Have I mentioned that I miss the old days?
Sure, these days are great, and you can find all kinds of information on the Internet, but back in 1993, before the 'Net was like it is today, the real thrill was to go to the mailbox and find a copy of a great magazine, settle down in an easy chair with a good reading lamp, and page through some outstanding articles.
Just take a look at the cover articles in this issue of Scream Factory, for example. But that's just the tip of the iceberg. Feast your peepers on the ToC. It's almost too much too take in. And these aren't skimpy little articles and reviews we're looking at. The issue comes in at 128 oversize (8-1/2 X 11) pages of small print. Nonfiction, stories, reviews, interviews, and it's all great stuff. You can tell that by looking at the writers. They don't print 'em like this anymore. Or if they do, I don't see 'em.
I thought I'd given all my periodicals to the Cushing Library at Texas A&M, but I ran across this one the other day when going through some material on a hard-to-reach shelf. I'm glad I found it and selfishly happy to have it still in my possession.
Okay, I'll say right at the start that I have no idea what the title means. Sounds good, but I don't see any connection to the story. But, hey. I don't care.
This is one of those books that I've had for years and had been planning to read for a long time. Somehow it got stuck back behind some other DAW books and forgotten. When I came across it recently, I decided it was past time to read it.
Daniel Ransom is probably best known for his horror novels written for Zebra books back in the Good Old Days, but he also wrote SF for DAW Books (I'll eventually get around to Zone Soldiers). And you probably know already that Ransom is a pen name used by Ed Gorman. Gorman says that this particular book could not have been written without extensive help from Larry Segriff.
I don't know what Segriff's contributions were, but Gorman's style is almost immediately recognizable in The Fugitive Stars. There's an underlying tone of melancholy leavened with humor that seems typical of a lot of his work to me. Ransom says that the book owes debts to a lot of old B&W movies from directors Don Siegel, Jack Arnold, and Val Lewton. SF fans will notice debts to writers like Robert A. Heinlein and Alfred Bester.
Michael Raines is a telepath who's losing his powers. Once a part of an experimental government program, Raines is now on his own, lonely and getting older. A mysterious woman leaves a package at his door, and the action begins. It doesn't let up.
It seems that some astronauts visiting a comet in the year 2011 (the book was published in 1995) have been possessed by an alien something, and now the alien something has begun taking over others. It's up to Raines and the wife of one of the astronauts to stop it and save the world.
The things that happen are like the the things that happen in the old B&W movies, and it doesn't do to think about them too much. Just go along for the ride and imagine the story unfolding in a theater on a Saturday afternoon in 1957. Give it a try, and you'll see what I mean.
A few days ago I got an e-mail from someone who used to attend our writing workshops at Alvin Community College. She'd been going through some old magazines and had run across a copy of Mystery Scene Volume 1, Number 2, postmarked December, 1985. She said she'd opened it up and seen my article on selling the first book in the Sheriff Dan Rhodes series and wondered if I'd like to have the magazine. You're durn tootin' I would.
I hadn't seen the magazine in years nearly 30 years. My copy is in deep storage somewhere in the depths of the Cushing Library at Texas A&M University if they haven't given it away. So naturally I jumped at the chance to see it again. As soon as it dropped through the mail slot here at Casa de Crider, I tore open the envelope and started turning the pages. Holy galloping nostalgia, Batman! It was overwhelming.
For one thing, there's Ellen Nehr's "Murder Ad Lib" column, which includes an interview with Barbara Michaels and Ellen's reviews. Ellen was a fan right down to the soles of her white tennis shoes and a unique personality. I feel a little sorry for the generations of mystery readers and fans who've come along since her passing and never known her (and her eccentric spelling, sadly absent in the column, thanks to the editors). She also has a letter in the issue, informing executive editor Ed Gorman that quiche was served at the PWA luncheon at the Bouchercon (which was in San Francisco that year). "Bill Pronzini was so embarrassed that he grabbed his passport and left for two weeks in England. Can you blame him?"
William Campball Gault has a report on the Bouchercon, and he writes about running into pulpster and western writer Tommy Thompson in the lobby of the Sir Francis Drake Hotel. Thompson had no idea that there was a convention in the hotel. He was there with his wife to celebrate his 50th wedding anniversary. So, Gault says, he and Thompson "sat in the lobby and dreamed back, boats against the current. . . . Someone has said recently that nostalgia ain't what it used to be; it is to old pulp writers." To me, too, and I'm sorry I wasn't in on that conversation. I was at the convention, and I did get to spend a good bit of time with Gault. A great guy, and I'd have loved to meet Thompson.
There's a wonderful interview with Knox Burger conducted by Jon White (it first appeared in Paperback Forum, a publication that I also gave to Texas A&M). Burger reminisces about his days as an editor at Gold Medal and Dell. Great stuff, just great. "There was another guy from that time, a wonderful guy, a madman, but very entertaining and a good writer, named William Campbell Gault. He was a fiesty little guy." Hmmm. Where have I heard that name before?
Ed Gorman's article on Dean Koontz calls Koontz "America's most successful least-known-writer." Geez, could 1985 have been that long ago? It's hard even to imagine a time when Koontz could've been called a "least-known-writer."
Max Allan Collins has a movie column, which shouldn't come as a surprise to anyone who's read his blog. He was already and established writer, as the ad in the issue indicates. Barry Gifford writes about discovering Jim Thompson. And there's a lot more. Reading this issue was like opening a time capsule, and I wallowed in nostagia for . . . well, I guess I still am. Wow. Where are the snows of yesteryear?
