"Spider Robinson - Live on Tape" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robinson Spider)

Live on Tape
Spider Robinson
The fantasy and horror magazines have been thoroughly independent for the most part,
without institutional, commercial, or grant support. In the United States, where grant support is
next to impossible anyway, this attitude is a blessing. In Canada, where there is a lot of grant
support available, it becomes more attractive to go for the mainstream package and get funded.
Hence Canada's highly active small presses have left less room, compared to the lower half of
North America, for fantasy magazines. A few exceptions have been Dark Fantasy, Potboiler,
Borderland, Dragonfields, and Stardock. This latter ran only two issues and was edited by Charles
R. Sounders, who has since gone on to considerable success as a screenwriter and, for DAW
Books, a novelist.
For the premiere issue of Stardock (Summer, 1977), the multiple award-winning author Spider
Robinson, always supportive of his fellow Canadians, contributed the following tale.

Dear StarWolf:
I won't tell you at the outset how the following came into my hands. All I can say is that the more I
think about it, the scareder I get. Its implications are terrifying.
You may as well run it in your fanzine as sf: no mainstream editor would touch it -- for reasons, which
will become obvious. I can't claim authorship of the manuscript -- but for equally obvious reasons, no
one else ever will.
Figuratively yours (?)
Spider

It is said that the most terrible moment of all comes when you reach within yourself -- and close on
emptiness. I, on the other hand, am afraid that I will not. But I must find out.
I have been accustomed to think of myself as a reasonably talented writer. I am not the kind of writer
who can produce pay-copy on command, with regular working hours and a dependable steady output.
But occasionally lightning strikes. The Muse possesses me for a time and then leaves. In between, I wait
for inspiration.
I find this frustrating, but I make a fair living and I take pride in what I have written. Recently,
however, the situation became intolerable. The rent was due, the electricity, oil, and phone bills likewise,
and the cupboard was doing a slow striptease, halfway to bare. Obviously, it was time for the Muse to
bail me out again.
And the fickle bitch was nowhere to be found.
For 3.5 weeks I followed established custom and did nothing -- or rather, went about my normal daily
routine, stuffing the chinks with paperback books and judicious doses of Johnny Walker, confident that
sooner or later a perfectly good story idea would be shuffled and dealt into my subconscious.
Nothing.
I spent a week working like hell, getting my desk clear, my chores done, and my responsibilities put
off -- clearing the next week for deep-soak concentration. During that week I reread some of my favorite
Old Masters for inspirations, analyzing their structure and clarifying their themes, seeking some kind of
common denominator.
Nothing.
The next week was not clear for contemplation, but I took it anyway, letting mail, bills, household
maintenance, and social obligations pile up. By the end of 6.2 days I had become desperate: I cracked
my Ideas card file and pored over the notions and fragments jotted down over the last 10 years. This is a
last-ditch method, which had never failed me yet.
Nada.
By now so much had piled up that I was able to convince myself that it was the clutter that was
distracting me. I felt bloated, in the last stages of creative pregnancy, and I decided I needed a warm