The Cassutt Files
H.E. and Me

Fifty years ago this month, a young writer published his first professional sci-fi story in Infinity magazine. The story—"Glowworm"—was eventually described (by critic James Blish) as "the worst science-fiction story ever published."

Never mind. Blish was often unnecessarily cranky, and that young writer went on to bigger and better things. ... By now he's published 75 books; 1,700 stories, articles, essays and other pieces; and several dozen scripts, winning 8.5 Hugo Awards, three Nebulas, two Edgars, six Stokers and a P.E.N. Silver Quill, to name just a few of a groaning shelf-full ... not to mention four Writers Guild of America awards for best dramatic script.

I speak of Harlan Ellison.

I've written about the late Phil DeGuere, the producer who plucked me from well-deserved obscurity and gave me my first significant job writing SF for television. Readers of this column will have noted the obvious influence of Robert A. Heinlein, Samuel R. Delany and others on my work. (Photo by Christer Akerberg/Sweden.)

But Harlan is the one writer who is really, truly responsible for my career ... not only for showing me how SF could be written for television, but for planting the idea that a bright but otherwise unremarkable young man from a small town could find a career in the business.

At this anniversary season—and with the looming bestowal of the Grand Master Award of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America to Harlan Ellison—well, it's time I said so.

First taste of dangerous visions

I first encountered Harlan in Schmidt's Pharmacy on the main street of Elkader, Iowa. Realize, of course, that encountering a writer means picking up his published work. To my knowledge, Harlan has never darkened the doorway of Schmidt's.

Facing a deadly dull week with my grandparents, having exhausted the sci-fi resources of the Elkader Public Library, I turned to the paperback rack—

—and discovered a volume titled World's Best Science Fiction: 1966, edited by Donald A. Wollheim and Terry Carr. Turning to the contents page, I recognized three names—Arthur C. Clarke, Clifford Simak and Fritz Leiber. Good enough. I paid the 60 cents and took the book home.

An hour later, I had read not only the stories by the "big names," but my first Larry Niven, my first Fred Saberhagen ... and my first Harlan Ellison story—"'Repent, Harlequin!' said the Ticktockman."

"Harlequin" hit me like a sharp slap—it was the first sci-fi story (the first story of any kind) I'd read that took chances with voice and narrative. That talked directly to the reader. That played with structure. That was about something immediately relevant.

I became a Harlan Ellison fan at that point, seeking out paperback collections like Paingod & Other Delusions and Earthman, Come Home, seeing newer stories like "I Have No Mouth and I Must Scream" and "A Boy and His Dog."

I bought his groundbreaking anthology of original sci-fi stories, Dangerous Visions.

I also saw his name on a Star Trek episode that was my all-time favorite—"City on the Edge of Forever"—and learned that he had written two mind-bending episodes of The Outer Limits, "Soldier" and "Demon with a Glass Hand."

Lessons from a soon-to-be Grand Master

To this point, Harlan Ellison might have remained a writer whose work I admired—with a bit more intensity and affection than Larry Niven (whose stories I discovered in the same World's Best).

Then, when I was 17, in the fabulous, long-lost, incense-soaked Downtown Books in St. Paul, Minn., I discovered that Harlan was publishing weekly columns in the underground Los Angeles Free Press—"The Glass Teat" was the title.

I was certainly young enough to find the title daring. But what was most daring was Harlan's frankness in discussing the wonders and terrors of television.

Feeling a bit like a smuggler, I slunk back to Wisconsin with several issues of the Freep, the first of many trips to and from Downtown Books.

By the time I left for college a year and a half later, I was convinced I wanted to work in television.

Just like Harlan Ellison.

Strangely, I don't recall when I was actually introduced to Harlan in person. Eventually we had friends in common, thanks to the sci-fi community, but we weren't more than passing acquaintances until I worked for him on The Twilight Zone in 1985.

I was a freelance writer trying to develop a script titled "Red Snow." As story editor, Harlan was taken with the concept and setting (vampires hiding out in the Soviet gulag, above the Arctic Circle, where winter nights are 24 hours long), but less than happy with my execution of the story.

Finally, baffled, confused, I drove to his house with the latest version.

He made me wait while he read it—then ... wagging his finger at me, his eyes already far away in the snow fields of Vorkuta, he said, "Let me show you."

He sat down at his Olympia and rewrote the first four pages of the outline, adding color, texture, even dialogue. I was stunned, shamed—and actually a little pissed off.

I took the pages and drove to my office at CBS, still fuming. Then I sat down to read them again ... and telephoned Harlan to apologize. In spite of his reputation for fierceness, he was incredibly gracious. "You've got the story," he said. "You just haven't figured out how to tell it. You'll learn."

I redid the outline Harlan's way—got approved to write the script—saw it filmed with a cast that included George Dzundza and Victoria Tennant and got hired full-time on TZ as a result.

Over the past 20 years, we have become friends. He has gotten me work, for which I am grateful. I have tried, and failed, to get projects going for him—for which I am frustrated.

I have watched him take stands for writers' rights, whether in Hollywood or on the Internet, with open-mouthed admiration. I think of him as my guardian, my conscience, the noodging, funny, ever-vigilant voice of the Ethical Universe. I still look forward to his appearances in print, on television or in some new media.

Happy anniversary, Harlan. And thank you.