That's me interviewing Ray Bradbury at the Comic-Con International in San Diego. Much of what he said at the event fell into the general category of "Encouragement For Aspiring Writers" and it sent me into spasms of Flashback. In 1968 when I was a lad of 16, I went with several friends to Mr. Bradbury's office in Beverly Hills for what we thought would be maybe a half-hour of his time. It wound up being all afternoon, as he seemed to enjoy the chat as much as we did. He liked talking about comic books and strips and science fiction, and about the way the mainstream world treated those of us interested in such things.
That day in '68, Bradbury had powerful memories of growing up in Los Angeles (like we were doing) and participating in fan-type clubs (as we were then doing) and feeling a bit out of sync with the world (ditto). So we were in awe of him and he identified like crazy with us, especially after being informed that I was aiming to be a professional writer. The advice he then gave me was all pretty generic and obvious but the fact that The Great Ray Bradbury was telling me to keep at it had enormous impact. It made my intended occupation sound eminently possible and when I went home and told my parents that Ray Bradbury had told me to keep at it, they took it as airtight proof that I was on the right path — this, despite the fact that Mr. Bradbury had not read one syllable I'd written. I have the feeling he had the same effect on at least a few folks who were in the audience last Saturday afternoon. He's one of those writers that makes you feel like a writer.
I subsequently met Mr. Bradbury maybe a dozen times. One encounter that I prize occurred around 1978 when I came across a copy of a movie magazine that contained an article he'd written. It was all about his experiences as screenwriter of the 1956 film of Moby Dick and, of course, quite interesting. The following weekend, he was making an appearance at a local mini-con that I knew always had rotten turn-outs, so I went and took the magazine along. Sure enough, upon my arrival I found Ray Bradbury sitting there, ready to sign anything fans brought to him…but no one was paying him the slightest attention. Since he didn't drive, he was stranded there for the next few hours, until the con ended and its organizer could take him home — bad for him, good for me: I had him all to myself. We sat and talked, mostly about Los Angeles and what was to become of it. When I hauled out the magazine, he practically jumped out of his chair. "I don't have a copy of this," he gasped. "I've been looking for one for years."
For the next five minutes, we argued: He insisted on paying me for the magazine. I insisted he just take it. We finally compromised: He would take it and send me an autographed book. He asked me which of his I wanted and I said, "It doesn't matter. I'm probably not going to read it since I already own well-worn copies of every one of your books. I just want to put an autographed Ray Bradbury book on my shelf. Send me whichever one you have the most copies of." He seemed to like that answer. Even better, he liked that I offered to rescue him from the dreary convention by driving him home. A few days later, he sent me an autographed copy of The Martian Chronicles in Swedish and another of a short story collection in German — a terrific, clever gesture, I thought.
I interviewed Mr. Bradbury last year at the Comic-Con. He is in poor health, primarily from a couple of strokes that have robbed him of most of his ability to walk. At one point, I felt it was appropriate to tell him that though I was sure he didn't recall it, I had visited his office in 1968 and he had been most encouraging, sending me well on the way towards this thing my agent and I laughingly call my career. He smiled and said he had a vague memory of it…but of course, I assumed he didn't and was just being polite. This year, we had a few more minutes to chat before the panel as he sat there in his wheelchair, looking for all the world like someone who couldn't recall his name, let alone past events. When I reminded him I'd moderated the same event last year, he said he remembered…and then surprised the hell out of me by saying, "You gave me a magazine once…about Moby Dick." That would have been an impressive feat of recollection even for a man who hadn't had a stroke.
I guess we're too quick to assume that if the motor skills don't function properly, the brain doesn't, either. Just like last year, when the program started, he suddenly turned pretty much into Ray Bradbury from the waist-up. Owing to a set-up problem, we couldn't get him onto the elevated stage so we had to situate him on the floor in front of it, where more than half of the 1000 people present were unable to see him. It almost didn't matter. His mind was sharp and his words were passionate. He touched every person in that hall and infused them with a large dose of inspiration and creative energy. A fellow who sat way in the back, unable to see Bradbury even during the standing ovations later said to me, "This may sound weird but it really felt like he loved us all." He did…and the feeling was more than mutual.