Trigger warning for #eikositriophobia: this is my 23d linkdump (Hail Discordia!), an erratic Saturday purge of the open tabs I haven’t managed to blog this week; here’s the previous 22:
When I was a kid, I idolized Harlan Ellison. I loved his prose styling, his stage presence, the way he blended activism and fiction, and the way he mixed critical nonfiction with fiction. As a 17 year old, I attended a writing workshop that Ann Crispin was giving at a local science fiction convention and she told me that I had the makings of a great writer, just as soon as I stopped trying to be Harlan Ellison.
But Harlan was a complicated figure. I attended the Clarion Workshop in 1992 specifically because he was our instructor, and came away bitterly disillusioned after he targeted one of my fellow students for relentless, cruel bullying, a performance that was so ugly that the board fired the director and permanently barred him from teaching the workshop.
Later on, Harlan became the kind of copyright maximalist who called for arbitrary internet surveillance and censorship in the name of shutting down ebook piracy. During a panel about this at a sf convention, he called one of the other panelists a “motherfucker” and threatened to punch him in the face. He took to badmouthing me in interviews, painting my position – whose nuances he certainly understood – in crude caricature.
But Harlan and I had many friends in common, people I really liked, and they were adamant that Harlan’s flaws were not the whole story: if Harlan liked you, he would do
anything to stand up for you, no matter the cost to himself. Famously, when Harlan taught Octavia Butler’s Clarion, he demanded to know why she wasn’t writing full time, and she replied that there was the inconvenient matter of making rent and groceries. He replied, “If that’s all that’s stopping you, come live in my guest house for as long as it takes, eat my groceries, and write.” Which she did.
Which is great, but also: one of my own Clarion students told me about when his then-teenaged mother met Harlan at a sf convention and told him that she dreamed of becoming a writer, and he propositioned her. She was so turned off that she stopped writing forever (her son, my student, is now an accomplished writer).
So Harlan was a mixed bag. He did very, very good things. He did very, very bad things. When Harlan died, in 2018, I wrote an obit where I grappled with these two facts:
In it, I proposed a way of thinking about people that tried to make sense of both Harlans – and of all the people in our lives. There’s an unfortunate tendency to think of the people that matter to us as having their deeds recorded in a ledger, with good deeds in one column and wicked deeds down the other.
In this formulation, we add up the good deeds and the bad deeds and subtract the bad from the good. If the result is a positive number, we say the good outweighs the bad, and therefore the person is, on balance, good. On the other hand, if the bad outweighs the good, then the person is bad, and the good deeds are irrelevant.
This gets us into no end of trouble. It means that when someone we admire slips up, we give them a pass, because “they’ve earned it.” And when someone who’s hurt us does something selfless and kind and brave, we treat that as though it doesn’t matter, because they’re an asshole.
But the truth is, no amount of good deeds can wipe away the bad. If you hurt someone, the fact that you’ve helped someone else doesn’t make that hurt any easier to bear. And the kindnesses you do for other people make their lives better, no matter what bad things you’ve done to others.
Rather than calculating the balance of our goodness or badness, I think we should just, you know, sit with our sins and virtues. Let all the harm and joy exist in a state of superposition. Don’t cancel out the harm. Don’t wave away the good. They both exist, neither cancels the other, and we should strive to help more, and to do less harm. We should do everything we can to help those we harm. No one owes us a pass because of the good we’ve done.
That’s the lesson Harlan taught me, and he taught it to me by
absolutely failing to live his life this way – a fact that exists alongside all of the good he did, including the great art he made, which I love, and which inspired me.
Not long after Harlan’s death, I got a phone call from J Michael Straczynski, Harlan’s literary executor. As part of his care for Harlan’s literary legacy, Joe was editing a new anthology of short stories,
The Last Dangerous Visions, and did I want to contribute a story?
Of course I did. Harlan edited
Dangerous Visions in 1967: a groundbreaking anthology of uncomfortable science fiction that featured everyone from Philip K Dick to Samuel Delany. The followup, 1972’s
Again, Dangerous Visions, was, if anything, even
more influential, including Le Guin’s
The Word For World IS Forest, as well as work by Joanna Russ, Kurt Vonnegut, David Gerrold, and James Tiptree, Jr.
Though some of the stories in these books haven’t aged well, together, they completely changed my view of what science fiction was and what it could be. But
The Last Dangerous Visions was a different (ahem) story. For complicated reasons (which all cashed out to “Harlan being very difficult to work with, sometimes for damned good reasons, other times for completely petty ones),
TLDV was, at the time of Harlan’s death,
fifty years behind schedule. It was "science fiction’s most famous unpublished book.” Harlan had bought early work from writers who had gone on to have major careers – like Bruce Sterling – and had sat on them for
half a century.
Then Joe called me to tell me that he was starting over with
TLDV and did I want to contribute a story – and of course I did. I wrote a story for him with the title “Jeffty Is Five,” part of my series of stories with the same titles as famous works of sf:
Joe liked the story, but not the title. He thought Harlan wouldn’t have approved of this kind of appropriation, and he wanted to do right by the memory of his old friend. My first reaction was very Harlan-like:
this is supposed to make you mad, it’s my art, and if it offends you, that’s your problem.
But I remembered the most important lesson I learned from Harlan, about good deeds and bad ones, and I thought about Joe, a writer I admired and liked, who was grappling with his grief and his commitment to Harlan’s legacy, and I changed my mind and told him of course I’d change the title. I changed the title because Harlan would
never have done so, and that’s rather the point of the story.The story is (now)) called “The Weight of a Heart, the Weight of a Feather” (a very Harlanish title), and it’s about the legacy of complicated people, whose lives are full of noble selflessness *and careless or deliberate cruelty. It’s about throwing away the ledger and just letting all those facts sit together, about lives that are neither washed of sin by virtue, nor washed of virtue by sin.
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