Don’t feel sorry for me. I’ve been this way my whole life. I can’t help thinking up vicious games to the death with aliens who look like characters from the toddler game “Candyland.” These stories are like a disease — only one you wouldn’t mind catching.
A few months ago, I decided to write Sylvan Barnet, Tufts emeritus professor and co-editor of a textbook I have used for a number of years, which is the most-adopted for college composition and rhetoric classes in North America. I asked Sylvan if he would be interested in looking at “Perfect Stranger” for the section of the textbook which included a debate about the morality of genetic manipulation.
Sylvan did not think the story would work in the textbook, as the fact-oriented essays it typically uses are about 500 to 1,000 words long. But he kindly included it in another textbook that uses fiction to teach composition.
I have thought many times both before and since, about the contribution that Sylvan and his co-editor and fellow teacher Hugo Bedau have made to the world. Together, they have taught hundreds of thousands of students to think. That is no small thing. Hugo Bedau is known for staunchly opposing the death penalty on humanitarian grounds, much like science fiction’s Terry Bisson, whose Nebula award I “called” in 2001 like some witch sitting at the dinner table. I told Terry somewhere between main course and dessert that he’d win: he did.
I’ve dedicated a few stories to people over the years. “Mad for the Mints” is dedicated to my beloved Blaylock. Altoids minds cost me a tooth and gave me a story that a lot of people say is their “favorite.” Any time a writer can combine “curiously strong peppermints,” Mad King George, crazy German guards demanding to know “Wo bist das mints?”, a talking horse named Phutatorius, and a couple of mint-addicted aliens marooned in Hampton Court maze, it’s a good day for that writer.
I had to lose a son to write “Perfect Stranger.” I began the story before my baby Anthony was born, and was only able to finish it almost a year after he died.
You’re reading a bunch of stories written by someone who best-qualifies as a “slow learner.” It takes me a long time to truly understand what I’m writing — I think it takes us all a lifetime to really learn. Maybe a strange story like “Shakespeare in Hell” is about something like that. It’s never too late — to learn.
I want to thank all the people who have been such good friends to me, so patient, kind and thoughtful. A few lines here really can’t express the gratitude I feel for everyone’s help over the years, from teachers to workshop partners to writing friends to people I love with all my heart.
I have to thank Jim Blaylock, for hanging in there with me at Chapman University, for encouraging me to finish my first novel — and for reading my horrible stuff! I have to thank Gordon and Gordon — McAlpine and Van Gelder — for also hanging in there with me and — for reading my horrible stuff! Gordon — for buying it! I want to thank the other three of the “Gang of Four,” without whom there would be neither “Chromosome Circus” nor “To Kiss the Star.” Ron Collins, Brian Plante and Lisa Silverthorne — you were always there for me and I will always be there for you.
I have to thank Scott Nicholson, who I’ve teased quite a bit, but who I’m very proud of, and I have to thank Jim Bailey and Dario Ciriello, who published novellas that I wrote, both of which are in this book.
I must thank Kevin J. Anderson, who together with his wife Rebecca Moesta, make up one of the most talented teams ever, steadfast, trustworthy and professional in all ways.
I must also thank Vonda N. McIntyre, who prepared this book for publication, and who has been a true and steadfast friend.
I must thank Alan Rodgers. Many know that Alan and I have been in love over the years, but fate would not permit us to marry. Alan is not well, and may be ill for some time. Many of the stories in this book were written when I was with Alan, and some were not. Some bear his influence, and some do not. In the words of Kay McCauley, Alan is that beautiful, gentle, brilliant man, and always will be.
Two people in my life have told me that I “have heart.” One of those was my grandmother who raised me, and the other, Harlan Ellison.
Even if you don’t like science fiction, chances are, you’ll like most of these stories. Perhaps you will enjoy them even more if you do not like science fiction. After all, giant deadly gas bag aliens are all over the news every night these days.
These stories are here to be enjoyed, to be read. I hope they make you think. I hope some make you laugh. And if you find yourself crying, well — that too.
Amy Sterling Casil
Aliso Viejo, California
June 2012