The Foundation of Being Dumb

“Violence,” came the retort, “is the last refuge of the incompetent.” ~ FOUNDATION, The Encyclopedists, by Isaac Asimov, 1951

“To thine own self be true.” ~ Hamlet, Act 1, Scene 3, by William Shakespeare, c 1623

Look, it’s pretty obvious I was a dipshit for about 20 years. Why in the name of God would I try to write something I wouldn’t even want to read?  If you stay up 12 hours every night reading thrillers, then you need to be writing thrillers.  If you’re mesmerized by Joyce Carol Oates’ sublime prose, then you need to be writing about the jagged edges of love.  If you’re reading Playboy for the articles, then you’re lying.

Ever since I was a kid I’ve been mesmerized by the science fiction and fantasy section of bookstores.   I’d wander in, mouth agape, eyes agog, images of spaceships and ray guns whirling around me.

I remember one store vividly –Adan’s Bookland, if I remember correctly – located at a mall here in Huntsville.  As a comedian once mocked, this mall was called “The Mall,” and was located on a parkway called “The Parkway,” which is not too far from a mountain called “The Mountain.”  Alas, my hometown is not renowned for its creativity.  If you went into the bookstore from its sidewalk entrance, the science fiction (or SF) section was immediately to your right.  My older brother, a brilliant hippie and headstrong physicist (or do I have that backwards) had turned me on to Star Trek and The Twilight Zone years before.  He’d drive me to The Mall, then ditch me while he and his high school buddies looked for the latest LPs by Badfinger and Led Zeppelin at Hornbuckle’s Records.  On one specific day – an icy-blue November Saturday – I’d just finished the Foundation Trilogy by Isaac Asimov, devouring the copies of those three books that my brother had given me.  I wasn’t quite sure I understood the story, and I was as enthralled with the cover art as I was with the mysterious story itself.  The first book of the trilogy looked like this photo on the left.

Foundation Book 1

To my surprise that morning, I spotted another book right away that looked like it was part of the same series.  Its title was 50 Short Science Fiction Tales and it had Asimov’s name in bold font across the front – along with Geoff Conklin, whoever he was!  At the time – I was only nine – I didn’t know publishers commissioned the artists to do covers for different novels.  All I knew was the enigmatic cover art, so very similar to Foundation, was sitting there in front of me.  It looked like this photo on the right.

Fifty Short SF TalesSo, it was perfectly natural for a fourth-grader to conclude he’d soon be reading even more about futuristic heroes like Hari Seldon, Hober Mallow, Salvor Hardin, and, of course, The Mule.

What was it about that art?  Was it the eerie green glow?  The spaceship-and-sun logo?  The creepy man with the Roman nose and slanted eyes, the one who looked … Asian?  On the way home I asked my brother about this.  After all, every other SF book cover showcased men as white as Florida sand and shackled women as bikini-clad as Florida women.  My brother didn’t need to mull over my question.  He just flipped his hand flippantly (as it were) and said Asimov’s fiction took place 50-to-100 thousand years from now.  By that time humans would’ve evolved (he said) toward an Asian countenance because of that culture’s science, technology and logic.

I cocked my head, confused.  The entire population of Asia was composed of scientists and engineers who kicked their emotions to the curb like Mr. Spock?  Everybody?  There wasn’t a single pissed-off garbage man on the entire damn continent?

I encountered a lot of that type of weird stereotyping growing up, a half-insulting, half-complimenting broad-brushing of people who were “not like us,” whatever the hell that means.  If you grew up in the ruins of the old Confederacy, as I did, you know what I’m talking about.  You’ve learned to juggle these conflicting thoughts and feelings, contradictory morals and ethics.  It goes with the territory, as it were.

But I digress.  When I was nine if you’d asked me what I wanted to write when I grew up, I would’ve said science fiction without hesitation.  Hell, if you’d asked me when I was 18 I would’ve said science fiction, until a strange series of events in the fall of 1982.  I had started school at a small, liberal arts college with a tremendous academic reputation.  Like most guys my age, my studies took a backseat to the twitchy, inexplicable and completely normal crush I’d developed on a cute blonde I met that first week.  Things didn’t quite work out between her and me, mostly due to my awkward bungling of the whole affair.  But the subsequent letdown affected me for a long time to come.

That probably translates to about one week in the taffy-time of your teen years.

Her rejection sent me scrambling back to the sanctuary of SF.  I remember driving my old Plymouth to Brookwood Mall seeking solace.  I went straight to section containing Asimov’s books.   His literature was my comfort food, my meat and potatoes.

