You can find her online at http://michellesagara.com, when she is not hiding from distraction and trying to meet deadlines.
I write this as a reader.
I didn’t know Terry Pratchett in any other way. I can go to Wikipedia and look up the relevant dates—birth, death—and locations, but . . . I would be going to Wikipedia to look them up solely for this introduction. To me as a reader, the dates are like many dry historical facts. They tell me nothing about why Terry Pratchett was so important to me.
I did meet him in real life, twice when he came to the bookstore I work at for signings. The first time was early enough that he hadn’t gained reading traction in Canada yet. In the pauses between readers, he took out a tiny PDA and wrote. He was working on a scene with Death in it; I recognized the all caps style of conversation when I glanced at it. I’d offered to run out to buy coffee, food, or anything legal he wanted; he said, “I’m fine. I’ve done more of these than you’ve had hot meals. In your life.”
I said, “I think you’re underestimating my age.”
He said, “Probably not.”
The second time, he had a much larger Canadian following, and there were no gaps in the line. One reader had brought, oh, everything he’d ever written. His final signature was: “Bugger off and go bother Douglas Adams,” which the reader was so tickled at, he showed it to me. Well, to everyone actually. But years and years later, on a different continent, at a different signing, Pratchett signed his latest book with “I guess it’s too late to bother Douglas now.” He’d remembered. He’d remembered this man who had brought an unsigned copy of everything he’d written practically ever.
I saw him on panels, thereafter. At conventions at a distance. I liked to listen to him speak.
But that’s ancillary. I wasn’t his friend. I wasn’t his family. He was incredibly important to me, regardless.
* * *
I remember when I first heard about the early onset Alzheimer’s. I remember where I was. I remember standing in place for one long beat, because the ground that I’d been walking across had suddenly become hugely unstable, as if a chunk of it had been excised, as if solidity was in question.
I will not lie: I cried.
People often find this kind of reaction confusing. Or overly sentimental. Or even self-aggrandizing. Because I didn’t know him. At best, I knew of him. I had no right to feel bereavement. And this is actually true. His family—wife, children—and his real life friends, did. But I felt bereaved, regardless, because I’m a reader, and he was one of my authors.
Let me explain. A new Terry Pratchett novel filled the house with joy. Or glee. When I got an ARC (Advanced Review Copy) and brought it home, there would be war at the dinner table about who got to read it first. Cutlery and personal stress were weapons in these battles.
There was no frame of mind in which I could not read a Terry Pratchett novel. On the very worst days, when the sun seemed to have permanently sunk, never to rise again, a Pratchett novel could still draw me in, when everything else had moved far, far out of reach. Pratchett could make me laugh. Pratchett could make me cry. I took to saving one unread novel. I stopped being the person who read every word as it was published. I bought everything as it was published—but I kept one book in its inviolate “in case of emergencies” position. It was my retreat. It was my place of safety. No matter what Pratchett wrote about, I would laugh, I would cry, it would be a reminder that I was still capable of both of those things.
I was so grateful for that. I was grateful that Terry Pratchett was prolific. I was grateful that he continued to write his Discworld novels (although I did read Nation, and pretty much everything else). Is this all about me? Yes. Of course it is.
Because the only real way we intersected was through the act of reading. I don’t read in a crowd. I don’t act out what I’m reading. I don’t discuss it until after the fact. (Well, okay, I discuss it if I’ve woken people up because I’m laughing too hard, and they want to know why and I owe them that, but.) No two readers perceive or experience the same book the same way.
Tens of millions of people read Pratchett novels; tens of millions of people loved the books, each in their own way. I work in a bookstore, so I’ve met and discussed Pratchett with hundreds of them. As we inevitably do, we talk about the novels and questions arise. So: as one reader to another, my favorite Pratchett was Night Watch. My first Pratchett was Reaper Man, followed swiftly by Men At Arms.
I have read them all.
