Howard Waldrop died on Sunday. He’s a foundational brick in everything I have done as a writer because he arrived before my eyes at the most important moment. I wanted to write as well as my idols, Cordwainer Smith and Charles Dickens; Harlan Ellison and Willa Cather; Jules Verne and Ray Bradbury. But I didn’t see a path forward.
On a lark in 1987, I bought the first Wild Cards anthology (edited by George R.R. Martin-he sure went on to other stuff). And holy cow! That first story, Thirty Minutes Over Broadway! I mean, really? This has possibilities.
I sought out more Waldrop. My brother had a copy of Omni Magazine with one of his stories, (edited by Ellen Datlow). Then I hunted for the books. The photo contains the ones I located. I’ve read more recent releases in eBook form. The prose sparkles and remains direct. His words flow like salmon heading upriver to spawn, with brilliant leaps and stunning movement. You could read him for the shear experience of the tales, letting them wash over you.
Howard primarily worked in the sub-genre known as alternative history. Every story asks questions that lead to a deeper contemplation of our shared experience on this planet. Because the stories inevitably present a life very similar to the reality that we have all agreed upon, the slight (or extreme) difference more often than not forces a consideration of why things are the way that they are. Must they be so?
More than merely questioning our past, Howard Waldrop asks a lot. He also puts a lot into his stories. Frequently, he has discoursed on the importance of research in order to provide the proper backbone for whatever form of fiction you are creating. Writers are no more industrious than anyone else and Waldrop comes up often enough as the exemplar of our accuracy aspirations. As a reader, it is helpful to remember that you don’t need a doctorate degree to enjoy the stories. Accept the fact that the author did the homework and you are allowed to see the result. Don’t worry- you won’t miss the part where your reality is different.
Howard Waldrop stories resonate. Just watch someone else read one of his stories. You can tell the moment they finish, because they slowly lower the text and stare off into the middle distance. A few brain cells are now firing in new ways. Then their eyes refocus and they look at you with a vague smile like maybe you understand, too.
In 1995, I had the privilege of hearing Howard Waldrop read one of his stories out loud to a small room of admiring readers at the Fantasy Worldcon. The sheer joy that he brought to being there infected everyone. You could see the magic that went into the writing. Like Dickens (perhaps the greatest of all author readers), who also attacked difficult terrain, Waldrop has the ability to bring life to what so many of us beat down to two dimensions with our dogma and disdain. If nothing else, I have learned to love those moments when I can feel the actor inside come alive as the words pour onto the page.
I spoke too briefly with Howard after the reading. I hope I told him how much he meant to me.
