Writing: Isaac Asimov
The Joy of Writing
His typewriter was his vacation
I grew up reading — among many other things — a huge collection of classic science fiction and fantasy.
The science fiction of the Forties, Fifties, Sixties, and Seventies, book after paperback book, and often magazine after magazine.
All mouldering away in boxes in the garage now; I have no room for shelves full of books, and to be honest, I prefer reading on my tablet.
But in the days before iPads, I could generally be found curled up in a comfy chair with a cat on my lap as I explored the galaxy, battled triffids and orcs, or fired up the time machine through this dog-eared treasure feast.
Back to the past future, where flying cars and moon colonies were commonplace, and space empires battled over the light-years. Asimov, Heinlein, Wyndham, and Clarke were my guides but they had helpers. Poul Anderson, Ray Bradbury, Harlan Ellison, and about a bazillion others, all arranged alphabetically in row after row of escapist literature of the very best kind.
A blast from the past
I recalled those days with fondness recently. Isaac Asimov’s third autobiography has been sitting accusingly on Mount Toberead on my bedside table and I cracked…
