Other Spaces, Other Times: A Life Spent in the Future
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Capturing a behind-the-scenes glimpse into the world of science fiction, this unique autobiography by Robert Silverberg shows how famous stories in this genre were conceived and written. Chronicling his career as one of the most important American science fiction writers of the 20th century, this account reveals how he rose to prominence as the pulp era was ending—and the genre was beginning to take on a more sophisticated tone—to eventually be named a Grand Master by the Science Fiction Writers of America. Stating that this will be his only autobiographical work, Silverberg's book includes rare photos, ephemera from his own archives, and a complete bibliography of his works, from novels and short story collections to nonfiction.
“Robert Randall” series from Astounding.) Everything was happening at once. In the midst of it all I plugged away at my Ziff-Davis obligations, visiting Paul Fairman’s midtown office two or three times a month to bring him new stories. He used “Citadel of Darkness,” which I wrote in June 1956 a couple of days after my Columbia graduation ceremony, in Fantastic for March 1957. Once more I turned the four-stories-in-an-issue trick, for “Citadel,” a “Ralph Burke” story, was accompanied by a story
nearing, though, for the April issue, due out in February, and a serial had to be found for it. So Paul Fairman phoned me one December morning and asked if I would mind very much writing a two-part serial called “Cosmic Kill,” a sequel to something of his from 1951—and deliver it the following week, because it had to be on the newsstands two months from then. Sure, I said. Nothing to it. That night I dug out the January, 1951 Amazing and read “Empire of Evil,” which turned out to be a wild and
title for the first time, but I didn’t, because I had already collected it in a different book, 1984’s The Conglomeroid Cocktail Party. 2004 NEW WORLDS SCIENCE FICTION, May 1960, (UK) with “Ozymandias” by RS. 92 SAILING TO BYZANTIUM (1984) t was the spring of 1984. I was back on track as a writer after the self-inflicted derailment of a decade earlier. I had just completed my historical fantasy novel Gilgamesh the King, set in ancient Sumer, and antiquity was very much on my mind when Shawna
so that only a biological male could utter it.This was surely careless of Silverberg.” What this is all about, for those who come in late, is the revelation in 1976 that the mysterious person who for the previous eight or nine years had been writing superb science fiction under the name of “James Tiptree, Jr.” — and whose easy familiarity with such “masculine” matters as guns, airplanes, the interior workings of automobile engines, and the military/espionage world seemed to indicate that he was,
I was eighteen; I had just made my first professional sale (and would be paid for it, all thirty dollars, at the convention.) And now, at last, I would attend my first Worldcon! Staying in a three-room suite, no less. A suite, you say? How did an impecunious college kid manage that? Where did I ever find the money — a suite at the Bellevue-Stratford must have cost all of twelve or fifteen dollars a night, in 1953 — to manage such stately lodgings? Through entrepreneurial zeal, of course. I teamed