ABOUT THE DAMON KNIGHT MEMORIAL GRAND MASTER AWARD
In addition to giving the Nebula Awards each year, SFWA also may present the Damon Knight Grand Master Award to a living author for a lifetime of achievement in science fiction and/or fantasy. In accordance with SFWA’s bylaws, the president shall have the power, at his or her discretion, to call for the presentation of the Grand Master Award. Nominations for the Damon Knight Memorial Award are solicited from the officers, with the advice of participating past presidents, who vote with the officers to determine the recipient. This award was first presented in 1975.
DAMON KNIGHT GRAND MASTER: C. J. CHERRYH
BETSY WOLLHEIM
Betsy Wollheim, the daughter of veteran paperback editor, Donald A. Wollheim, is a second generation science fiction editor with over four decades of book publishing experience. She is the president and co-publisher of DAW Books, and not only edits but also art directs all the books she acquires. She has edited numerous award-winning and bestselling authors, including C. J. Cherryh, Tad Williams (with co-publisher Sheila Gilbert), Patrick Rothfuss, Nnedi Okorafor, Mercedes Lackey, Marion Zimmer Bradley, Kristen Britain, Tanith Lee, C. S. Friedman, and Saladin Ahmed. In 2012, Betsy was awarded the Hugo for Best Editor Long Form.
I was twenty-three years old when I returned to New York from six years away attending college, grad school, and working for printing houses. It was 1975, and my dad, Don Wollheim, handed me a well-worn paper manuscript. It was from a new author, someone he was clearly very excited about. The author had two books on submission to DAW, and he had bought both but had decided to publish Gate of Ivrel, the one he handed me, first. He said he intended to suggest to the author, Carolyn Janice Cherry, that she use her initials and add a silent “h” to the end of her name, because her legal name was more appropriate for a romance writer, and she was anything but that. C. J. Cherryh had an almost exotic look to it. It seemed right, somehow.
I read Gate of Ivrel in my childhood bedroom, in my parents’ house in Queens. My father was right—Carolyn Cherry was definitely not a romance writer. Gate of Ivrel was different from anything I had ever read. The heroine, Morgaine, was an ancient interstellar operative whose mission was to close the dangerous space-time Gates on planets, setting them to self-destruct as she moved through them to her next location. The novel was clearly hard science fiction, because the greatest danger was the possibility of catastrophically mutating the past by manipulation of the space-time continuum in the Gates. But all the trappings were more typical of a heroic fantasy. Because the story is told from the viewpoint of her vassal-and-partner, Vanye, a warrior from a primitive culture, Morgaine herself is veiled in mystery. She has a high-tech implement that resembles a sword, and this “sword” even has a name: Changeling. It was a perfect illustration of how advanced technology would seem like magic to a tribal culture. It was also the first book where Carolyn pairs an alpha female with a subservient or beta male. This would be one of many ongoing themes in C.J.’s writing. Quite a switch from the sexism that had been traditional in our field for decades.
After reading Gate of Ivrel, in October 1975, I started work at DAW Books, moved into my first apartment in Manhattan, and soon thereafter met C.J. Cherryh.
Carolyn was a high school classics teacher from Oklahoma City, and despite her Masters from Johns Hopkins, and extensive world travel, she seemed almost pathologically shy. She developed a very close relationship with my parents and would stay in their home in Queens whenever she was in NY
C. Because Carolyn and I didn’t speak much in those early years (she was shy, as I’ve said) I didn’t really get to know her until the late 70s. But even in the earliest years, I observed that she was a very determined individual who was not only extremely prolific but also incredibly brave. She entered fandom with a vengeance—traveling to multiple conventions a month, and when her foot was bitten by a brown recluse spider, she was undeterred. For four months she traveled to conventions in a wheelchair with her foot elevated above her heart. Nothing could stop her. She joined the filksingers, she relaxed, we became friends.
And I began to learn about Carolyn. I learned that she first started writing when her favorite childhood television show, Flash Gordon, was cancelled. She decided to write her own episodes. Carolyn’s parents told her that she couldn’t use the typewriter if her younger brother David was sleeping, so on weekend mornings, she would routinely wake David by tossing a wet washcloth in his face and then escape his fury by locking herself in her bedroom to write. She was determined, even at ten.
