Darrel Waltrip and Jeremy Mayfield are both from my home town. But I can’t stand the “fried green tomatoes” sort of folksy hometown southmouth crap.
Where do your ideas come from?
From my butt. If I sit on it long enough in front of a word processor, I usually come up with something.
Have you ever written for movies?
I’ve done scripts. An independent producer hired me to write a film about Mumia, which is still being shipped around but with no success. The media is afraid of Mumia. I recently scripted a biopic of Paul Robeson, which is still in play but has never been produced. I would love to see that film done. Robeson is the forgotten man of the civil rights movement. He was totally cast aside because of his politics—he was an unapologetic red and a steadfast friend of the Soviet Union at a time when that was verboten. They were careful not to include him in the March on Washington.
Is your interest in Robeson the source of your play Special Relativity?
No, the play was done long before the screenplay. My agent suggested I write something about Hoover’s long-time harassment and hatred of Einstein. What I came up with was a comedy, sort of. I’m not sure Robeson would approve. I know Hoover wouldn’t.
SF critic Nick Gevers once called you a satirist, and you insisted you are not. Who’s right?
Gevers, probably. The Left Left Behind is certainly satire, and rather broad at that. So is “The Old Rugged Cross,” though less broad; it’s about a guy on death row who gets religion and insists on being crucified. But usually the satirical elements are secondary. I regard myself as a realist, really. Humor and satire are part of reality.
Aren’t they?
Do you have favorite short story writers?
R.A. Lafferty, the late great SF writer, was a huge influence, though as writers we are very different. He’s a singer; I’m a talker. Thom Jones is I think the best short story writer wiring in America today. Molly Gloss runs a close second. Another favorite is David Sedaris who doesn’t call his work short stories, though they are. He is sneaky.
You have hosted several SF reading series. How did that come about?
Luck, mainly. A good friend in NY, Mark Jacobson, a high-powered journalist (NY mag, Village Voice) put together a casual “non fiction” reading series for his fellow journalists who, unlike poets and the literati, rarely get to read in public. Mark pulled me in to help and it was fun. We got big names like David Remnick (before he took over the New Yorker) and Jummy Breslin and Jack Newfield, plus real-life pornsters, rock critics and wild punk gonzos. Mark knew everybody. Even Steve Earle came and read! We had a regular slot at KGB, a downtown literary bar. Alice Turner, my editor at Playboy, and I decided to try to same thing with fiction, and we teamed up SF writers with “straight” writers, and since Alice also knew everybody, we got Joyce Carol Oates reading with Lucius Shepard, Michael Cunningham with Rachel Pollack, Jonathan Lethem with Brett Easton Ellis. When Alice dropped out I teamed with Ellen Datlow, the premier SF editor, and we ran it as straight SF. Once a month, big names and small. When I moved to California in ’02 I teamed up with Adam Cornford, a poet and professor at New College. Then New College folded and now the program, SFinSF, is sponsored by Tachyon Books. I get to be the “host” and that’s fun as ever.
What’s your advice to a wannabe writer?
The same advice Gary Snyder once gave to wannabe poets. Learn a trade. Plumber, carpenter, cook, mechanic. Learn how things fit together.
You have some experience teaching writing. Do you really think good writing can be taught?
Writing can be taught. The conventions of fiction: dialogue, point of view, timeline. Every writer should learn the baseline conventions. What can be taught about writing can be learned in a few months. Good writing is a different matter. It can be learned but not taught.
Peter Coyote gave you lots of credit for editing his memoir, Sleeping Where I Fall. How did you get that job?
Peter and I are old friends. We met in college and remained friends through the hippie commune Digger days, though we ran in different crowds. I was never part of the West Coast scene. Peter is a fine writer, he had already won a Pushcart Prize for a piece of the book, and only wanted another (colder) eye on how to shape the thing. That was me. It worked out well. I tried to get him to change the title, but Peter rejected all my bad ideas.
You also worked on Walter Miller’s sequel to A Canticle for Leibowitz.
Alice Turner recommended me for the job. Miller had worked for years on the sequel to his classic bestseller, but he was depressed and old and alcoholic besides, and he wanted somebody to finish the book according to his instructions. It was all there. All I had to do was land the thing, and the wheels were already down and it was lined up with the runway. I never got to meet Miller. He killed himself before St. Leibowitz and the Wild Horse Woman was finished.
Are these different skills — editing and writing?
Absolutely. The trick in editing is to stay out of the way. The editor should be invisible. I have edited several memoirs since Coyote’s, mostly of old political comrades and friends. I edited Diana Block’s book about being underground, Arm the Spirit. That was a pleasure. Also political prisoner David Gilbert’s memoir. And I edited a serious nonfiction book, Dan Berger’s history of the Weather Underground, Outlaws of America.
Does this mean you approve of the Weather Underground?
Very much. I came to know them late but I dug them from the beginning. Like the Panthers, they were young and foolish, and like the Panthers they restored militant internationalism to the American Left. The first time I saw them running through the crowd at the March on the Pentagon carrying a “Vietcong” flag, I thought, “Of course!”
How do you feel about anarchism?
As an idea I like it. But I am a big government guy. I’m a TVA baby. Still a Democrat.
Why are you raising your hand?
I thought of another satire. I wrote a story called “Pirates of the Somali Cast” a few years ago. I did it to make fun of all the people who thought pirates were cool (the Johnny Depp syndrome). I was unfair to the actual Somali pirates, though. In my satire I made then very very cruel and in fact, they are not, at least so far, or so it seems. Nothing to rival Guantanamo.
What do you think of hip-hop?
I think it’s sad. To me it’s a minstrel show. Saddest of all are the black intellectuals who celebrate it because it’s “authentic.” Lots of stuff is authentic.
How come there are no pirates in Pirates of the Universe?
Pirates are boring. The universe, on the other hand, is interesting.
You have written several books for young readers. Do you enjoy writing kids’ books?
Not particularly. I still get fan letters for my Boba Fett books though they were nightmare to write, since Lucas had to approve everything. I did a YA series about stock car racing that was even worse: NASCAR was trying to go mainstream and they killed all the hillbilly and redneck jokes. My adult characters couldn’t even chew tobacco or say ain’t. This was before NASCAR got hip and allowed Talladega Nights, the second funniest movie ever made.