Before They Were Giants (21 page)

Publication itself was not at all as memorable. It took a long time before it came out in
Orbit 18;
I think it was 1976. After that I was truly a published writer, and that was nice to think and to tell people. Also, it made me think of myself as a writer earlier than I might have otherwise, and to throw myself into all my efforts with that project in mind, and to enjoy everything that happened as part of the process of becoming a writer. In that sense Damon’s generosity had a huge impact on my life.

How has your writing changed over the years, both stylistically and in terms of your writing process?

That’s hard to say. So much has changed. It’s like looking back two or three reincarnations; I have a tenuous sense of connection with that person. Also it’s not really fair to compare yourself to a beginner. I’m a better writer now, but it’s been thirty-five years of continuous work on the problem, so I’d better be. As for my writing process, I still work in much the same way; I get an idea, write a quick rough draft, revise it many times.

What advice do you have for aspiring authors?

Learn a day job and keep it for money and raw material for fiction; vary the pacing in your stories; schedule your writing time into your weekly schedule; finish stories; send them out; read widely; try pastiches and parodies; read poetry and write it too.

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~ * ~

Destroyers

by Greg Bear

ou are the man who destroys churches?” I asked, poising my pencil over a clean sheet of note paper.

“Yes,” said the young, pleasant-looking man before me. “I do.”

“And what are your reasons for destroying churches?” I scribbled as he spoke.

“Reasons? There are many. Let’s see . . . mmm. Yes, for one, churches have sought to hold people under their power for centuries, even eons. They have sought to impress their often archaic ideas on people by any and all means— though force, mingling of societies, legislations, anything.” He smiled as I wrote. “You are doing an article?”

“Perhaps,” I replied. “When did you go before the computer to be licensed?”

“Four months ago. There was a long line of people, many different complaints and ideas. Some were licensed; most weren’t. These fools who wish to exterminate a neighbor because he cracks his egg at the small end get nowhere with the computer, of course. It only accepts legitimate—and well worded—queries for licenses, of course.”

“And you destroy synagogues, monasteries, and temples?”

“Of course.”

“But not the Buildings of the New Religion?”

“No, I have no complaint against them.”

“Thank you,” I said.

He acknowledged with a smile and handshake. “When you get your article finished, send me a copy of the magazine. I would enjoy seeing what you write.”

“Very well,” I replied. “If I sell it.”

“Oh, no doubt you will, if you’re any writer at all. Many people are interested in church-destroyers these days.”

I left the church- destroyer’s office and went downtown on my next mission. I thought deeply on what the c.d. had said, and came to many interesting conclusions. They were transferred to my notebook as soon as I grasped them.

I entered the office of the communist-destroyer. In my notebook I made sure not to confuse him with the church-destroyer when I abbreviated. I put him down as cm.d.

“What can I do for you?” he asked. He was a thin man with large eyes and nervous skin, with a face which can be described only as loose. He did not smile, but he did not frown, either.

“You destroy communists?” I asked, pencil over notebook.

“Yes. Every damn one of them. Why?” Did I detect a hint of a frown? No ... perhaps just a minor throat irritation. I prepared to switch on my shield, just in case.

“I write,” I replied. “Articles, stories, books, and such.”

“Oh. Be careful when you leave the building, my friend. There is a man down the street a ways who destroys writers.” His eyes flashed.

“I am a government writer,” I said, and produced the small counterfeit card. “To continue. Why do you destroy communists?”

“Because they wish to take us all over. They’re clever, too, and they could do it if it wasn’t for us.”

“There is a group?”

“Naturally. It isn’t too large, of course—” he lied, obviously—”but it’s enough to keep them from getting too strong all at once.”

“How do you tell a communist?” I scribbled furiously.

“Normally we get calls from people who report their neighbors or something. Then we check out the reports—there’s a stiff penalty in hitting normal people, of course—and move in if they’re valid. You’d be surprised how many false reports we get. Probably the communists do it themselves, give reports, I mean—just to get at us.” His face was red. He spoke in a tense voice. I readied one free finger over my shield switch.

“Fine. Thank you very much, and success.”

He smiled weakly and opened the door for me. “Careful of that writer-destroyer!” he warned and I shook my head.

I took the monorails to Jayark-Mirie and noted with interest that two men shot each other on car 34-c. I wondered who they were even now, but nobody ever finds out unless one of the destroyers isn’t really a destroyer. If he’s a normal person, they raise quite a fuss.

In Jayark, two men started battling it out on the streets and everybody automatically flipped on their shields. I believe only one man was killed that time, but I didn’t really notice.

I interviewed the conservative-destroyer in his home.

“You destroy conservatives?” I asked.