I read all her manuscripts. But the first manuscript I edited (along with my dad) was Downbelow Station. It was a long book for the early 80s, and it needed two rewrites at a time when there were no computers. Carolyn added physical description at Don’s suggestion, then chapter headings for clarity, at mine. The book was complex, and the reader needed to know the where, who, and when at the beginning of each chapter; Carolyn had to figure out time relative to space. It was a massive amount of work. The manuscript came back to us cut up in pieces—new parts attached to old with scotch tape. It was an enormous relief when it went to the printer and nothing had fallen out. I have been editing Carolyn’s DAW books ever since.
People told Carolyn that a DAW original paperback could never win the Hugo. Despite all odds: mass market original publication, and the pulp-image DAW had at that time, Downbelow Station prevailed and won Carolyn her first Best Novel Hugo. I don’t remember how many times a C.J. Cherryh title has been nominated for a Hugo, but I vividly remember that The Pride of Chanur ran on a slot with the “big three”: Heinlein, Asimov, and Clarke. [Ed. note: an excerpt follows.] It was an honor to be on that ballot, and though Asimov won (he got everyone’s second place votes) Pride got more first place votes than any of the competing books. Carolyn was happy, even though she lost the award.
Downbelow Station was a formative book not only for Carolyn but also for me and for all her readers. It was in this book that Carolyn first laid out her plan for humanity to go to the stars. She charted a route, via Tau Ceti, that would define all of her subsequent science fiction and even some of her already published work. The Alliance-Union Universe is a massive exploration of how humans can reach the stars, and what could happen. It is realistic and believable. It came from the heart and mind of a woman who wanted to go to space—really wanted it. So she figured out how to do it, and what might happen if we went. Every star system in CJ’s science fiction novels really exists, only the names have changed.
All of Carolyn’s science fiction novels, even the offshoots that primarily feature aliens, fit under the huge umbrella of the Alliance-Union universe. In the Chanur series, Tully is the lone human survivor of a captured Alliance exploration ship. The Foreigner series is about a colony ship from Alliance-Union that becomes lost in space. But perhaps Carolyn’s greatest literary achievement is the study of how humanity itself can change when the planet of our birth is no longer accessible. The books that comprise the heart of the Alliance-Union novels develop a space-centric culture where the human genome must be protected.
She describes her writing voice as “intense internal,” and indeed, her books are very intimate and personal, often about fear and uncertainty in the face of unfamiliar circumstance and extreme danger. Yet her heroes and heroines are as brave as their author and always find a way to survive.
It’s a considerable achievement not only to envision a future interstellar human civilization but also to respect the many bona fide parameters of science. It’s an even greater achievement to also respect the social and biological complexities of the evolution of a human society without a home world. But it’s amazing that she’s managed to do it while making her stories so personal.
I’m very proud to have worked with and to continue to work with C.J. Cherryh. Now, after forty years, Carolyn and I are closer than ever—we’re family. I’m always learning new things from her. I learned last year that she is the many-times-great grandniece of Daniel Boone. But however much I learn from Carolyn, I learn even more from her work. From the Foreigner series she showed me how a lone human diplomat, within a mere two decades, can lead a steam-age alien civilization to interstellar travel and more. [Ed. note: an excerpt follows.] The acceleration of this technological development makes for an incredibly exciting read. Now in its sixteenth volume, this massive series has expanded its horizons and become more important with each successive book. I look forward to each new novel with all the enthusiasm of an avid fan.
It’s an enormous pleasure for me to see Carolyn made a Grand Master by SFWA. No editor understands more than I do how much she deserves it.
