I.Asimov: A Memoir

by Isaac Asimov

  Then, later in the year, soon after we were married, we had a chance to go on a cruise again, this time as a honeymoon couple, and this time it was indeed on the Queen Elizabeth 2. It was a “cruise to nowhere.” We would simply leave New York, wander over the ocean for a few days without making landfall, and then return to New York —perfect for a person of my tastes.

  We got on the ship on December 9, 1973, and I was incredibly happy that this time Janet was with me. In one way the cruise was a failure, for we were watching for the comet Kohoutek, which was touted as a comet that was going to put on a magnificent show. Unfortunately, it was cloudy and rainy every night, and even if it hadn’t been, Comet Kohoutek proved a colossal disappointment. It was barely visible to the naked eye. But why should Janet and I care? We were each other’s Comet Kohoutek.

  Lajos Kohoutek, the discoverer of the comet, was on board ship and was slated to give a talk. Janet and I settled comfortably into our seats and Janet said, “It is so nice to be able to go on a trip with you, Isaac, when you’re not the one who has to give a talk.”

  And at that point, the master of ceremonies told us that Kohoutek was, unfortunately, not feeling well and was confined to his cabin and the talk would have to be canceled. The audience responded with such a pained sigh of disappointment that Janet (ever softhearted) jumped up and said, “My husband, Isaac Asimov, will give a talk.”

  She claims she didn’t do that but that she just gave me the elbow jab all wives use to signify “No back talk” and had then whispered that I must volunteer. I don’t see that it makes much difference. Either way, I had to stumble up onto the stage and improvise a talk to an audience waiting to hear someone else.

  I managed. In fact, I did so well that the ship’s cruise director later invited me to come along on cruises as a speaker and Janet and I made several trips on the QE2, all expenses paid.

  Janet’s Books

  There was another peculiar side effect of Janet’s subarachnoid hemor rhage, but to explain that I will have to backtrack a little. Janet’s early experiences in some ways oddly paralleled mine. Like me, she has wanted to write since she was a child, but, also like me, she realized she could not reasonably expect to make a living this way. She decided on a scientific career. Of course, it was understood she would go to college, for her cultural milieu did not preclude higher education for women, so that she did not suffer the aborted schooling that Gertrude and Marcia had.

  Janet wanted to go to Stanford, but World War II was raging and travel to California was impossible. She therefore went to Wellesley in Massachusetts for two years. When the war was over, she did transfer to Stanford for the last two years, and that was the happiest time of her life, she says, before she met me.

  She was aiming for medical school, but this was not easy. War veterans had the first choice, and most schools had only a tiny quota for women. (Sexism was quite respectable in 1948.) Accepted by New York University Medical School, she obtained her medical degree in 1952. After an internship at Philadelphia General Hospital, she had a psychiatric residency at Bellevue Hospital. She also graduated from the William Alanson White Institute of Psychoanalysis, and has kept up her connection with the White Institute ever since, becoming Director of Training for eight years. She retired from private practice of psychiatry in 1986, having worked in the field, with considerable distinction, for thirty years.

  Through all this time, the urge to write remained with her. She wrote a variety of things, including several mystery novels that she was not able to sell, but they were good practice. (The only real way you can learn to write is to write.) She did sell a mystery short, and a very clever one, to Hans Stefan Santesson, who was then editing The Saint Mystery Magazine. It appeared in the May 1966 issue of the magazine.

  After her mastectomy, afraid she was going to die, she began to work on a novel. Then, when she was in the hospital the next year with her subarachnoid (and I was on the eclipse cruise), Austin Olney of Houghton Mifflin came, like a good friend, to visit her. Janet enthusiastically began to tell him the plot of her novel. (She says that if she had been in her right mind, she wouldn’t have.)

  Austin expressed interest. When Janet finally recovered, her close brush with death (which gave her the feeling of mortality) pushed her into finishing the novel and submitting it to Houghton Mifflin. She was asked for extensive revisions and obliged.

