I love to talk first and write second, and I do both because I have to.
Many working writers are quite talkative—myself included—eager for social engagement after prolonged solitude. Nevertheless, my father is the only writer I’ve known who placed talking ahead of writing in importance. Every thought he had was worthy of expression and therefore deserving of a rapt and respectful audience. His family dutifully gave him that, as did fans at small cons.
Inclusion in Ellison’s anthology increased my father’s profile, and he was asked to serve as Toastmaster for the 1974 World Science Fiction Convention, the most prestigious event in the field. His duties included opening remarks, introducing the guest of honor, and presiding over the Hugo Awards ceremony. Twenty years after his first professional sale and five years after his first con, he’d reached a significant crest in his career. The personal stakes were high. He prepared index cards on which he had bullet points to trigger extemporaneous oration and reduce the chance of sounding canned—replete with dramatic pauses, laugh lines, and grand pronouncements.
At the hotel he dressed in a new leisure suit made of denim with a faux-patch design and flared legs. He wore a white shirt with a broad collar splayed over his suit coat. In the bathroom he trimmed his beard carefully. He double-checked his cuffs, the break of his trousers, and his socks. Accompanied by my mother, who wore a gorgeous white gown, he headed for the banquet.
Worldcon was held in Washington, D.C., at the Sheraton Park Hotel. It had the largest ballroom in the world and had hosted one of the inaugural galas for President Kennedy. By 1974 the infrastructure was disintegrating, and it would soon be torn down. The banquet hall was filled to capacity, with standing room only in the balcony. The air-conditioning failed. The audience was miserably hot, and the hotel staff was unable to resupply pitchers of water at a sufficient rate.
After the meal, Dad commenced his opening remarks about Roger Zelazny, the guest of honor. All went well initially. Perhaps the heat got to my father, or his own anxiety, or he succumbed to the self-destructive pressure he often fought. It could simply have been a case of Dad finally having the floor—the big floor—and he gave over to his love of talking. Whatever the reason, his opening comments began to meander, focusing on himself, and going on too long. Some fans left the room. Others perceived his extended oration as discourteous to Zelazny. People became cranky from the heat and made nasty comments. Open dissent had begun in the audience.
When it became clear that Dad was not moving toward his closing comments, Harlan Ellison decided to intervene. He rose from his spot and began a slow walk toward the head table. Dad ignored him and continued to talk about himself. Ellison reached the podium, motioned to my father and whispered in his ear. The audience erupted with laughter. Dad cut his speech short and Zelazny spoke briefly.
Dad came home incensed at Ellison for interrupting him, the most vile of transgressions against a man who placed talking ahead of every other endeavor. He told me that Ellison had ordered him to pick up the pace. He believed that Ellison was impatient to learn the results of the Hugo Award, for which he had been nominated. Around the house, Dad continually berated Ellison. He made fun of his voice, his height, and his massive ego. Harlan likes to hurt people. He takes everything personally. He sees everything as a direct challenge. Even as a teenager, I realized that Dad could be talking about himself.
According to him, the two writers were deeply engaged in a blood feud that would last until one of them died. Diplomatic reconciliation was impossible. Dad’s sense of himself was enormous but fragile, as if constructed of bamboo and paper, like a box kite. A slender string tethered it to Earth, and the slightest breeze could knock it astray. His experience at the 1974 Worldcon was a strong enough gust that he never attended another. For the next twenty years, Dad attended only regional cons where fans adored him and were willing to listen without interruption. Upon entering a room, Dad often said in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear: “Is Harlan here? No? Good. Then I’m among friends.”