Nancy Springer's Blog: Last Seen Wandering Vaguely - Posts Tagged "peter-beagle"
AUTHORS ALONG THE WAY
The best thing about blogging is that I get to talk about myself. The worst thing about blogging is that I have to talk about myself. (This PR paradox has obtained throughout my career.) My “out” is talking about other writers and how wonderful they have been to me.
Andre Norton, back in 1977, shortly after my first book was published. I do not remember how I became aware of her, or learned that she lived in Florida not far from my mother. But I do recall that, on one of my trips south from Pennsylvania, I brazenly invited myself to her home, with nary a thought in my newbie mind except to shake hands. Andre had different ideas. She sat me down and answered dozens of questions I did not yet know enough to ask, giving me a concise two-hour seminar on being a professional writer: organizations to join, publications to read, pitfalls to beware, how to keep records, which were the best publishers, how to choose a good agent, and on and on. . . I left with an armload of exciting material to read and a dazed, if not dazzled, mind. I followed her advice for decades, and we corresponded, but she was getting too old to travel, and I never saw her again.
Anne McCaffrey. She provided quote after glowing quote for my fantasy novels. Also, we shared the same excellent literary agent, who provided a go-between, arranging for me to visit her when my family and I were in Ireland. My father’s brother, with whom we were staying, agreed to drive me to the bus stop in Dublin, whence I was to take a bus to the vicinity of Dragonhold. The whole day was quite an adventure. The first bus never arrived. The second bus was late. When I got to the small town (the name of which I have repressed) there was no sign of anyone from Dragonhold awaiting me. I went into a pub (patrons, exclusively male, stared as if I were a space alien) and asked whether I could use the phone. The bartender directed me to a public phone on a side street. It didn’t work. But within a few moments a motherly woman in a large sedan pulled up, introduced herself as Anne McCaffrey, said she figured the bus was late and the phone wasn’t working, and off we went. I fixated on her paddock full of Anglo-Arabian horses. She explained that they served as a kind of bank account, as good as cash in Ireland. She showed me into her office and gave me a Pern T-shirt. She had the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. Yakking, we lunched on sandwiches in the kitchen, and then she let me ride one of her horses. (!!!) She helped me onto a placid Irish heavy hunter, sent me off for a trail ride in the green, green countryside with one of the teenagers who hung around her house, and, I remember vividly, she ran after me with a sweater lest I get cold. This was my very first experience of trail riding, and what a way to start! We rode past the ruins of an 8th-century Norman castle in one of the fields. Back at the house, I remember gazing starry-eyed at the Hugo and Nebula awards in Anne’s small, cluttered living room, and I remember she gave me a huge good-bye hug. We tried to keep in touch, but mostly she kept on writing wonderful blurbs for my books.
Jean Auel. I met her only once, at a convention on the west coast. Before I could open my mouth to present myself, she squealed, “Nancy Springer! I love your books!” Talk about wind beneath my wings. . . .
Ellen Kushner. She has known me since I was a “baby author.” By a freak of phase early in her career, she was my editor for THE SILVER SUN, and her dedication to the task was wholehearted and compassionate. I particularly remember her phoning to tell me she needed a new name for the novel for a meeting due to start in five minutes. One remembers such traumatic moments. It was like giving a new name to a child due to start kindergarten. But Ellen coached me through the problem with her usual gentle merriment. Later, when she wrote her wonderful first novel, SWORDSPOINT, she asked me for a cover quote, and I dismally failed her, but she never held this against me; I was just a baby author, after all. She continued to include me in irrepressible high jinks at many a convention. I sometimes wish she’d written more, but then she wouldn’t have had so much fun.
Peter Beagle. I was always shy around him, I admired him so, but when he came back to his Pittsburgh, PA alma mater to speak, I went to pay homage, and was astounded to find very few other people there. I was the only one who stayed afterward. I had brought along all of his books for him to sign, and we talked about editors we had in common, and I showed him my new book. He sighed and said, “I wish I had a new book coming out.” He made me feel as if I were the one who had written THE LAST UNICORN.
Evangeline Walton. I worshipped her writing style for years before I had the good fortune to meet her at a conference in Arizona, where she was the “local author.” I invited her to breakfast and told her how much I admired her books, which were based on the Mabinogian, the Welsh national epic. She replied, “But you write your own plots. I never could do that.”
Madeleine L’Engle. She was sitting all by herself, a silent, dignified presence, at a Mythcon, I think it was, in Washington, DC. I had no idea who she was when I said hi in an effort to include her. That same day she bought one of my books and the next morning told me it had kept her up half the night and asked me to sign it. Then we were on a panel together. Seated at my elbow was Guest of Honor Madeleine L’Engle. I was the moderator. One of the other panelists seemed unaware that I was the moderator or, indeed, of what a moderator does, or even what moderation is. Nothing I said or did could quell her. It was the terrible horrible no good very bad worst panel ever in the history of braying jackasses needing to be knocked on the head. Madeleine L’Engle sat serene and silent (as should NOT happen to a GoH) throughout the fiasco. Afterward she gave me a slip of paper upon which she had written her mailing address so that we could correspond. Correspond! When I was so frustrated and embarrassed I thought she’d never speak to me again. Thank you, Madeleine L’Engle.