  Then came November 30, 1973, the day of our wedding. To prevent interruption while Ed Ericson married us, Janet had taken the phone off the hook. When the brief ceremony was over (with our friends Al and Phyllis Balk present as witnesses, so that there were only the five of us—the legal minimum), Janet replaced the phone. Instantly, it rang and it was Austin telling her that Houghton Mifflin would do the novel. It was a day of double happiness.

  I always tell people that Janet said, after she had finished talking to Austin, “There! I knew something good would happen today.” She didn’t say it; I made it up; but it always gets a laugh.

  Janet’s first novel, The Second Experiment, was published by Houghton Mifflin in 1974 under her maiden name, Janet O. Jeppson.

  She went on to do other books. The Last Immortal, a sequel to the first book, was published by Houghton Mifflin in 1980. She also wrote short stories for science fiction magazines, including a series that seemed remarkable to me, for it consisted of gentle satires of psychiatry, featuring the lunchtime conversations of a group of psychiatrists of different persuasions who belonged to a mythical club called Pshrinks Anonymous. These stories appeared in a collection called The Mysterious Cure and Other Stories, published by Doubleday in 1984. Meanwhile, she had also worked out a marvelous anthology of humorous science fiction—including verses and cartoons—entitled Laughing Space, published by Houghton Mifflin in 1982. My name was on this book in addition to hers because I wrote the introduction and the headnotes, but Janet did 90 percent of the work.

  None of these books did well, though they gave Janet and me infinite satisfaction. Then Walker & Company asked Janet to do a science fiction story for youngsters. For years, she had been revolving in her head a possi ble story about a conceited, lovable little robot. She now had a chance to write Norby, the Mixed-up Robot. My name was wanted on the book (for the betterment of sales, I suppose), so I went over the manuscript and polished it a bit. Again, though, it was Janet who did 90 percent of the work.

  The Walkers liked the book very much and wanted more. Janet obliged and, as of this writing, she has published no fewer than nine Norby books, all published by Walker.

  A tenth Norby book is being written at this time. These Norby books have done quite well. They have come out in paperback editions by Berkley, and we get fan letters from youngsters concerning them.

  Her favorite book, however, is none of those I’ve mentioned but is one called How to Enjoy Writing, published by Walker in 1987. It is a collection of writings about writing (many by me) together with comments by Janet. It is really one of the most charming books I have ever read.

  Altogether, Janet has published sixteen books, including two recent science fiction novels, published by Walker, which do not have my name on them. They are Mind Transfer and A Package in Hyperspace, both published in 1988.

  Janet published her first novels, as I said, under her maiden name, and nowhere on the flap matter or in the book was it mentioned that she was my wife. She was anxious not to seem to be riding on my shoulders.

  It didn’t help. People in science fiction knew, or found out, the relationship and some had a field day as a result. One writer, as I said earlier in this book, accused Janet of having published The Second Experiment through nepotism—that the great Isaac Asimov had used his influence to force Houghton Mifflin to publish the book.

  Needless to say, this was not true. I never lifted a finger to help Janet publish that book. For one thing, I happen to believe that that would have been an unethical thing to do, and Janet thinks so too. For another, it wouldn’t have worked, because not all my so-ca
lled influence could persuade a publishing house to do a book they thought was bad. After all, I sometimes had trouble selling items I myself had written. Where was my influence then?

  It taught Janet, however, that an attempt to be hyper-ethical in this respect was a waste of time. For that reason, her most recent books, even when I am not involved, have “Janet Asimov” listed as the author.

  Hollywood

  I am frequently asked if any of my books have been made into movies. For a long time, the answer was “No,” and that meant I was a happy man.

  That seems odd. To most people, Hollywood breathes the aura of romance and, even more than that, of money.

