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Joy Ward is the author of one novel. She has several stories in print, in magazines and in anthologies, and has also done interviews, both written and video, for other publications.

Mike Resnick, along with editing this magazine, is the winner of five Hugos from a record thirty-seven nominations and is, according to Locus, the all-time leading award winner, living or dead, for short fiction. He is the author of seventy-seven novels, 285 stories, and three screenplays, and the editor of forty-two anthologies. He was Guest of Honor at the 2012 Worldcon.

 THE GALAXY'S EDGE INTERVIEW
by
Joy Ward

Joy Ward interviews Mike Resnick

Mike Resnick is more than simply a science fiction icon. Mike has won more awards than any other science fiction writer. In fact, Mike is so good at what he does he makes the very hard work of writing top-notch science fiction look almost easy. Besides numerous books and stories in print all across the world, Resnick is also the editor of Galaxy’s Edge.

Joy Ward: How did you get started writing?

Mike Resnick: My mother was a writer. I always wanted to be a writer. By the time I was in high school I sold my first article at fifteen, I sold my first poem at sixteen. I'm not a poet but I ran it in Facebook a while back.

Silky Sullivan came to the Derby with more pre-publicity than Secretariat and ran twelfth. I wrote “Silky at the Post” (which was my answer to “Casey at the Bat”) and I actually sold it. I sold some stories by eighteen. I married Carol in college. I was nineteen, she was eighteen, and after a year of fiddling around working for the railroad I figured it was time to get a job in publishing somewhere -- and it happens that the only publishing job open in the whole city of Chicago at that point was at 2717 North Pulaski Road. National Features Syndicate is what they called it, but what they did is they put out three tabloids, very much like the National Enquirer only worse, and three men's magazines. Within half a year this twenty-two-year-old kid is editing The National Insider with a print run of 400,000 a week. Our best-selling headline during the years I had it was "Raped by 7 Dwarves." I will not testify to the veracity of our stories. Because we did not publish erotic books, adult books, that meant I was free to sell them elsewhere, whereas I couldn't sell tabloid or men’s magazine stuff elsewhere because we had our own publications. But I knew guys from other publishers in our field and I started doing that. By the time the dust had cleared ten years later I had sold over two hundred of them, all of them under pseudonyms. As I explained, the only place we writers wanted our name was on the check, never on the book.

You'd be surprised how many people who have gone on and made it pretty big started, learned their trade in that field because you could get very well paid while you were learning how to write. We only got a thousand a book, sometimes seven hundred a book, and no royalties ever, but if you turn out a book every two weeks or every week or so, this was at a time when the average American was making eight thousand bucks a year. We could do that every two months if we had to. We were twenty-two, twenty-three- year-old kids. You learned how to make deadlines and you learned how to differentiate characters since they were all going to do the very same thing. I sneaked through some Edgar Rice Burroughs and Robert E. Howard pastiches to legitimate New York publishers, but I didn’t want to write Burroughs or Howard books, I wanted to write Resnick books.

One day in 1975 I turned to Carol and I said, “If I write one more four-day book or one more six-hour screenplay for Herschel Gordon Lewis (he was voted the second worst director in history after Ed Wood), if I do one more my brain is going to turn to putty and run out my ears. What else do we know how to do?”

At the time we were breeding and exhibiting collies. We had twenty-three champions overall, and we had twelve or fifteen dogs on the place any given day – and we figured if the two of us could care for fifteen dogs and I had time to write all that crap, think of what a staff could do. So we spent about eight months looking around the country and wound up buying the second-biggest luxury boarding and grooming kennel in America, which happened to be in Cincinnati. We moved there and within about four years it was going full force. We had a staff of twenty-one. Any given day we were boarding like two hundred dogs, sixty cats, grooming about thirty or forty dogs.

I was finally able to go back to writing, only this time writing the kind of stuff I wanted to write. I was sure there was no audience for it. That was why we had the kennel. Much to my surprise, it started selling and in 1993, when the writing out-earned the kennel for the fifth year in a row, we sold the kennel. We figured we could now live anywhere we wanted, so we looked all over the country, decided we liked it here, so we stayed in Cincinnati.

