One of the joys of working in the science fiction field has always been the opportunity to work with and to get to know the writers whose fiction I grew up on. I cannot exaggerate the excitement I felt the first day in the office when Isaac Asimov strolled in, or meeting Samuel R. Delany at a party, or joining Ursula K. Le Guin for lunch while she was on a book tour for Always Coming Home, or sending galleys of I, Robot to Harlan Ellison. It’s hard to convey how intimidated I was the first time I had to call Robert Silverberg to congratulate him on his Nebula nomination for “Sailing to Byyzantium” and to invite him to sit at the Asimov’s banquet table. Later that day I had to make the same phone call to Roger Zelazny! One author that I never expected to have the chance to work with, and whom I never did meet in person, was the famously reclusive James Tiptree, Jr.

James Tiptree, Jr. had always been one of my favorite authors. As a teenager, I had no idea that there was a mystery about his identity. My first inkling that Tiptree might be an enigma occurred at the 1974 World Science Fiction Convention when I heard Harlan Ellison demand that the author come forward and accept his Hugo award in person. Tiptree, however, did not show up.

By the time I began working at Asimov’s, everyone knew that both Tiptree and Raccoona Sheldon, another award-winning writer, were pseudonyms for Alice B. Sheldon. One person who did meet this author was Shawna McCarthy. Charles Platt, who was conducting a series of interviews for his Dreammaker books, asked Shawna to accompany him to his meeting with Sheldon. This was Alice Sheldon’s first-ever in-person interview. Shortly after Shawna became editor of Asimov’s, we ran the interview in our April 1983 issue. I had no contact with Alli then, but I did work with her on the three stories that ran in the magazine from 1985-1987. One of these tales, “Collision” (May 1986), became part of the author’s book, The Starry Rift, which was published by Tor in July of that year. By then, alli/Tip or Tip/alli, as she variously signed her notes, and I had corresponded by phone and letters several times.

This comfortable professional relationship lasted right up to her death in the spring of 1987. My memory of much of it, though, had been filed way back in my mind until biographer Julie Phillips asked me for an interview in March 2005. Julie is the author of the fascinating book, James Tiptree, Jr.: The Double Life of Alice B. Sheldon, which was the subject of two reviews in last month’s issue.

In addition to the interview, I provided Julie with some of Alli’s notes and letters. Julie felt that there was one letter in particular that showed how late in her life, this highly regarded author was still learning and attempting to improve her craft.

It’s an interesting historical document, so I thought I’d make the letter available here:

 

5 Aug 86

Dear Sheila,

Your letter about updating my blurb is with me as I cower in my cabin in an endless rainstorm in the wild woods north of Anchorage, Alaska. (Actually it is a very comfortable cabin but I long for sun so that my “gringo friend” [her husband] can fish more comfortably.) Great country, but wet. We’re on the Talachulitna River, which isn’t on most maps, and outside of that, the only means of getting about is by moose trail. Mooses do not make level trails, so that any trip, say to the johnny at midnight, is a question of slide—crash—pick yourself-up &-find-the-flashlight.

I have been so preoccupied and fascinated with the life here that I have no more idea what was in my previous blurb than a red squirrel, one of which is examining me thru the window. What did it say? As to writing, no novels since “Brightness Falls from the Air,” just a bunch of shorts hither & yon. I think the one you’re printing is “Yanqui Doodle,” which indicates that I’ve been harking to the news with ever-increasing dread. (How that senile clown got into the White House is beyond me!) But all this is no good to you.

Maybe my writerly intentions are what you need. You could say I am bored by the slow-pace and ultra-clear style I develope—effect of novel writing—and I intend to go back to some of my old short manner, where you hit running and accelerate from there. “Yanqui” isn’t an example of this, it’s more of an unknown artifact I picked up on the way home.

And oh, by the way, a lot of blurbs have taken to calling me a “clinical” psychologist, WHICH I AM NOT & NEVER WAS. A research psychologist, or an experimental psychologist, please. The point is that while I know a lot about the wiring of say, hamsters, I am no use to sick people. In the field of psychology there is a savage and perennial war between the two species. Us research types think of ourselves more in terms of science. Of course I’m retired from all that, but old loyalties stick.

Dear Sheila, can you extract anything of use from all this?

Warmest regards,

Tip/alli

 

By the time I wrote the blurb for the story, six months had passed. The fishing trip was old news, and, since we’d always referred to her as an experimental psychologist, there was nothing to correct. As a result, none of the information in the letter actually made it into the blurb, so I’m glad to have the opportunity to share it with you now.

Late in 1986, I decided to screw up my courage and ask Alli for a favor. If I sent her a self-addressed stamped envelope and a copy of the book, would she autograph The Starry Rift for me? When I received word that she would honor my request, I packaged up the book and the envelope, but I left something out. I’m not sure what, but a whispered memory tells me it may have been a fan letter from a reader. I sent this “something” along on January 6, 1987, and casually mentioned that I had originally planned to include it in the book package. In early March I received a worried postcard. Alli had come across my vague letter and couldn’t remember what I’d meant. “Please tell me,” she wrote, “Did I ever autograph and return Starry Rift?” Well, I had the treasured book in hand, and, being a procrastinator, I didn’t get back to her right away. One afternoon in May, I received a phone call from Alli. She was still concerned about the book and wanted to make certain I had received it. I finally assured her that she had autographed it and returned it to me and thanked her for granting me this favor.

Alli’s persistence at resolving this trivial mystery may have been a minor part of an attempt to clear out some papers and wrap up as many loose threads as possible at the end of her life. I was working at home a few days later when Gardner Dozois called to tell me that she had died by her own hand. We were all stunned by her loss. Isaac Asimov wrote a moving editorial about her, which ran in our January 1988 issue.

Although her death was saddening, I feel as though I know her much better now, after reading Julie’s biography, than I ever did in life. Still, while my friendship with Alice Sheldon was neither long nor deep, it was a privilege to get to work with her during that period in the eighties.