Pretty Maggie Moneyeyes

When I was small my father began to feed me a steady diet of science fiction — Asimov, Heinlein, Tolkein, Le Guin. I read the greats (and great I found them). But the book that unquestionably struck me most on a visceral level, on an intellectual level, on a "bring it to your creative writing class on share-an-author day" level, was Harlan Ellison's collection of short stories, I Have No Mouth But I Must Scream. The name alone is the stuff that most writers would sacrifice a limb to have invented, but the short story by the same name is one of the most wretchedly fantastic dystopian tales I have ever read. That story made me feel like my brain had been transformed into violin strings upon which something angry and Bach-ish was being furiously bowed.

So, you know, I know he's kind of an ass (he was expelled from Ohio State for allegedly hitting a professor who criticized his writing; he has sent said professor a copy of every story he's published for the past 40 years), but I can't help but harbor a soft spot for Harlan Ellison.

This is why I found his essay criticizing the WGA (of which he is a longtime member) writers' contract so utterly delightful. Highlights include, "My gorge has become buoyant," and "While this nutty festschrift of demented pleasure at being allowed to go back to work in the rice paddy is filling your cowardly hearts with joy and relief that the grips and the staff at the Ivy and street sweepers won't be saying nasty shit behind your back, remember this: You are their bitches."