The first thing I sold after we bought the kennel was The Soul Eater in 1981. Analog called it a work of art, which surprised the hell out of me that anybody besides me thought it was any good. The next one I wrote was one called Birthright: The Book of Man, which I have resold a dozen times. It created a future in which I've put about thirty-five of the novels I've written since then. I wrote thirteen books for Signet and they were getting phenomenally good reviews. They were selling okay because Signet kept buying them from me, but they weren't selling any more than okay.

My advances weren't getting any bigger. It was like I was standing still doing nothing. My friend Jack Chalker finally convinced me that the problem was my agent. I had made one foreign sale in four years. So, after he convinced me, I did the smartest thing I've ever done in my career: I hired Eleanor Wood as my agent. I hired her in 1983, and she remains my agent today. The first book she sold was Santiago, which got me three times the biggest advance I had gotten up to that point. It made The New York Times bestseller list and in the first two years I had her she made twenty-six foreign sales for me, which was twenty-five more than anybody else had made for me. We have been together ever since.

I thought at the time, a rather stupid thought, that if you had something important to say you had to say it in sixty, seventy thousand words or more. You couldn't do it in a short story. I only wrote seven stories the first ten years I was writing science fiction. Then in 1986 Orson Scott Card asked me to write a story for an anthology he was doing called Eutopia, and by keeping to all the strictures he gave, which were interesting ones, I wrote a story called “Kirinyaga.” It made my reputation. It won the Hugo. It made me decide that yeah, you can occasionally do something with short stories. It has re-sold thirty-four times to domestic and foreign venues. From that day to this I've written and sold about three hundred short stories. I found out I love doing them.

You have to understand that unlike most beginners, I wasn't one. I probably had ten million words behind me so the fact that it sold wasn't the thrill that it would be for most people. Everything I wrote sold. Most of it I didn't want to sign my name to. It was very gratifying that I was able to get away with it. I didn't have to do Burroughs books and Howard books. I could do Resnick books and sell them. That was very satisfying, and so was the fact that I had a legitimate New York publisher say, in essence, "Okay, I'll buy three a year from you, any subject you want.” It was gratifying to know that I could finally write what I had been training myself to write for fifteen years, I could write stuff I could sign my name to, that when people came over and said, "What do you write for a living?" I wouldn't give them any titles because I didn't want anybody to know those titles. It was very satisfying to be able to write at a more elevated level. Howard and Burroughs were fine for their day and they wrote at the peak of their ability, but those are not the peak of most of our abilities. Totally different kinds of things.

What happened was Lin Carter was a friend of mine and he was probably the greatest literary chameleon of them all. One day I am in New York, probably around 1970 or so, having lunch with him. He was telling me what he was working on. He said, "Two weeks ago I did a Burroughs book and right now I’m doing a Lee Brackett book. Next month I’ll be doing a Robert E. Howard book.” I said, “That’s fine, Lin, but when are you going to do a Lin Carter book?" He looked at me and I could tell he didn't understand the question. That made up my mind then and there. I didn't want to spend the rest of my life writing Robert E. Howard and C. L. Moore, the way Lin did. So I stayed out of the science fiction field for ten years. I wrote more adult books. I wrote other things. It really made up my mind that I didn't want to write that stuff. I'd rather not write science fiction at all than imitate other people.

So it was really gratifying to be putting my own views down. This is the kind of science fiction I want to write, nobody else was writing exactly like this, and to be able to sell it and get good reviews, to have a publisher and finally a number of publishers who continually encourage me and say do more of it – well, it finally made writing both fun and satisfying.

It also meant that I knew what I was going to do for the rest of my life, and I do a lot of it. I'm pretty fast. One thing you learn writing in that Other Field for a thousand a book, no royalties, and publishers who may go to jail in three weeks, is that you learn how to be fast. Well, to give you an example, I'm seventy-four years old. I should be slowing down and in ways I am. But when I was seventy, four years ago, I had ten books out. Last year, at seventy-four, I sold fourteen new stories and delivered eight books as well as editing Galaxy’s Edge. I’m not impoverished. I do it in these quantities because this is what I love to do more than just about anything else in the world.