  However, to work for Hollywood means, usually, to move to California (as more and more science fiction writers have done in the last decade or two) and I have no intention of doing any such thing ever. I haven’t seen much of the world but I cannot believe that any place is more beautiful than New England and the Middle Atlantic States, especially in the fall. I find plains dull, and mountains (real mountains) stark. What I want are hills, and trees, and green vistas, and set in the midst of it all, the glorious skyscrapers of Manhattan.

  Then, as I heard stories about Hollywood, I liked it even less. Wal ter Bradbury of Doubleday would travel to Hollywood once a year on business. When I had lunch with him after such a visit, he would be drawn and strained. He hated the people he had to deal with there, phonies, one and all, he said, and not to be trusted an inch.

  After listening to Bradbury, I worked out a theory of my own. I had

  read a book dealing with publishing in nineteenth-century America and I was astonished to find that publishers were, at that time, sharks, tigers, and crooks. That certainly didn’t seem to be so in the case of my own publishing firms in the second half of the twentieth century.

  decided that Hollywood had come along and drawn off the sharks, tigers, and crooks, who, one and all, smelled money, money, money. This left behind, in the publishing houses, those gentle souls who were unfitted for the rat race, even for money.

  Well, /was unfitted for the rat race too. I knew this all the more when I heard tales of Hollywood from writers such as Harlan Ellison (who likes California and the Californians). I realized, then, that Hollywood was worse than a rat race, it was a trap. It lured a person into a lifestyle of sunshine and tans, of barbecues and swimming pools—a life you couldn’t afford unless you kept on working in Hollywood. So you kept on working. It was a pact with Mephistopheles that could not be broken.

  Consider, too, that as a writer of printed books, I am master. My books may be edited, but that is done lightly, and I have final approval over every changed comma. As a writer for movies or television, it is the producer and director who wield the whip hand and the picture that lords it over the word. The writer is low man on the totem pole in Hollywood, and his work can be tampered with by anyone.

  No, thanks, to all the lure of the money and lifestyle, I am immune. I intend to remain in New York at all costs.

  All this doesn’t mean that Hollywood doesn’t come to me now and then. In 1947, Orson Welles bought movie rights to my story “Evidence” for $250. I thought, in my innocence, that, as a result, there would soon be a great motion picture made out of the story. Needless to say, no movie at all was ever made out of it.

  After that, it was Doubleday that negotiated movies sales, or, rather, movie option sales. That is, someone bought the rights to exclusive use of a particular story or group of stories for a particular length of time in return for a particular sum of money. If by the end of that time the option buyer could raise the necessary money to make the picture, fine! I would then get a lot more money. If he couldn’t, he might renew the option for an additional sum of money, or he could give up the option and I, of course, would keep the money paid in up to that point.

  Thus, in the late 1960s Hollywood optioned I, Robot and the option was renewed year after year for some fifteen years. In the end, however, nothing happened, even though Harlan Ellison wrote a terrific screenplay based on the book. I received other options but nothing ever happened and I developed what I call Asimov’s First Law of

  Hollywood, which goes as follows:

  “Whatever happens, nothing happens!”

  Still, just a couple of years ago, Doubleday sold an option on my story “Nightfall” to some people. They actually managed to get a picture made. I was not informed of this till friends told me they’d seen an announcement of it in Variety. I was never consulted in the making, never saw the script. I was phoned by someone who told me it would open in Tucson, Arizona.

  I certainly was not going to Tucson to see it. “When will it open in New York?” I asked.

  “New York is pretty expensive,” she said.

  I realized, then, that the picture had been made on a shoestring and wondered how bad it might be. The picture was advertised, in those few places where it was played, with my name heavily in evidence, and people went to see it on that basis. Then the letters began to arrive and I knew the worst. There was a general agreement that it was the worst motion picture ever made and that it had nothing but the faintest resemblance to my story.

  Some blamed me for the picture, as though I had directed it, and at least one demanded his money back. I had to write all around, disowning all responsibility. Fortunately, the picture died a deserved death almost at once and I can only hope that no one who has ever seen it or heard of it remembers it.

  And for things like this, do you imagine I want my books to be made into movies?

