Author Bumping- Theodore Sturgeon

Author Bumping – Theodore Sturgeon

Newbies: Please check my blog archives for Author Bumps with the likes of Stephen King, Robert B.Parker, and James Michener. Just enter Author Bumpings in the search bar at the top.

~

It was 1984. I had just graduated magna cum chatterbox from kindergarten. Okay so maybe I’m off by a few years. J

Florida Atlantic University was hosting the International Conference on the Fantastic in the Arts. Begun in 1980, this celebration brought together some of most talented writers from Science Fiction, Horror and Fantasy. Guests at this event ranged from Stephen King to Issac Asimov, Fritz Leiber, and my all-time hero, Theodore Sturgeon.

One of the legendary figures of the “Golden Age” of science fiction, Theodore Sturgeon was a regarded as the primary influence on Ray Bradbury and Kurt Vonnegut among other science fiction luminaries. Sturgeon wrote over 200 novels and short stories. He won the Hugo, Nebula and International Fantasy Awards. His book More Than Human (1953) was a classroom classic.

Science fiction writer, Damon Knight said of Sturgeon, “He was a superb stylist, and that was unusual when he began writing in the field. He had his own individual viewpoint of human relationships. I think he had a Messianic streak. He wanted to find ways that people could live together better.” Or to paraphrase Star Trek… to boldly go where no man has gone before.

Sturgeon wrote some of the early screenplays for Star Trek. The Vulcan Hand Greeting, “Live well and prosper” AND pon farr, the Vulcan mating ritual were all introduced by Theodore Sturgeon. When I bumped into him I had no idea about his Vulcan background - now it just adds to his mystique.

I discovered More Than Human when I was a child. I carried the paperback version with me everywhere. It became the seminal book that instilled in me the passion to write. Sturgeon  created a haunting, creditable last step in man’s evolution.

With my battered but much loved copy of More Than Human, I approached Ted Sturgeon as he sat in the FAU auditorium. A slight, wizard-like man he beckoned me to sit with him while he signed my book. Under his signature he placed a symbol… a Q with an arrow through it. He was wearing a pendant with that strange symbol on it. His explanation: “Ask the next question. And the one that follows that, and the one that follows that. That’s how we realize our potential.”

He offered me the seat next to him. “Join us when he’s done,” he nodded to the author on the stage who was graciously signing books for hundreds of his adoring fans.  It took Stephen King over an hour to sign all the books presented to him. Sturgeon beamed like a proud parent.

Steve then stepped from the platform and walked toward us. Sturgeon, frail, took my arm and we exited the auditorium - King walking on my right and Sturgeon on my left.

Theodore Sturgeon seemed to channel pure energy even as he needed to brace himself on me. He leaned over, nodded at Stephen King and said to me, “Barbara, someday the world will recognize this young man as our greatest living American author.”

Looking up at all seven-feet of Stephen King, I know he said something humble… but for the life of me I can’t recall it. I was doing an out-of-body somewhere on Mount Olympus between two creative gods. It was an awesome moment.

Sturgeon died the following year. I still have my copy of More Than Human. Each time I read it the book has a profound effect on me. Don’t we all wish we could create a story that would so mark our readers for life?

P.S.

If you ask me, I’ll explain the Vulcan Mating Ritual.

Chick Lit, Jock Lit, and D**k Lit

We can recognize Chick Lit with our eyes closed. It’s the scent of Pride and Possessions. In Publisher’s Weekly, Amy Sohn defines Chick Lit as being about women who can stand on their own two feet. The stories are frequently about females dealing with real issues we face or would love to face.

Do men have the equivalent?  Is there a male version of Chick Lit that parallels female frustration, fashion, friends and foes?  We have our pink book covers and snappy titles, but exactly where is the male literary hot button?  And if the godmother of Chick Lit is Jane Austen, then who is her male counterpart?

Curious, I bellied up to the Google search bar and plugged in “Jock Lit.” The wheels spun and up came Away Games: The Life and Times of a Latin Ball Player  by Marcos Breton and Jose Luis Villegas. The book chronicles Oakland A’s shortstop Miguel Tejada’s journey from shoeshine boy in the Dominican Republic to the major leagues in northern California.  Yawn.

I hit Search again and up popped - Those Damn Yankees: The Secret Life of America’s Greatest Franchise by Dean Chadwin.  More books about gents chasing little white balls with a stick. Is that the answer for all men?  Surely some guys veer off in another direction.  As I peruse these tomes I find no mention of a passion for fashion – it appears men only lust after uniforms. They have a genetic need to blend in and yet at the same time to excel at ball chasing.