Thank you, all the wonderful writers who have encouraged and befriended me. There are many whose names I have not been able to include. You know who you are. I have not forgotten you. I will never forget.
Andre Norton, back in 1977, shortly after my first book was published. I do not remember how I became aware of her, or learned that she lived in Florida not far from my mother. But I do recall that, on one of my trips south from Pennsylvania, I brazenly invited myself to her home, with nary a thought in my newbie mind except to shake hands. Andre had different ideas. She sat me down and answered dozens of questions I did not yet know enough to ask, giving me a concise two-hour seminar on being a professional writer: organizations to join, publications to read, pitfalls to beware, how to keep records, which were the best publishers, how to choose a good agent, and on and on. . . I left with an armload of exciting material to read and a dazed, if not dazzled, mind. I followed her advice for decades, and we corresponded, but she was getting too old to travel, and I never saw her again.
Anne McCaffrey. She provided quote after glowing quote for my fantasy novels. Also, we shared the same excellent literary agent, who provided a go-between, arranging for me to visit her when my family and I were in Ireland. My father’s brother, with whom we were staying, agreed to drive me to the bus stop in Dublin, whence I was to take a bus to the vicinity of Dragonhold. The whole day was quite an adventure. The first bus never arrived. The second bus was late. When I got to the small town (the name of which I have repressed) there was no sign of anyone from Dragonhold awaiting me. I went into a pub (patrons, exclusively male, stared as if I were a space alien) and asked whether I could use the phone. The bartender directed me to a public phone on a side street. It didn’t work. But within a few moments a motherly woman in a large sedan pulled up, introduced herself as Anne McCaffrey, said she figured the bus was late and the phone wasn’t working, and off we went. I fixated on her paddock full of Anglo-Arabian horses. She explained that they served as a kind of bank account, as good as cash in Ireland. She showed me into her office and gave me a Pern T-shirt. She had the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. Yakking, we lunched on sandwiches in the kitchen, and then she let me ride one of her horses. (!!!) She helped me onto a placid Irish heavy hunter, sent me off for a trail ride in the green, green countryside with one of the teenagers who hung around her house, and, I remember vividly, she ran after me with a sweater lest I get cold. This was my very first experience of trail riding, and what a way to start! We rode past the ruins of an 8th-century Norman castle in one of the fields. Back at the house, I remember gazing starry-eyed at the Hugo and Nebula awards in Anne’s small, cluttered living room, and I remember she gave me a huge good-bye hug. We tried to keep in touch, but mostly she kept on writing wonderful blurbs for my books.
Jean Auel. I met her only once, at a convention on the west coast. Before I could open my mouth to present myself, she squealed, “Nancy Springer! I love your books!” Talk about wind beneath my wings. . . .
Ellen Kushner. She has known me since I was a “baby author.” By a freak of phase early in her career, she was my editor for THE SILVER SUN, and her dedication to the task was wholehearted and compassionate. I particularly remember her phoning to tell me she needed a new name for the novel for a meeting due to start in five minutes. One remembers such traumatic moments. It was like giving a new name to a child due to start kindergarten. But Ellen coached me through the problem with her usual gentle merriment. Later, when she wrote her wonderful first novel, SWORDSPOINT, she asked me for a cover quote, and I dismally failed her, but she never held this against me; I was just a baby author, after all. She continued to include me in irrepressible high jinks at many a convention. I sometimes wish she’d written more, but then she wouldn’t have had so much fun.
Peter Beagle. I was always shy around him, I admired him so, but when he came back to his Pittsburgh, PA alma mater to speak, I went to pay homage, and was astounded to find very few other people there. I was the only one who stayed afterward. I had brought along all of his books for him to sign, and we talked about editors we had in common, and I showed him my new book. He sighed and said, “I wish I had a new book coming out.” He made me feel as if I were the one who had written THE LAST UNICORN.
Evangeline Walton. I worshipped her writing style for years before I had the good fortune to meet her at a conference in Arizona, where she was the “local author.” I invited her to breakfast and told her how much I admired her books, which were based on the Mabinogian, the Welsh national epic. She replied, “But you write your own plots. I never could do that.”
Madeleine L’Engle. She was sitting all by herself, a silent, dignified presence, at a Mythcon, I think it was, in Washington, DC. I had no idea who she was when I said hi in an effort to include her. That same day she bought one of my books and the next morning told me it had kept her up half the night and asked me to sign it. Then we were on a panel together. Seated at my elbow was Guest of Honor Madeleine L’Engle. I was the moderator. One of the other panelists seemed unaware that I was the moderator or, indeed, of what a moderator does, or even what moderation is. Nothing I said or did could quell her. It was the terrible horrible no good very bad worst panel ever in the history of braying jackasses needing to be knocked on the head. Madeleine L’Engle sat serene and silent (as should NOT happen to a GoH) throughout the fiasco. Afterward she gave me a slip of paper upon which she had written her mailing address so that we could correspond. Correspond! When I was so frustrated and embarrassed I thought she’d never speak to me again. Thank you, Madeleine L’Engle.
Thank you, all the wonderful writers who have encouraged and befriended me. There are many whose names I have not been able to include. You know who you are. I have not forgotten you. I will never forget.
Last Seen Wandering Vaguely
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