  I acted as “adviser” on several occasions. Gene Roddenberry, of Star Trek fame, asked me for some advice in connection with the first Star Trek motion picture and I was glad to help out, for he is a friend of mine. I didn’t ask for money, but he sent me some and told me I would be listed in the credits. Well, I had never been listed in any movie credits, so I went to see the movie. At the end, everyone started filing out, while an endless series of credits rolled up the screen. Janet and I waited grimly while the house emptied, and finally, the last item, the very last was “Science Adviser—Isaac Asimov.” Naturally, I applauded loudly, and I distinctly heard a voice in the aisle saying, “There’s Asimov, applauding his own name,” and another tale of my vanity was born.

  I was also adviser, in 1979, for a few episodes of a pleasant science fiction television series, Salvage 1, featuring Andy Griffith, an actor I admire enormously. Most important of all, I was roped in as originator and adviser of a television series named Probe, a humorous, charming, and quite adult science fiction series. Before the season ended, there had been a two-hour pilot and six episodes, which I liked very much. But then along came a prolonged writers’ strike, in the course of which Probe died. Too bad!

  One odd story should be mentioned in connection with Probe. My own contribution to the series was not great, and the head writer, who contributed a great deal to the series, wanted to be listed as co-originator. It made no difference to me. I was not angling for Hollywood influence, status, or prestige, so I said, “Sure!”

  I had, however, a contract that described me as sole originator of the series, so Equity (or somebody) phoned me and offered to fight it out on my behalf in the courts.

  I said, “I don’t want to fight it out in the courts. Let this guy be cocreator. I don’t care.”

  It took me quite a while to convince them that I meant it, and that I had no intention of snarling over every last Hollywood perquisite. It showed me again what Hollywood was like and how fortunate I was to steer as clear of it as possible.

  Star Trek Conventions

  Since I mentioned Star Trek in the previous section, let me say a few words about it. This program, conceived and produced by Gene Roddenberry, first aired in 1966 and was an instant hit with science fiction fans. It was the first piece of adult science fiction to appear on television.

  At the end of the first year, those who make such decisions decided to cancel the show. This decision was greeted by an instant and mass
ive protest from the fans, which caught the decision makers by surprise. The poor half-wits didn’t know just how articulate and impassioned science fiction fans could be. The decision was withdrawn and Star Trek continued for two more years before it finally went off the air.

  However, it never died. Reruns went on forever, and they still go on. There were five motion pictures made with the old cast up through the late 1980s (by which time they had grown rather geriatric) and a new TV series began in 1988 with a new cast as Star Trek: The Next Generation.

  Janet is a Star Trek enthusiast of the first magnitude. I occasionally write a short piece on some aspect of television for TV Guide and back in 1966 they asked me to write something on Star Trek and some of the other science fiction shows (much inferior) that were also on the air at the time. I decided to be funny about it and mentioned a few scientific errors, not entirely sparing Star Trek. I promptly got a furious letter from Janet and nothing would do but I had to write a separate article praising Star Trek’s virtues. That established my friendship with Gene Roddenberry, by the way.

  Janet was a wholehearted part of the protest against ending the program after its first year. Ever since, she has watched the reruns assiduously over and over till—I would say jokingly—her lips moved as she recited the lines with the players. She stopped watching the reruns only after she bought all the cassettes, so she could watch without the interruption of advertisements. Of course, she has seen all the movies and she watches the new series avidly. When she is watching a Star Trek, old or new, I am not allowed to interrupt her. She won’t allow me to call her a Trekkie, however. I don’t know what it is that makes her not one.

  Others, a great many others, were as enthusiastic as Janet, and one of them was a young lady named Elyse Pines, who had the idea of organizing a Star Trek convention at which enthusiasts of the program could gather and talk about it, at which Star Trek memorabilia could be sold, and to which, perhaps, some of the actors, could be invited to make a personal appearance. And she wanted me to promise to attend too. Since it was to be held in Manhattan, I agreed.