Among my stories about writers is an experience with Isaac Asimov. When I was in junior high, my dad connected me, an ardent writer of what I thought then was glorious science fiction (and which has been revealed by time and maturity to be atrociously simplistic), with a sci-fi writer club of graduate students. Somehow after school I'd get to his office, then have a workshop session and dinner. One night was the annual lecture that Asimov gave, so I went with members of the club.
The auditorium was filled with young engineers and scientists whose rowdiness impressed and scared 11-year-old me. Multiple paper airplanes lofted into the air, and teachers weren't storming down the aisles to pull students out by the ear. Interesting school, I thought. It's a tradition, my minder explained.
Asimov came on stage, late I think, and did his funny, irascible thing. At the end, he stayed near the podium.
Do you want his autograph? my minder asked.
Sure, I said, reluctantly. Actually I was terrified--I'd never been that close to a real writer before, much less a famous one, and I was afraid I might combust. I'd read Foundation. I'd read I, Robot. Some short story of his performed at the Denver planetarium blew my mind. To me, Asimov could hardly be embodied. He was a god, a burning bush, an oracle.
Do you have any paper? my minder asked.
I showed him the thing in my hand--the manuscript of my story that we'd read at the club.
All I have is this.
So that's what Asimov signed. I recently found the story, sans autograph, because I clipped it out at some point and probably pasted somewhere else.
As Asimov handed the manuscript back, he stopped and inspected the stapled pages more closely.
Did you write this? he barked.
I gulped, nodded. The god was speaking to me.
Stealing bread from my mouth! he snarled, shoving the paper back at me and turning away, maybe chuckling to his admirers, maybe looking for a woman to harass. I can't quite remember, it was a blur. Was he snarling for real? Was he pumping me up, casting himself as a victim to my writing prowess? If so it was very awkward and weird, and I never felt the same way about his writing. I also never felt the burning desire to meet the writers I liked in person--I'd read them, I see them read or lecture, but I didn't dare approach.
