To read the previous chapter of this tale, click here.
I did not know Forrest Ackerman all that well. A lot of guys my age who grew up on Famous Monsters of Filmland magazine worshiped the man who edited it for years and who also was a major figure in the history of science-fiction and science-fiction fandom. I didn't love monster movies as much as some of my friends but I tagged along with them on field trips to Ackerman's home…homes, actually because he moved. The Ackermansion, as he called it in his punny style, was once on Sherbourne Avenue about halfway between where I lived as a kid in the late sixties and where I live now as a kid in my early seventies. Later, he relocated to a bigger, nicer place in Los Feliz and that became "the Ackermansion."
I visited both homes, crammed museum-style full of s-f and horror memorabilia — tons of books, movie stills, posters, movie props, whatever — and found it and him interesting but a little creepy. Needless to say, a house full of what his was full of is supposed to be a little creepy, maybe even a lot creepy, but there was also something a bit creepy about the homeowner himself. I did not find him as charmingly avuncular as some of my friends who referred to him as "Uncle Forry" but we got along. A bit later on after I began working as a professional writer, he kept pressing me to let him agent my work.
Why I never agreed to that: For one thing, he wanted me to write a lot of things "on spec" and maybe he'd find someone — he didn't seem to know who — to buy them. He also wanted me to write pieces for his projects for Absolutely No Money. Absolutely No Money is what "on spec" usually turns out to mean when you write them with no idea who might buy them. He also seemed to have a non-traditional view of agenting, most notably as to which of us should get 15% of the purchase price of any writing of mine he sold. Despite this, we were friendly when I visited his Ackermansions or saw him at conventions.
I probably knew Julius Schwartz too well. At least there were times it felt that way. He was the editor of many of my favorite comics when I grew up — and of course, I'm using the term "grew up" loosely. But I wrote for him and interviewed him a lot at conventions and spent a lot of time with him at cons and found much to admire and like about the man. Eventually, there were things about him that I did not like, not one bit…but they aren't relevant to this story.
Ray Bradbury, I knew fairly well. Around 1968 — I may be off by a year — a group from our local comic book club arranged a visit to his office. He was charming and welcoming and fascinating and he kept saying over and over, "You kids remind me so much of myself when I was your ages." We talked about comic books and comic strips and his work and I could hardly believe that a world-famous author — a man whose work was so beloved — could or would take the time to chat with a half-dozen kids. But he did.
Not only that but he invited me and (I think) me alone to return. Things we said that day made him decide that I was quite serious about pursuing a career as a professional writer. A few of the others did go that route successfully but I think (I can't be sure) I was the only one he chose to encourage a bit. He took me to one side so my friends did not hear him. Softly, he told me to come back alone if I wanted some one-on-one advice about my chosen-but-still-distant career — and, of course, I did.
It was for me an important boost in the direction I was headed. The lessons learned were basic Survival Guide stuff — how to price your work, how to deal with idiot editors, the importance of reliability and meeting deadlines, etc. But I think the best thing he did for me that day was to send me home with the following thought: "Gee…Ray Bradbury thinks I might be able to do this…maybe I can." That was such an important, inspirational concept that my mind dared not clutter it with a few important caveats. The main one was that Mr. Bradbury, for all his encouragement and implied faith in me, hadn't read a single word I'd written. That should have mattered more than it did then.
But I got to spend a lot of time with Ray over the years, especially after I learned to drive because he never did. I'd run into him at local conventions or film screenings and offer to give him a lift. Once, motoring down Olympic Boulevard on my way to a mini-con downtown, I passed him at a bus stop, doubled back around and picked him up. Whenever I took him home, he'd invite me to come in and continue the in-car conversation for an hour or two.
Our chats — mostly me asking questions and him giving long, fascinating replies — eventually wound up on stages at Comic-Con for several years. The story I'm serializing here is about one of those panels which also involved his longtime friends, Forry Ackerman and Julie Schwartz. And in the next chapter, I'll explain how that panel came about.