Entering  “Jock Lit” in Google yet a third time I discover Jock Itch – cure for.  My quest is sliding downhill – fast.  Not one to give up easily, I take out the quote marks and slowly type in Jock Literature. Magically the answer appears: the godfather of contemporary guy literature, Nick Hornby.  

Hornby has elevated the Peter Pan figure to cult status, his protagonists are made even more lovable by the on-screen performances of his characters by Hugh Grant and John Cusack. I have found the male version of Chick Lit. This British author has mastered the art of combining the serious quest for male adulthood with that terrifying fear some guys have of growing up. He has an amazing talent for zeroing in on serious contemporary male emotions and serving them up in hilarious style.  His men walk with one foot firmly planted in childhood and the other touching lightly into the adult world.  They limp.

Jock Lit differs from Chick Lit in that the protagonists often don’t have successful jobs.  The men are usually card-carrying members of the Geek Squad and desire to live beneath the radar. If they have longings, they are a melding of careers beyond their reach and unattainable females. His lads look for love and success in all the wrong places, and unlike their female counterparts, they usually don’t apply themselves except in a hit or miss manner. Hornby’s  heroes are less than perfect, frequently neurotic and horny. In the beginning of his books, the guys are more interested in getting drunk and watching football on television. They’re often selfish and have lessons to learn about caring and sharing, usually taught by good women who see through their stumbling boyishness by novel’s end.

In a classic Hornby story, About a Boy, the central character (Will Lightman)  is a thirty-six year old slacker who lives off the royalties of an old Christmas song his father wrote. He’s not the kind of fellow who would get his jollies roaming the aisles of Home Depot or have an orgasm in the tool department of Sears. He’s a womanizer who has run out of hunting grounds. Envious of his friends who are all married and having children, Will continues to seek meaningless relationships that ensure he will be dumped by the gorgeous women he dates. He discovers SPAT (“Single Parents – Alone Together”) and passes himself off as a single widowed dad. “He was acting, yes but in the noblest, most profound sense of the word.”  He becomes the perfect catch for a young mother who should, according to his plan, be willing to dump him after an interlude of sex. She will discover that her child is not ready for a man in their life, allowing Will to run off into the arms of yet more ladies in distress.

The catch in Will’s plan, the thing that causes him to step over the line into adulthood comes in the shape of a twelve year-old boy (Marcus) whom Will meets while attending SPAT disguised as a widowed father. This boy is a victim at school and at home. In rescuing the child, immature Will eventually succumbs to what he has fought off for so long… he grows up.

In 1995, Hornby published his delightful analysis of contemporary underachieving males with High Fidelity. In many ways the opposite of Bridget Jones, protagonist Rob Gordon manages a used record store.  He recounts his top five breakups as if they were hits on the music charts. This is a comedy about fear of commitment, loathing your job, and falling in love. This is pure Jock Lit.  Men being the visual creatures that they are, Hornby’s characters fall in and out of love with the ease of a wiggly ferret in a toddler’s arms.

 Many people think men are less romantic than women. But men fall in love quicker because they are so visual.  Statistics tell us that men are two times more likely to kill themselves when a relationship ends. But according to my research as The Love Investigator, men are NOT willing to die for the woman they love.

Is love necessary in Jock Lit? Yes, but just a smidge. Is sex necessary? No, but that’s where D**k Lit enters the game. When I originally started my investigation of Chick, Jock and D**k, I was told that in the Australia I could replace “Jock” with “D**k” giving me D**k Lit. D**k means something entirely different in the US. I censored myself even as I researched the meanings of the three lits. Peculiar how some words don’t translate as well as others.

Women read Chick Lit to enter a Cinderella world where they have the option of pulling themselves up by their own strengths while falling in love. Men read Jock Lit to become – if even for a few pages – invincible. It’s a world free from concern with unemployment or cracking the ball over the back fence. At the end, they’ll rescue themselves while clearing the goal posts and making it into adulthood. Similar to the Chick Lit happy ending.

D**k Lit is basic mating drives without human bonding. The stories usually combine erotic descriptions of drive-by sex. Quick dopamine releases, almost but not quite pushing the protagonist over the threshold of falling in love. But it always comes short and leaves us turned off. Women need that sense of connection, that intense romantic love. So do most men. If it weren’t for those pink book covers more men might veer from Jock Lit to Chick Lit bypassing D**k Lit completely.