“Yes, mm hmm. Conservatives, John Birchers, Nazis, and so on. You a writer?”

I nodded. “Why?” I asked.

“Why? Why what?”

“Why do you destroy conservatives?”

“Because they think they’re right and no one else is. I can’t stand that. It makes me sick.”

“Why didn’t you become a church- destroyer, or a communist- destroyer, or somebody like that?”

“I only have one choice of license and occupation, of course. I chose this one—don’t know really why. I just dislike old fogies with polluted brains functioning at half mast in reverence for the dear departed good old days.”

“Thank you.”

The last person I interviewed was the atheist-destroyer. He was an aged gentleman, dressed in a trim gray suit and carrying a fine cherry cane with gold tip. He had a sour face and a frown of the true avenger.

“You kill atheists?”

“I kill atheists.” He had a rough, grating voice sounding like gravel tinking on windows.

“Why?”

“Because it’s God’s law. They hate all honest religioners, they do, and anyone who doesn’t think like them is nuts. In their opinion, of course. Bunch of twisted punks, all of them.” I thanked him and left the house. The monorail trip back to Brighton was quick and silent, giving me little time to organize my notes. I did that when I arrived at my hotel.

I spent three hours re-wording and correcting and doing the final draft. Then I sent my report and query into the computer.

I received my license today, along with the blank entrance form for purchasing a weapon.

I’m licensed to destroy destroyers.

~ * ~

Greg Bear

ince the 1970s, Greg Bear has been publishing short stories and novels that attempt to answer deep and abiding questions regarding both science and culture. Though occasionally branching into fantasy and horror, the hard science fiction for which he is best known has addressed everything from viral evolution to overpopulation and the Fermi paradox, and his short story (and later novel) “Blood Music” has been credited as the first appearance of nanotechnology in science fiction. Along the way, he’s picked up three Hugo Awards, a John W. Campbell Award, a Robert A. Heinlein Award, and a whopping five Nebula Awards—one of only two authors ever to win a Nebula in every category. The scientific rigor within many of his stories has been praised by the prestigious research journal
Nature,
and that same devotion to cutting-edge fact and plausible extrapolation has led him to serve on political and scientific action committees and advisory boards for everyone from Microsoft to the U.S. Army, the CIA, and the Department of Homeland Security.

Though his short stories began appearing regularly in major science fiction venues three decades ago—and his artwork several years before that—Bear’s little-known first step into the field saw print several years prior, while the author himself was still in high school.

Looking back, what do you think still works well in this story? Why?

The shorter a story is, the more difficult it is to write—but for me, as a youngster, this one was remarkably easy. Even at the age of fifteen, the culture of intolerance and bigotry of the mid-sixties had affected me strongly, and the story even today packs a bit of that old punch.

If you were writing this today, what would you do differently? What are the story’s weaknesses, and how would you change them?

I’d probably just rewrite it, which would likely make it twice as long.

What inspired this story? How did it take shape? Where was it initially published?

I wrote it in 1966—so long ago I don’t remember the specific circumstances. Around that time, I was visiting Los Angeles with my cousin Dan Garrett and dropping by Forry Ackerman’s house to chat and see his collection. Forry suggested I try sending stories to Robert Lowndes, who was editing a number of magazines—very low-budget, small saddle-staple productions for Health Knowledge Publications, including
The Magazine of Horror
and
Famous Science Fiction.
I thought the logo for
The Magazine of Horror
was a little too gruesome—I was quite the style worry-wart back in those days—and drew up a scratchboard sample of an alternate cover, which Lowndes graciously thanked me for, but said that the logo’s original dripping blood no doubt helped sales. I then submitted “Destroyers” to him, and to my shock, almost immediately he accepted it. It was published in 1967, and I was paid 10 dollars—and somewhere, I still have a copy of that check. I fondly remember dropping by Readerama in Grossmont Center in San Diego to buy copies of my first publication—with high school buddies in tow. Stephen King, incidentally, published his first story in
The Magazine of Horror.

Where were you in your life when you published this piece, and what kind of impact did it have?

I was a kid. I had been submitting stories to magazines for three years at that point—and the sale knocked me for a loop. It also impressed my parents. I don’t remember lording it over my high school English teachers, but I’m sure that was at the back of my thoughts! However, I wouldn’t sell another story for four years, so that balanced things out.

How has your writing changed over the years, both stylistically and in terms of your writing process?

It’s gotten a little better.

What advice do you have for aspiring authors?

Keep writing! Don’t get hung up on one story or one book. A career is rarely made by one achievement.

Any anecdotes regarding the story or your experiences as a fledgling writer?

I could try to imagine my teachers dealing with a student who had already professionally published a story, but who refused to do the assigned homework—how do you get through to such a character?