends me a card to sign and a stamped self-addressed envelope to put it in, I oblige. Otherwise, I no longer do. (I am particularly suspicious of those who tell me what a great writer I am and how they enjoy my work and yet don’t mention a single title of anything they’ve read. I suspect these of being form letters.)
In recent years, a new wrinkle has been added. An autograph is not enough. A signed photograph is what is wanted; an 8 x 11 glossy is sometimes specified. Well, I have no photographs. I’m not in show business. My face is not my fortune. If someone sends me a photograph along with a stamped self-addressed envelope, I’ll oblige. Not otherwise.
Some people send me books to sign and return. Usually, they include stamped self-addressed mailers, but even so it is a pain in the neck. The packages are bulky and make my day’s mail weigh a ton or so. Then I have to go out and find a mailbox that will take bulk. When asked in advance, I always suggest they send me nameplates, which I will sign and return and which they can then paste into their books.
However, few are thoughtful enough to ask in advance and of thos
e who do, few accept the nameplate notion.
Another foul development of recent years is the “celebrity auction.” Someone discovered that a good way to raise funds is to write to a number of celebrities and ask each for something personal—an old sock, a laundry list—which could then be auctioned off to those who valued such junk. Usually, the causes for which the money is being raised sound worthy, so the first few times I received such a request, I sent off signed paperback books.
That put my name on a computerized list that was circulated throughout the country and then came the deluge. Every celebrity auction in the United States sent me a begging letter. I have received as many as four in a single day and there are very few days in which I receive none. What can I do? As soon as I glance over a suspicious letter and see the magic words “celebrity auction,” there is a weight increase in my wastebasket.
I also get a small number of crazy letters—from people who are being manipulated by strange rays, who have encountered extraterrestrial aliens, who have uncovered secret conspiracies, or who are simply incoherent. I sigh and dump them.
Then there are the people writing “nonbooks.” A nonbook is produced when some person sends each of several hundred celebrities some inane questions, collects answers, and puts them together into a book from which he hopes to draw royalties.
There are numerous celebrity cookbooks, for instance. Why should anyone go about concocting and testing recipes when he can get a number of celebrities to submit “favorite” recipes? I have been asked for my favorite recipes a million times, but the only recipe I have is for boiling water and using it to convert a freeze-dried powder into coffee. That’s the extent of my culinary skill.
(Of course, every once in a while, when Janet is busy, she sets up all the necessary utensils, all the necessary ingredients, and a carefully prepared recipe. I then get to work, mixing, adding, adjusting temperatures, and, in general, doing whatever must be done. Invariably, the dish, however complex, turns out excellent because I am meticulous about following the recipe, as Janet almost never is, and because I am not a chemist for nothing. But in such cases, I get so dictatorial about not allowing anyone to enter “my kitchen” and so smug and self-satisfied about the outcome that Janet can rarely bring herself to let me do it.)