And what did I find that day?  I found something that rattled me as hard as the rejection from the girl on campus: The cover art of the entire Foundation series had been changed.  It had been updated.

It had been ruined.

Feeling lower than a man who’s just accidently shot his own dog, I dragged my sorry ass back to campus, realizing everything had changed, including me.

And that’s when I really became a dumbass, hiding behind a veil of dry humor, thinking I knew that SF was only for nerds.  Now don’t get me wrong … I had fun.  Or should I say, F-U-N!  College was one of the greatest experiences of my life.  I met my wife and made friends so dear they’re like family to this day.  But I also gave up a piece of myself.  I ditched SF, and for that, I made Keith Parker a synonym for dipshit.  And I kept it that way until tragedy struck almost 20 years and two children later.

In February 2003 my brother – the one who’d given me the Foundation novels – dropped dead of a heart attack in his own kitchen.  Under the crushing stress of grief, my mother’s subsequent strokes and Alzheimer’s dementia, the loss of a job, the death of my father-in-law, and countless other freaky setbacks, I found myself gravitating back that charming realm of SF, seeking the asylum I lost that autumn day in ’82.

Thankfully, I’ve rediscovered my roots.  I know within a moral certainty that my writing has to be speculative fiction.  There’s no other way for me to be me without it.

So no matter what your passion is

and you know what it is

do not ignore it.  You’ll never write a successful novel, screenplay, short story, poem, haiku, or recipe without having the full weight of love behind it.

Oh, one last thing:  Those copies of Foundation that my brother gave me?  The ones with the “evolved” humans?  Those novels are gone forever.  Locked away.  Buried.  And I mean that literally.  Without anyone looking, I put those copies into the memory box of my brother’s casket.  I said goodbye.  Sometimes you have to say goodbye in order to say hello again.

Thanks for reading.

Peace, from Keith

.

.

Copyright © 2012, Alan Keith Parker, All Rights Reserved.  Images displayed under fair use laws.

Fire Always Burns Uphill

Fire Always Burns Uphill: A Novel of Mental Illness, Love, Lust, Betrayal, Revenge and Hay Fever.

** Would-be Lovers Trapped in a Remote Alabama Canyon **

** With a Psychopath on their Trail **

This is the premise of my first published novel, which started to catch on right before humanity wiped itself out in the catastrophe known as Y2K.

Now, 11 years later, Fire Always Burns Uphill is available as a Kindle e-book.

And do you know why?  The reason is quite simple: Money.

I’d like to make money.  A lot of money.  And the best way to do that is to tap something deep and unshakable in the human spirit that simply makes people want to hand you cash out of their pockets and purses.

Thus, this: my first blog post, which will be used to shamelessly promote the e-version of Fire Always Burns Uphill.

My creative writing, which started in earnest in 1992, has not existed in a vacuum, whatever the heck that means.  In addition to quite a few short story publications, the manuscript for Fire was resoundingly rejected by every respectable literary agency on the Island of Manhattan.  But I was not rejected in the typical form-letter manner.  Oh, no.  Instead, I was pulled from the brink of success and then yanked back by the scruff of the neck.  Up and down New York City, the men and women who buy great literature read my manuscript with an enthusiasm bordering on psychosis.  Here – finally – (they said in snail mail replies) was a writer who could generate characters on par with Pat Conroy, Joyce Carol Oates or Stephen King.   And these agents, obviously composing their rejections on cocktail napkins at the same happy hour, wrote these words same words in their respective rejections:

“As much as I’d like to represent this work of obvious talent, I simply cannot.  Perhaps I’m the wrong agent to be reading this.  Perhaps I’ll regret this decision.”

Well, I don’t know whether any of them regret their decisions.  But I know that I regret it.

After collecting enough of these “good” bad news pieces of parchment, my novel was accepted for publication by a weird print-on-demand company that sprung up and later crashed like a dot-com.

But that doesn’t change the fact that a dead tree version of my book actually existed (and may still).

And it doesn’t change the fact that I had multiple book-signings in Huntsville, Birmingham, and, yes, Fayetteville, Tenn.

And it doesn’t change the fact that I was interviewed by the local CBS affiliate.

And it doesn’t change the fact that my novel rocketed to #3 on the Amazon.com regional bestseller list.

The novel, it seemed, was about to go viral.

Or so I thought.  What really happened is that everybody was getting their souls and houses in order for the global catastrophe that did not happen on January 1, 2000.

Which brings me back to the e-book.

Fire Always Burns Uphill now available from the Amazon.com Kindle Store!

And, again, the reason is simple: money.  A lot of money.