The most satisfying part of being a writer, probably for the last twenty-five, thirty years, has not been seeing my name in print. I do that all the time. I love winning awards, and I've certainly won my share – but the real highlight is at the end of the day when I look at what I've written and it comes out pretty much the way I hoped it would when I sat down in the afternoon to write. To me, that's more gratifying than any good review or anything else. I know the difference between good and bad. I also know when I write, even though its saleable, isn't as good as it should have been and I have to go back and do it again. But again, it’s really very gratifying when it comes out the way I hoped it would.

My most memorable award was probably the first Hugo I won because you never expect to win one. Nobody expects to win one.

We were sitting in the audience right behind George Effinger in 1989 and I was up for best short story. It was the first time I had ever been nominated. I looked at the field and David Brin was up. David Brin was as hard to beat in the late eighties as Harlan was in the early seventies. I knew I was going to lose to him so I was talking to George Effinger. Then Carol pokes me in the ribs and says, "Go up there. You won!"

I said no, you must have heard wrong. David Brin had a lock on it.

She says to George, who had been turning to me. "George, will you tell him he won?"

What she didn't know was that George was deaf in one ear and he had turned the good ear to me and the deaf ear was facing the stage, so he didn't know. Finally a bunch of other writers who were sitting near us told me to go get the goddamned award so we can find out who won the next one. That was probably the most surprised and the biggest kick I got. Thereafter, not that I ever felt I had a lock on a particular Hugo, but at least I knew it was possible. I didn't know that the first time.

JW: You have a love affair with Africa.

MR: Yes I do.

Off the top, it’s a beautiful and fascinating continent. More to the point, it's as close to an alien society as a science fiction writer is going to find on this world. I think every science fiction fan will agree with two statements. One, if we can reach the stars we are going to colonize them. Two, if we colonize enough of them sooner or later we are going to come into contact with more than one sentient race. Africa offers fifty-one separate and distinct examples – because it was colonized by so many countries – of the effects, usually deleterious, of colonization, not only on the colonized but on the colonizers. Those of us who don't learn from these warnings -- and humans aren't all that good at learning anything-- are doomed to repeat them. You add that to the fact that these really are alien societies. How alien? In Kenya in 1900, there were forty-three languages and not one of them had a word for wheel. That's pretty alien. There are many other examples. At the same time, as a tourist, it is beautiful. The animals are beautiful.

One of the interesting things is that I made friends with our private guide. Whenever we're going to Kenya or Tanzania I will write him ahead and say I'm going to be working on this, this and this. Find me some old-timers who can tell me about whatever it is I'm researching. So we spend some time in the game parks, but we also hunt up a bunch of salty old guys with really weird stories to tell who are going to die with them untold if I don't visit them. I ultimately transform them into science fiction, and they end up in my books and stories.

My most powerful stories are about Africa, or based on things African. My five Hugo winners are about Africa, and except for Santiago, my better sellers are about Africa – and that's because I feel very passionately about it and it comes through.

JW: You have your writer children?

MR: That’s what Maureen McHugh dubbed them. What happened was with Alternate Kennedys, a closed anthology. Invitation only. I had invited Nancy Kress to it. She was teaching a workshop and a kid called Nick DiChario gave her a story she thought would fit, and told him to send it to me. The story came in and I must have been in a bad mood, because instead of putting in a little note saying politely please don't do this until you are asked, I thought let me read it and see just how bad it is. By page four I knew nothing could keep it off the Hugo ballot.  And nothing did. It was a Hugo nominee, and a World Fantasy nominee and Nick himself was a Campbell nominee for that story. I finally met him a few months later at the Orlando WorldCon and I said to him, "Nick, why did you send it to me?” The magazines at the time had three times the circulation of an anthology. “A story that ballot worthy should get to as many people as possible.” His answer was that he had sent it to every magazine in the field and got nothing but form rejects. I thought they are crazy! They should have fired the slush readers, because it never got to an editor. No editor could read that story and not buy it. We became correspondents and friends, and about a year later he sends me a novella and a note that he was having the same trouble with this. Could I tell him what's wrong with it? I read it and the only thing wrong with it was it was by Nick instead of by Isaac, Arthur or Robert. I knew Piers Anthony was doing an anthology on that theme. I wrote Piers and told him read this, that he was going to buy it – and indeed he did. 

