"Robinson, Spider - Callahans Crosstime Saloon" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robinson Spider)

at the age of five, I was introduced to Robert A. Heinlein's Rocket Ship
Galileo. One evening, halfway through a particularly wretched example of
Sturgeon's Law ("Ninety percent of science fiction-of anything-is crap"), I sat
up straight in my chair and said for perhaps the ten thousandth time in my life,
"By Jesus, I can write better than this turnip."
And a lightbulb of about two hundred watts appeared in the air over my head.
I had written a couple of stories already, acquiring just enough rejection
slips to impress friends with, and had actually had one printed in a now-defunct
fanzine called Xrymph. (Hilariously enough, one of the crazies who produced
Xrymph was the editor who bought this book that you hold in your hands: Jim
Frenkel.) But my entire output at that time could have been fit into a business
envelope, and its quality might be most charitably described as shitful. On the
other hand, I had never before had the motivation I now possessed: I Wanted Out
Of The Sewer.
It was time to become a Pro.
I realized from previous failures that as a tyro, it behooved me to select a
subject I knew thoroughly, as I was not yet skillful enough to bluff
convincingly. Accordingly, I selected drink. Within a week I had completed the
first chapter of this book, "The Guy With The Eyes."
Looking in a library copy of Writer's Guide, I discovered that there were four
markets for my masterpiece. I noted that Ben Bova paid five cents a-word and
everyone else paid under three, and that's how my lifelong friendship with Ben
was begun. I mailed it and he bought it, and when I had recovered from the shock
of his letter of acceptance, I gathered my nerve and rang him up to timidly ask
if editors ever condescended to waste a few minutes answering the naive
questions of beginning writers. Ben pointed out that without writers, editors
couldn't exist, and invited me to lunch. And when I walked into the Analog
office (stumbling over the occasional Hugo), very nearly the first thing he said
was, "Say, does that Callahan's Place really exist? I'd love to go there."
Since that day I estimate I have been asked that question about 5,372 X 10'░
times, by virtually every fan I meet. One gentleman wrote to me complaining
bitterly because I had said in "The Guy With The Eyes" that Callahan's was in
Suffolk County, Long Island, and he wanted me to know that he had by God spent
six months combing every single bar on Long Island without finding the Place.
I seem to have struck a chord.
Well I'm sorry, but I'll have to tell you the same thing I told those 5,372 X
10'░ other people: as far as I know, Callahan's Place exists only between a) my
ears, b) assorted Analog and Vertex covers, and of course c) the covers of this
book. If there is in fact a Callahan's Place out there in the so-called real
world, and you know where it is, I sincerely hope you'll tell me.
'Cause I'd really like to hang out there awhile.

February, 1976
Phinney's Cove, Nova Scotia