'E's Not Dead Yet, and Other
Ruminations
23 February 2014
Thirty-five
years ago tonight, I achieved my first professional sale in science fiction--a
short called "The Inevitable Conclusion," to Amazing Stories, for $50.
In those days Amazing sent out the acceptance, the one-page contract,
and the check all together. February 23, 1979 was a Friday. I was still teaching
science at Heritage Middle School in Middlebury, and that particular Friday I
stayed on the hilltop campus to go to that evening's Northridge High School
basketball game. My first wife, Karla Kube, had stopped home before joining me
there, and so was the one to find the envelope from Amazing in the
day's mail.
Karla had been made well aware of the 3rd Law of Freelance Writing ("Big yellow
envelopes bad news, little white envelopes good news") and so brought the
envelope to me. She found me sitting in the sparsely-occupied stands watching
the JV game, and it was there that I opened and learned which of my goals I'd
achieved.
You see, I'd started sending out my stories as a high schooler in Camden NJ,
back when Ed Ferman sent out rejections typed on the back of the covers of back
issues of F&SF.
I took a second run at it as an undergrad in East Lansing, trying to find
someone who would look at my (trunk) novel THE OPEN FACE OF HEAVEN. No luck that
time, either.
A few years later, I steeled myself to try again, this time as a putative adult
living in Goshen, Indiana, and teaching middle school science in a neighboring
town. I told myself I wouldn't stop until one of two things happened: either I
became a professional SF writer, or I amassed the world's largest collection of
rejection slips (Guinness certified, of course).
Thank goodness, it was the former. Karla and I made a minor spectacle of
ourselves celebrating in the stands, whatever noises we were making completely
inappropriate for what was happening on the court at the moment.
But I held onto the rejection slips, just in case the sale turned out to be a
fluke.
It wasn't. I've sold almost two million words of fiction, a few hundred thousand
more of nonfiction, seen my name on bestseller lists and my ideas in foreign
languages, enjoyed a little con limelight, collaborated with Sir Arthur Clarke,
added a few notes to the STAR WARS canon. I really can't complain.
And Northridge even won their game that night, 35 years ago.
But I still have every rejection slip I've ever earned, from before and after
that date. A certain amount of philosophical humility, having to do with the
things you can control and the things you can't, is a useful tool for a writer.
I've been thinking about this anniversary for the last month or so, trying to
decide how (if at all) I was going to observe it. This occasioned a fair bit of
introspection and reflection about those 35 years, the emotional content of
which departed about +2 to -7 from equilibrium. The reactions to the Con
Scrapbook photos I've been posting on Facebook this week played into that as
well.
So did a private FB message I received this week from an editor I'd been
friendly with Back In The Day: "I have wondered for years what ever happened to
you; you seemed to have dropped out of sight of the science-fictional community
a long while ago. I hope all goes well."
Well, it's a fair question.
Of course, it hasn't all been going well, or I wouldn't have arrived here. The
digest version: My father was killed under circumstances which shattered what
was left of my not terribly healthy birth family. I held it together long enough
to complete VECTORS, then spiraled down into depression. Other unexpected
challenges arrived in their turn.
Those at least presented me with an opportunity to occupy myself taking care of
people I love--even if I still couldn't quite seem to muster any enthusiasm for
taking care of myself.
An intervention by two people who love me changed my trajectory from sharply
down to slightly up. Even so, a dozen unproductive years have now somehow
slipped by. I fight for equilibrium every day. The other responsibilities I've
taken on are still Job One. And I haven't yet (re)learned how to stake a claim
for the time and quiet I need to be creative.
But, still--
What I want to do to observe this very personal anniversary is to say in public:
I'm not finished yet.
Over the next few months, I'm going to take steps to try to find and reconnect
with my readers, so I can ask them if they'd like some more. (You can help with
that, and I'd be grateful if you would.)
I'm going to pursue getting all the pieces of my backlist which I control back
into 'print' electronically.
As part of that, I'm going to put together a collection of my best short
fiction, and then spoil it by including one or two previously unpublished
stories which I liked better than any editor did.
I'm going to look for a way to make available the nice, fresh first editions and
first printings of my novels that I set aside as they were published.
I think I can do all of this under the status quo--a status quo which already
stands to change dramatically this fall, when my high schoolers turn into
collegians.
But I intend for all of this to just be a prelude to a bigger announcement next
August, which will be the anniversary of that issue of Amazing hitting
the stands. An announcement which--dog willing and the creek don't rise--might
even include the future of F*******S.
In short, it's time to start writing myself a third act. To embrace the coming
change, to be prepared enough to invite a little luck, to ask for help from my
allies and support from my readers, and most of all to feel the sharp poke in my
side that will come from having said all this publicly.
I hope you'll stick around to see how it all plays out.
Formerly and still,
Michael P. Kube-McDowell
P.S. I'd be grateful right out of the gate for your help raising the
profile of this post in whatever way you can. Because the more eyes that see it,
and the more people I hear from, the sharper and more effective that poke in the
side is going to be.