Now I’ll take comments from the floor.

Find Barbara in this picture

That last posting made me laugh as I wasn't in the picture.
Look below and see if you can find me in this picture taken when I was very active in the
Japan America Society.

Horror in Pink - Honorary Award- pic

Many of you have asked for photos of me on that night in question when I was attacked by female horror writers for the crime of wearing pink to a horror writers' conference. Below is a photo of the culprits as I tracked them down and re-gifted them with the crumpled tiara and home made trophy. However, I retained my honorary title of "B--ch" of the convention as I'd attracted too much male attention by being in pink.

Oh Dear!

For those who have courageously asked for pictures from my stories...
I've just gone through my many Tupperwares of photos and come up with some beauties... including the Horror in Pink award and the two fans who inflicted it on me.

Most require scanning... so stay tuned.

The Secret Diary of Alice in Wonderland - Excerpt: The Deposition

                                      ~ Wednesday April 21

It’s obvious the accused is guilty.

Put aside the evidence and look at her face.

8:00 a.m.  It had been over five weeks since Nigel disappeared and Leslie filed the lawsuit against me. My life looked very different. Instead of romantic, gourmet dinners with Nigel, it was usually supper from a can.

      Instead of luxurious trips, it was driving from one temp job to another. I was desperate for money and Leslie was preventing me from working in real estate. I was completely boxed in. No income – all outgo.

Early the next morning, I walked into the offices of Katz, Pillar and Gross, properly attired in my best black suit. Ready for anything. Or so I thought.

Gross stepped toward me in his starched white shirt, black slacks and red suspenders. Marching in precise time to him was a twenty-something man.

“Ms. Hartley...”

“Harte.”

“Ms. Harte,” Gross started over. “This is Aaron Stephens.”

Aaron Stephens nodded, puppy-like.

“Aaron will represent you this morning.” Gross said.

“Excuse me. What do you mean? You’re my lawyer.”

“Quite simply, you can’t afford me. I have filled Aaron in on the details of your case. He will do a fine job.” Gross looked like he was sniffing the air.

“You can’t do this. It is illegal, unethical, un-American...”

I complained until Gross was out of range.

“Ms. Harte?” young Aaron said. “We’ve got a lot of work to do to get you ready for your deposition. We only have thirty minutes before show time.”

“Is that what you call it? Show time?” I asked.

“Mr. Gross did tell you that your deposition is to be video taped?”

“What? Is Leslie nuts? I refuse.”

“It’s too late to refuse. You had ten days notice,” said Aaron.

“Did not.”

“Mr. Gross did.”

“That two-timing, red suspendered twit. I’ve been shanghaied.”

9:00 a.m.  We sat at the conference table facing two cameras and three lawyers. Young Aaron leaned over and said, “This is so exciting. Everyone is asking me if this is a murder case.”

I wanted to thump the kid on the head.

“Look this way, Ms. Harte,” the cameraman directed.

I thought sure they would call for “Makeup.” I knew my only way through this was to put on a brave front. So, fake it I did.

A short man with storm-trooper eyes and lacquered black hair strutted in. “That’s Dallas Little,” Aaron whispered to me. Great, my kid lawyer is in awe of opposing counsel.

Little and a lawyer named Funk sat side by side with a pile of books and papers between them. This was the first time I had seen Little up close. He smelled of dried blood and POLO.

“Ready, Missus Harte?” Little said, salivating.

“It’s Ms. Not missus. And no. You have no right to do this.”

“Ms. Harte, let me present you with a copy of the court order granting permission to video record your deposition.”

“I’ve never seen this before.”

“Well then that’s a problem between you and your attorney…isn’t it?  If you refuse to cooperate you can and will be held in contempt of court. A warrant for your arrest will be issued. I suggest you cooperate.”

This was one of those dirty tricks I had heard about. I tried to remember what the Florida Rules of Civil Procedure said about notices of depositions. In my panic, I drew a blank. Little flashed me a nasty look. “Let’s begin, Ms. Harte.” 

I didn’t want to be in contempt of court. Damn that Gross. He never warned me, he never argued for me against this lynch mob.

Little verified my name, address and employment situation. 

“Ms. Harte, you’ve been married, why were you divorced?”

I leaned toward Aaron. “This has nothing to do with why we’re here. It’s irrelevant,” I whispered into his tender ear.

“Sir, that’s irrelevant,” Aaron said to Little.

The cameras whirred on.

“Did you ever lose a hat?” Little shoved the question at me. The lawyer at his side scribbled a note to him.

