Its like this. I dont want to be Harlan Ellison. Now wait, before your underwear bunches on you, squeezing your genitals in a vice-like grip, hear me out. I will explain. So please, give me a moment of your time. Settle down. Relax. Prepare yourself a beverage of your choice. Smoke em if youve got em. I know I will be, and if the smoke bothers you that much, maybe wed better step outside before we go any further.
Comfy? Good. Let us continue.
I first encountered Harlan Ellison when I was fifteen years old. It was his smile that caught mesaintly and diabolical at the same time. I was entranced. We talked, he and I. Actually, he talked, but I hadnt noticed because the things that he spoke of. He wove patterns in the air, and I began to see worlds in those patterns that I never knew existed. I suppose that you could say that Harlan Ellison changed my life, because in all of the intermining years, I still remember this.
This was back in 1986. I had gone to the library on a hunt. The book was Ellison Wonderland. I didnt read every story, nor did I enjoy every one, yet I can remember it. I remember the cover, with Harlan sitting on a mushroom, offering all that is good and wicked in the world. It was new for me. Oh sure, I had read othersBradbury and King. They didnt pull the wool over their readers eyes. They told it like it was, and even at an early age, I appreciated that. Harlan was different. Bradbury painted pictures on the page. King conjured shadows and made them dance. Harlan Ellison took the sun from the sky and held it up for study, grabbed the moon, did a quick little sidestep, pulled the Earth into the mix, juggled with aplomb, sang a song, did a dance, insulted the crowd, kicked some wiseacre in the ass, then made the universe disappear. After he had done all of that, he had the nerve, the utter nerve, to ask you what it had all been about, bzzzzzz, wrong, try again.
Fast forward a bit. Fifteen was a bit too young to truly appreciate the complexities of Harlans mind. So lets try eighteen. Thats when I bought the audio version of A Boy and His Dog. Good Lord, that took me. I dont know how many times Ive listened to that, but I can pretty much read the story in the exact same way that Harlan did. Same with Repent Harlequin, Said The Ticktockman. I was becoming inspired. I just didnt know it yet.
Lets move on to today. Today is what counts. In the remainder of the eleven years that have passed, I have read Harlan off and on. Ive been amazed by his writing, by his wit, but mostly by his life, his attitude, his personality. Why? Because in my mind, thats what being a writer is aboutliving the life that is given to you, and living it the best way that you can. Were all human, each and every one of us. We have our good sides and our bad. We laugh, love, hate, cry, commit acts of incredible violence, bestow gifts of the gravest kindness, make mistakes, fuck up, do things right, stop to help strangers with flat tires, then speed by so quickly that we splash water over someones new suit. We are human.
Harlan has lived his life. Really lived his life. Does he have regrets? Yes. Hes written about those, when theyve bothered him. Does he have triumphs? Oh yeah. Just ask him. So I admire the hell out of Harlan Ellison, but I dont want to be him. Nor do I want to be Mark Twain, Jack London, Ernest Hemmingway, or Randall Garrett. I dont want to be any of these people. I just want to be like themI want to live my life and make it count. I want to be remembered, not just for the words that I put on paper, but by the life that Ive led.