I thought if we keep treating this poor kid like that, he's not going to stop writing – but he's going to stop writing science fiction and go write espionage or something else. We're going to lose a helluva talent. So I figured I’d better do something to encourage him. I get about eight or ten invites every year for anthologies. When they invite me it’s a guaranteed sale. So I invited Nick to collaborate with me on four or five of these just to get him into print, to keep him enthused. He's still writing now, he's been up for another Hugo, and he is committed to science fiction and not some rival field.

I thought: I bet there are more good writers out there than Nick who have trouble selling. So it became my duty over the last twenty-five years to help them. Every time I find a good one, I collaborate with him or her to get them into print, I buy from them for my anthologies and now for my magazine, and at conventions I take them around and introduce them to editors and agents. I do everything I can to help them.

People ask why, and the answer is you can't pay back in this field. I'm seventy-four. Everybody who helped me at the beginning is dead or rich or both. I can't pay back, so I pay forward. It's very, very gratifying to see some of these kids go out and do wonderful things!

It means the field that I love, that I have devoted my life to, isn't going to lose ten or twelve or fifteen really talented writers every decade.

These are people who deserve to be in print. This field, like almost any other field, is limited. It can't publish an unlimited number of books. It doesn’t have an unlimited number of dollars. It’s like movies or anything else: once you're in you fight to maintain your turf. If that means being a little tougher on the guy coming up behind you, you do it. And my helping them is a way to even the playing field, because to be honest most people won't even define the playing field for them. You get an awful lot of platitudes out of how-to books on writing, many of which are quite good – but there aren't any how-to books on selling.

It makes me feel that I've helped pay the field back for being so good for me. For the last thirty or forty or fifty years I've been living a dream. When I was six years old I wanted to write a book called Masters of the Galaxy. Now, the subject matter has changed appreciably -- but four years ago I did a book called Masters of the Galaxy. It happened to be about a hardboiled futuristic detective called Jake Masters, but for sixty-five years I wanted to write that book. This field has been phenomenal to me. It's given me everything I ever wanted. My spare time is spent going to conventions, associating with friends. The only people I tend to talk to now that we are out of dogs, on the computer or just about anywhere else, are science fiction fans and writers. And I am as much a fan as I am a writer. How do you thank a field for giving you a lifetime? This is my way.

Copyright © 2017 by Joy Ward.

 

   

TABLE OF CONTENTS

HOME

The Editor's Word

FICTION
BRAGGING RITES
by Samantha Murray

THE TRAGEDY OF THE DEAD
IS THAT THEY CANNOT CRY

by Sunil Patel

THE LOYAL ORDER OF BEASTS
by Kay Kenyon
YOU CAN ALWAYS
CHANGE THE PAST
by George Nikolopoulos
IT TAKES A SPECIAL-
SPECIAL PERSON

by Andrea G. Stewart

LOCKED ROOM
by Kevin J. Anderson

GOLF TO THE DEATH
by Alex Shvartsman

MY MONSTER CAN BEAT
UP YOUR MONSTER
by Brennan Harvey
THE OBSERVER
by Kristine Kathryn Rusch
YOUR GRIEF IS
IMPORTANT TO US
by Yaroslav Barsukov
DO NOT CALL ME BENTO
by Tina Gower

IN THE GROUP
by Robert Silverberg

INTERVIEW
Mike Resnick
by Joy Ward

SERIALIZATION
Double Star (Part 2)
Heinlein's First Hugo Winner
by Robert A. Heinlein

COLUMNS
From the Heart's Basement
by Barry N. Malzberg
Science Column
by Gregory Benford
Recommended Books
by Bill Fawcett & Jody Lynn Nye

 

 

 

 

Copyright © Arc Manor LLC 2017. All Rights Reserved. Galaxy's Edge is an online magazine published every two months (January, March, May, July, September, November) by Phoenix Pick, the Science Fiction and Fantasy imprint of Arc Manor Publishers.