EXCERPT FROM PRIDE OF CHANUR
C. J. CHERRYH
Chapter 1
There had been something loose about the station dock all morning, skulking in amongst the gantries and the lines and the canisters which were waiting to be moved, lurking wherever shadows fell among the rampway accesses of the many ships at dock at Meetpoint. It was pale, naked, starved-looking in what fleeting glimpse anyone on The Pride of Chanur had had of it. Evidently no one had reported it to station authorities, nor did The Pride. Involving oneself in others’ concerns at Meetpoint Station, where several species came to trade and provision, was ill-advised—at least until one was personally bothered. Whatever it was, it was bipedal, brachiate, and quick at making itself unseen. It had surely gotten away from someone, and likeliest were the kif, who had a thieving finger in everything, and who were not above kidnapping. Or it might be some large, bizarre animal: the mahendo’sat were inclined to the keeping and trade of strange pets, and Station had been displeased with them in that respect on more than one occasion. So far it had done nothing. Stolen nothing. No one wanted to get involved in question and answer between original owners and station authorities; and so far no official statement had come down from those station authorities and no notice of its loss had been posted by any ship, which itself argued that a wise person should not ask questions. The crew reported it only to the captain and chased it, twice, from The Pride’s loading area. Then the crew got to work on necessary duties, having settled the annoyance to their satisfaction.
It was the last matter on the mind of the noble, the distinguished captain Pyanfar Chanur, who was setting out down her own rampway for the docks. She was hani, this captain, splendidly maned and bearded in red-gold, which reached in silken curls to the middle of her bare, sleek-pelted chest, and she was dressed as befitted a hani of captain’s rank, blousing scarlet breeches tucked up at her waist with a broad gold belt, with silk cords of every shade of red and orange wrapping that about, each knotted cord with a pendant jewel on its dangling end. Gold finished the breeches at her knees. Gold filigree was her armlet. And a row of fine gold rings and a large pendant pearl decorated the tufted sweep of her left ear. She strode down her own rampway in the security of ownership, still high-blooded from a quarrel with her niece—and yelled and bared claws as the intruder came bearing down on her.
She landed one raking, startled blow which would have held a hani in the encounter, but the hairless skin tore and it hurtled past her, taller than she was. It skidded round the bending of the curved ramp tube and bounded right into the ship, trailing blood all the way and leaving a bloody handprint on the rampway’s white plastic wall.
Pyanfar gaped in outrage and pelted after, claws scrabbling for traction on the flooring plates. “Hilfy!” she shouted ahead; her niece had been in the lower corridor. Pyanfar made it into the airlock, hit the bar o
f the com panel there and punched all-ship. “Alert! Hilfy! Call the crew in! Something’s gotten aboard. Seal yourself into the nearest compartment and call the crew.” She flung open the locker next to the com unit, grabbed a pistol and scrambled in pursuit of the intruder. No trouble at all tracking it, with the dotted red trail on the white decking. The track led left at the first cross-corridor, which was deserted—the intruder must have gone left again, starting to box the square round the lift shafts. Pyanfar ran, heard a shout from that intersecting corridor and scrambled for it: Hilfy! She rounded the corner at a slide and came up short on a tableau, the intruder’s hairless, red-running back and young Hilfy Chanur holding the corridor beyond with nothing but bared claws and adolescent bluster.
“Idiot!” Pyanfar spat at Hilfy, and the intruder turned on her of a sudden, much closer. It brought up short in a staggered crouch, seeing the gun aimed two-handed at itself. It might have sense not to rush a weapon; might . . . but that would turn it right back at Hilfy, who stood unarmed behind. Pyanfar braced to fire on the least movement.
It stood rigidly still in its crouch, panting from its running and its wound. “Get out of there,” Pyanfar said to Hilfy. “Get back.” The intruder knew about hani claws now; and guns; but it might do anything, and Hilfy, an indistinction in her vision which was tunnelled wholly on the intruder, stayed stubbornly still. “Move!” Pyanfar shouted.
The intruder shouted too, a snarl which almost got it shot; and drew itself upright and gestured to the center of its chest, twice, defiant. Go on and shoot, it seemed to invite her.
That intrigued Pyanfar. The intruder was not attractive. It had a bedraggled gold mane and beard, and its chest fur, almost invisible, narrowed in a line down its heaving belly to vanish into what was, legitimately, clothing, a rag almost nonexistent in its tatters and obscured by the dirt which matched the rest of its hairless hide. Its smell was rank. But a straight carriage and a wild-eyed invitation to its enemies . . . that deserved a second thought. It knew guns; it wore at least a token of clothing; it drew its line and meant to hold its territory. Male, maybe. It had that over-the-brink look in its eyes.
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