Harlan Ellison
Harlan Ellison, 1989
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I met Harlan Ellison on a warm night in October 2000. He was speaking at a college in Reading, Pennsylvania and my friends and I trekked up there to see him. Jewel had met him about a year earlier when she, Irina and Tracey attended a science fiction convention.
We were late getting there and as Jewel and I were sneaking in through the auditorium door, we heard this loud voice encouraging us to sit up front. Being the perverse creatures we fancied ourselves to be, she and I looked at him, each other, shrugged, and made for the box seats. I sat down a prepared to be skewered by the sharpest wit this side of the Prime Meridian. |
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Now you must know as preface that Ellison the Author was introduced to me via his original screenplay for the television series Star Trek called “City on the Edge of Forever” by one of my very good friends who has a rare combination of impeccable taste and a great depth of compassion for the human race. Her name is Irina, and she is one of the few people who I trust without reserve.
Read the book. Picked up the phone two hours later and managed to whisper one word between sobs: “Trooper.” Cried some more and lost about twenty ounces of waterweight that night between tears, snot and spit. |
The City on the Edge of Forever
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"I wanted to write something about...the importance of courage when there is no hope."
Trooper was a character murdered by Gene Roddenberry and his cronies while they were working to bring “City” to the small screen. A legless veteran of the Great War, he gives his life for that of our heroes, Mr. Spock and Captain Kirk, because they were decent and respected him. He was the Innogen of Shakespeare’s Much Ado About Nothing – excised because he was deemed to be unimportant. What Roddenberry didn’t understand was that Trooper was the soul of that story. “City” in its original form touched something inside of me. I knew that I would be able to respect Ellison, perhaps even like the man, if I ever met him. I was wrong. I loved him from the start. As I listened to Ellison ridicule the pseudo-intellectuals he had met over the years and verbally flay the student population he was addressing, I felt both naked and safe. He was talking to me, challenging me, and protecting me at the same time. My favorite moment was the blank look of idiocy on the faces of the students when Ellison was lambasting the media. He was recounting a particularly horrifying incident in which one sports commentator was comparing a game he’d seen to the “battling Plantagenets” and the other had no idea what he was talking about. I couldn’t help myself. I just started laughing. Then I realized I was the only one in the auditorium who had gotten the reference. Sudden burst of fear and hope as Ellison loomed over me, pointing his finger at my forehead. I was going to be cannon fodder in less than a minute, I just knew it. Bladder control? Check. Bowel control? Check. Duck and cover? Good plan! Then he spoke. I don’t remember the exact quote (and I wouldn't dream of misquoting him) but here's what stuck with me: See this girl? Remember her. She knows what I’m talking about. Look out for her in a few years because she’s got a better chance than all you mindless fuckwits at making it! Oh God. The Hand of Fate has been laid upon me. Now I have to write and not only that, it’s got to be good, too. Fuck. Double fuck. Three billy goatfucks gruff. I’m doomed. I still followed through on my plan to buy books from him that night (support the starving artist and his lovely wife) and he autographed them with his fountain pen while we chatted for a brief moment. I’m glad I was not in babbling-idiot mode because I managed to thank him for his time and tell him it was a pleasure to meet him without collapsing in a wet puddle of joy. Harlan Ellison, who makes the most erudite academics shit their pants because he can see through their pretenses and isn't afraid to do so publicly, smiled at me and shook my hand. I saw then what others had missed; he was just as cuddly as a teddy bear on the inside, forced to adopt a nasty outer shell because he cared so much about his craft and his fellow humans, mindless and shitwitted we might be. I wanted so badly to hug him, to tell him that I was up for the challenge of raging against mediocrity and apathy, to promise him that I wouldn't ever give up the fight against ignorance. Instead, I just grinned at him. Somehow, I think he got it anyway because he grinned back, and I felt the warmth deep in the core of my marrow.
I write whenever I can. Sometimes it's a pleasure, but more often it is painful. As my characters form and the stories grow from my own experience and imagination, I get a clear view of myself. I see my imperfections, the ones I try to cover up so people won't leave me. You might know some or all of them if you know me. Greed. A voracious desire for men I cannot have. My utter rejection of men who have done nothing but love me selflessly. My disdain for the wisdom of my mother. The hatred I bear my father for leaving me. My vicious verbal abuse of my brother. My neglect of the only people who have ever given a damn about me. Disgusted yet? Most of the time I can't even stomach the things I have done. It's at these times that I hear Harlan's voice, comforting me and pushing me, much like a cantankerous Mr. Miyagi/Mickey Goldmill demon sitting on my shoulder. Bleed for them, little girl. Every last drop. That’s the only way you can ever hope to live with yourself. And then the voice reminds me of the time I stood up to most of my third-grade class and stopped them from ridiculing one of my best friends. Or when I took my grandmother out to dinner for her birthday and actually got to know her as a person, not just the woman who'd given my mother life and made gingerbread cookies with me when I was little. Or when I wrote a story that inspired a woman from Iowa to leave her boyfriend - a man who had been abusing her for over four years. Courage, little girl. Chin up, shoulders back, middle fingers up. Way up. I may never meet him again, but I have no doubt that Harlan Ellison left his signature on my soul.
Read something visceral that Harlan wrote about The 3 Most Important Things in Life. Read something hilarious that Harlan wrote about his surgery. Read something beautiful that Harlan wrote for his wife, Susan. Visit Harlan at his official website: Ellison Webderland.
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Copyrighted © 2003 Silver Thistle Publishing.