Wednesday, October 10, 2001
...and you see me... - To LTF
A few nights ago my mother decided she wanted to watch a three part series called Hyperspace on TLC, broadcast in its entirety that night. The stuff it covered was at an elementary, although interestingly (but not always adequately) presented level, but she and I both pricked up our ears when the scientist who is credited with developing ion drive admitted he got the idea from a Star Trek episode. My mother turned to me and said, "Isn't that interesting! You might be right about your idea (doesn't matter which idea it was...this was an Ah-Hah conversation that, ultimately, had nothing to do with the idea to which Mom and I were referring)."
"That's what I was thinking."
A little later, when the program discussed how science fiction/fantasy writers function as advance troops for the scientific community (that isn't the way it was expressed, but that's the gist of it), my mother said, "You should write a novel about that idea of yours instead (of what I was planning and am doing with it)."
I said, "I am, Mom, but, you know my history. The novel will go nowhere. I almost feel as though I should send out my material, from now on, addressed directly to the slush pile."
Her gaze turned sharply critical as though she was looking right through me then softened and she said, "I believe you're right. There is something about you that causes people to ignore everything you say. I've never understood that." She sounded wistful, as though she wished it were different. She went on to acknowledge that people do like me, seek me out, ask me what I think, listen to me, then dismiss me, and only act on my ideas when they appear to have come from somewhere else, usually themselves. "Remember when your father did that?" She was referring to a couple of events, none of which I'll cover here.
"You do it, too, Mom," I said.
"I know," she said. "I've never understood that." Then, she returned to her advanced-age fog.
"That's what I was thinking."
A little later, when the program discussed how science fiction/fantasy writers function as advance troops for the scientific community (that isn't the way it was expressed, but that's the gist of it), my mother said, "You should write a novel about that idea of yours instead (of what I was planning and am doing with it)."
I said, "I am, Mom, but, you know my history. The novel will go nowhere. I almost feel as though I should send out my material, from now on, addressed directly to the slush pile."
Her gaze turned sharply critical as though she was looking right through me then softened and she said, "I believe you're right. There is something about you that causes people to ignore everything you say. I've never understood that." She sounded wistful, as though she wished it were different. She went on to acknowledge that people do like me, seek me out, ask me what I think, listen to me, then dismiss me, and only act on my ideas when they appear to have come from somewhere else, usually themselves. "Remember when your father did that?" She was referring to a couple of events, none of which I'll cover here.
"You do it, too, Mom," I said.
"I know," she said. "I've never understood that." Then, she returned to her advanced-age fog.
