Kevin Anderson - The Mammoth Book of Nebula Awards SF

First off, don’t misspell his name.

It’s Neal, not Neil.

His first name, as well as his last, has been misspelled as much as my last name, and he hates that. I know. Just to get him going I used to write him letters with his name misspelled, and he in turn would write me letters with Lansdale spelled Landsdale, with two Ds. He always told me that the first D was silent.

But back to my purpose for being here with you on the printed page.

It’s hard to express how honored, how excited I am that my good friend, and great writer, Neal Barrett, Jr., is receiving this award.

For years, Neal has been a favorite writer of mine, and I have actually been amazed at the lack of attention his work has received, compared to that of some others.

Don’t misunderstand me. I wish all those others the best. I am not saying they are not deserving of their recognitions.

But Neal Barrett, Jr. is an amazing stylist and creator of some of the most original fiction ever consigned to paper, or computer screen. And to be honest, he has been taken for granted. He has not been without respect or influence. He has taught many a new writer a thing or two with his smooth prose, humorous point of view, and brilliant ideas.

I am one of those influenced by him, and maybe, considering that admission, I should apologize to him and readers everywhere. I may have learned a thing or two from the master, but Neal, he’s still the man.

I met Neal… Oh, my God! I met Neal in the mid-seventies, though he may not remember it. Met him in Houston, Texas, at a science-fiction convention. I brought a few things of his I had, asked him to sign, and he did. I was there not only because I was a fan of his, knew he was going to be there, but because I, too, wanted to write, and my wife insisted I go because she knew how deeply I loved his work and wanted to meet him.

I had already sold a few nonfiction articles, and maybe even a piece of fiction or two, but what I remember was, when I first met him and told him I badly wanted to write full time. He told me “Good luck.”

Seemed he hadn’t figured that whole full time thing out himself. At least not then. That was to come later.

I also remember that there were some young writers there, my age, a little older in some cases, or a little younger, who wouldn’t give me the time of day. They treated my like a leper. I’ve never forgotten that. I don’t hate them for it, but somewhere in the back of my mind I made a little mark in a mental book, and that mark is still as darkly blood red and clear in my brain as the first day I made it. They knew not what they did. But I damn sure did.

Neal was different. I’ve never forgotten how kindly he treated a stranger who desperately wanted to make a career as a writer.

Bless you for that, Neal. You have no idea how encouraging that was then.

Neal gave me advice. Most of it simple and direct.

Keep doing it, and keep trying to do it better. This is really the only advice that matters.

It may not sound profound, but it was exactly what I needed at the time. It was nice to meet one of your heroes and find out they were as special as you hoped they would be.

A few years later I met Neal again, at AggieCon, and this time we really hit it off. Maybe it’s because I complimented his work again. Neal enjoys that sort of thing, and, he should.

His work is worth complimenting.

After that meeting, we not only became fast friends, I soon had the privilege of reading some of his works as they came out of his typewriter, via Xerox and mail. That’s how we did it in the old days.

It was a real treat to read stories and books by Neal before they were printed. It was great to spend time on the phone talking. We talked about everything under the sun, but mostly we talked about writing. Of course we met in person as often as possible, but we certainly burned those phone wires down, and faxed each other back and forth. In fact, one time Neal sent me a fax sheet with only a spot on it. It said, “Smell. Indian Food.”

He, who had introduced me to it, knew how much I loved Indian food, so he sent me the fax, called me a few minutes later.

He said, “Did you smell?”

“Yep,” I said. “Even though I knew better.”

“Knew you would,” he said, and hung up.

But the thing that is more important to me, even than the writing, good as it is, is Neal himself. We have been close friends for over thirty years. We’ve had ups and downs over this and that, but never any ups and downs where one of us fell off the seesaw. In the end, we were always there to balance each other out. We love each other as family.

Me and Neal, we’ve had some odd adventures together. We attract weirdness alone, but together, we seem to pull it out of the woodwork.

I adore Neal’s wit. I adore his honesty and loyalty. I adore that he sees curiosity in things other people take for granted, or think of as everyday. He is like a small child when it comes to that. And in many other ways. I think his wife will stand by that statement as well.

Like me, he loves animals. I adore that. I also adore that he adores his wife.

Hell, I love the guy. My whole family does.

And because of that, along with the fact I think he is a worthy recipient of this honor, I write this from the heart: I love you, Neal. I’m glad you are being honored in this way, and I’ve yet to forgive you for giving me a gift of a dollar bill torn in half.

FROM THE AUTHOR: I chose this story for the collection because it came to me in one of those pleasant moments when a writer feels he’s truly done it right this time — that he’s pierced that barrier between the world that seems real, and that other state of being, the one we’ve feared all along.

I was a child growing up where “John-William’s mother” grew up, and during the very same years. I listened to the radio, read the funnies, and was deathly afraid of the dark. For me, that awesome, timeless moment between daylight and dark was, as John-William’s mother recalls, “like sorrow come to stay.” I also heard the same grandmother tales that frightened John-William’s mother, and carried many nightmare memories for years. I can’t say what was real and what wasn’t in John-William’s mother’s life, and very possibly she couldn’t either. But that’s the point here, isn’t it? I sincerely hope you enjoy the story, and thank you for the privilege of having it appear in this volume.

JOHN-WILLIAM’S MOTHER TURNS the water on low and peels carrots in the sink. Wet skins slick-slick quick off the cutter and stick in a huddle where they fall. This is what skins like to do. They like to huddle up, stick with their own kind. Peel a potato and a carrot in the sink, they won’t speak at all, they’ll bunch up with someone they know. Like nigger-folks and whites, thinks John-William’s mother. That’s what Jack used to say. One’s dark and one’s not. One’s that snake in the Garden, would’ve stuck it in Eve, but couldn’t figure how.

John-William’s mother drops carrots in a pot, puts the pot on the stove. Leaves the skins alone, leaves them where they fell. They look like bird tongues to John-William’s mother, cut-cut dagger tongues, curled up at the end. She thinks about birds, big old black birds, harelipped fat birds without any tongues. “ ’weet! ’weet! ” go the birds, poor little birds without any tongues. Poke in a peel now, that’d be fine, stick a little tongue in a pointy yellow bill.