I flashed Little a look of disgust, knowing it would be caught on film. I’d be damned if I would buckle. He wanted tough? He was gonna get tough.

“Yes, I believe I may have lost a hat. I may have even lost two.”

Wherever Little was going with his stupid hat question, the point dissolved and he flushed. Score one for me.

We bounced ridiculous questions and answers back and forth. They were surprise questions designed to shake me. I answered sharply. My words calculated to underline the lunacy of this circus.

10:15 a.m.  The video lights grew hotter. All I could see through the yellow glare were the black marble eyes of the rodent Leslie had set upon me. His questions grew sillier.

      I laughed once or twice. Little became angry. “We’ve been at this for over an hour. Let’s take a break,” he said. “We’ll resume in ten minutes.”

He bared his teeth at me. Was he thinking of the blood coursing in my neck? “Be back here in ten minutes, Missus Harte,” he said.

“Sure, Miss Little,” I said.

Aaron ran to his office, and I hit the ladies’ room. I lingered, not wanting to be caught in an off-camera moment with Little and his associate. I waited ten minutes, popped half a Xanax, and headed back to the staging area.

I ran smack into Leslie leaving the men’s room.

“You look a little tired on camera, Alice,” he smirked, excited to have been watching me without my knowledge.

“You’re a sick man, Leslie.”

“Do you believe in evil?” he asked.

“Don’t flatter yourself. You are not anything as exotic as “evil.” You’re just a victim of Control Domination Response.”

Leslie’s pale eyes flashed red when he realized I knew about his CDR. Maris had betrayed his confidence.

“What you do to me doesn’t count a smidge.” I said. “All that matters in this glorious world is how I respond to your behavior.” I hugged myself and twirled away from him. “Besides, I know what you did.” I bluffed and blew him a kiss.

“Bitch.” he yelled after me.

“Dust mite.” I called back, maturely.

Young Aaron was atwitter when we finally sat back down. “This deposition is costing Archer over ten thousand dollars. He must want you very badly. I wish this was my case.”

Another four hours of nonsense questions and we were through. The camera men were sweating. Little’s tan suit was soaked in perspiration and his shirt collar bore makeup smudges.

I grossed out over imagining what Leslie would do with this video when he watched in a darkened room.

Elizabeth Taylor's Eyes

It was very sad to hear of the passing of screen icon, Elizabeth Taylor. She was arguably the most beautiful woman who ever lived. The headlines of her passing were quickly followed with articles about the color of her eyes. Were they really violet?

Quoting film critic Todd McCarthy who once wrote “What should abruptly stop me in my tracks, but a pair of eyes unlike I’ve ever beheld, before or since; deep violet eyes of a sort withheld from ordinary mortals that were suddenly looking into mine from mere inches away.”

It was a time when I didn’t need but could afford to pamper myself with lush facials and body wraps. I decided to treat me to four days at a posh spa. As I was signing in, the tranquil, eucalyptus scented lobby became a flurry of quiet excitement.

I turned to see Senator John Warner – a handsome dude – kissing tiny Elizabeth Taylor right before she was whisked into the inner sanctum of the facility. I was sure it was a hallucination brought on by the uber-relaxed vibes floating loose in the atmosphere.

Later that morning I was in the luxurious locker room, padding around in the daffodil yellow terry robe and matching slippers that were the uniform for all the female guests. My schedule had me headed for an exotic Jacuzzi soak before a massage. As I write this piece, I wish I could go back in time. Why is it that life offers you the very best when you really don’t need it?

As I tucked a few items into my locker and snapped the key, I realized I was standing right next to Elizabeth Taylor. My locker mate, she smiled sweetly, closed her door and walked into the Jacuzzi room. Mere mortals are always stunned to see folks from Olympus using lockers.

Once I collected myself, I found my assigned Jacuzzi and settled in. All the ladies grew quiet as Ms. Taylor entered the large room. She was dressed in the standard issue yellow robe and clearly had no makeup on. She looked down shyly, and then up at the ladies. Her eyes were the most luminous violet.  It was an unearthly experience.

The women began to chatter among themselves, perhaps in an effort to make her feel comfortable.  She seemed so lonely in that bubbling hot tub for one. I’m a nurturer. My mind scrambled like a hamster in a wheel trying to come up with a conversation starter. I could find nothing in common to use as an ice breaker. She seemed so isolated. What does one say to a goddess?  

Yes. Elizabeth Taylor’s eyes were a deep, majestic violet. Incredible to behold.

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