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C.J. Cherry

It was the best of times.

It was the worst of times.

MidAmeriCon). I already had some notion of what I wanted to be when I grew up and Id come to Kansas City to scope out the competition and study the lay of the land.

It was my second SF convention and I was trying to figure out the notations in the pocket program when word came down that Robert A. Heinlein and the rest of the professional writers in attendance were upstairs for something called "Meet the Pros." That sounded promising, since what I wanted to become was a professional writer, so I joined the stream at the escalators and made my way into the hotels ballroom. There was an impenetrable throng near the center of the room. I heard my awestruck companions say that Mr. Heinlein was at the center of the throng. I wouldnt have known what to say to God if Id met him, so I didnt add myself to his throng. There was another throng, slightly smaller, near a wall. C.J. Cherryh, the crowd whispered.

Now that was interesting. C.J. Cherryh wasnt God; she was newcomer to the SF field. (Somehow, I dont remember how, Id learned that C.J. Cherryh was a woman, thereby sparing me another embarrassing moment.) Her first book—Gate of Ivrel—had hit the shelves like thunder and lightning, the next best thing for science fiction, but she was a relative mystery. Still, she was new, she was a woman, and almost certainly around my age. I thought we might have something in common; I thought I could learn something about how to become a professional writer from her.

I added myself to the back of her throng. Now, Im an ex-New Yorker; I know how to use my elbows in a throng. I worked my way quickly to the front of the throng and stopped dead.

C.J. Cherryh wasnt merely a woman... C.J. Cherryh was a lady. She was gracious (I was still armed at the elbows). She was dressed in business-like silk, wearing jewelry and make-up (Ive remained true to the jeans and t-shirt style of my hippie years). Lights were shining in her face, flash cameras were popping all around her, and she hadnt even broken a sweat! CJ was every inch a lady and I was gape-jawed just looking at her.

So I cant say that I met CJ at Big Mac. I slunk away as awed as if Id come face-to-face with God. If C.J. Cherryh was the standard model for SF writers, I was in big trouble. I could learn how to write, but Id never be a lady.

Time passed, as time does, and I learned to write. I got published, and C.J Cherryh remained one of the primary stars shining in front of me. Our paths began to cross on the convention circuit, but CJ had become legendary, if not quite divine. She was writing two or three books to every one of mine and winning Hugo awards. I wasnt closing the gap and I wasnt transforming myself into a lady, either. In fact, Id gotten hooked up with Robert Asprin. We were putting together Thieves World anthologies, inviting ou friends to come play in our sword-and-sorcery sandbox—not lady-like at all

We hadnt invited CJ to join our motley crew. Neither of us handled rejection well and we didnt imagine that shed say yes. Bob, who went to more conventions than I did, admitted this to CJ over dinner one night in Billings, Montana, just before the fire department showed up to douse the barbecue pit in the kitchen (the convention circuit is a far-flung and sometimes adventurous trek).

Bob couldnt be certain her gasps and tears had been caused by the thick smoke. He made swift amends and invited her to contribute a story on the spot. From such small moments do legends and gods begin to crumble and transfor themselves into human beings

Thieves World gave her an excuse to talk about characters, plots, and writing itself. It was, I confess, largel a one-sided conversation when I was involved. Oh, we could talk about Ischade her main Thieves World character, and whatever mayhem was in store for the characters who crossed Ischades ill-fated path, but when it came to writing...

Before she started writing professionally, CJ was a Latin teacher, which is to say that CJ knows things about English that English teachers rarely know. Things so far over my comma-splicing head that I wouldnt touch her prose when her stories arrived on my desk for editing.

Thieves World writers, Janet Morris, who speaks Hittite, a language even older and more convoluted than Latin. When Janet took an interest in CJs stories and Janets characters demonstrated that interest by piling bodies like cordwood on the front porch of Ischades cottage, I simply shirked my editorial duty. I figured theyd settle the body count between them and wed all go merril on our way

Thieves World, about Ischade, about Janet.

woman is piling bodies on my porch. My roses are getting crushed. I tell you, I wont stand for it. Theres going to be retribution. Well see how she likes having bodies pile up on her front porch!"

I should mention, perhaps, that the local convention was in southeast Michiga and the high-class restaurant wed taken her to was a favorite with a guy named Jimmy Hoffa. Jimmy was widely rumored to have recently found lasting fame, if not fortune, in the cement business, somewhere near the home goalpost in the New Jersey Meadowlands stadium. The place was sensitive to talk about bodies and retribution. The waiters were noticeably nervous and conversation in the rest of the restaurant stopped completely. Bob and I eyed each othe anxiously. We tried to slip in comments about writing, books, and fiction—but CJ was on a roll.

So much for entertaining a lady. CJ wasnt talking story, she was livi it and I was more intimidated than ever. She said it best herself: you write your first Thieves World story for fun and the rest for revenge. We were lucky to get out of that restaurant before the police showed up.

Later, much later—after large portions of Sanctuary had burned to the ground and wed finally purged the city of its incurably dead characters—our paths crossed again in the bar at a convention in southern Florida. (SF writers do not actually live in hotel bars. It only seems like we do, because thats where we usually find each other and where our fans can reliably find us.) I was older, doing conventions on my own, and a little less star-struck than Id been more than a decade earlier at Big Mac. CJ being semi-divine—at the very least—hadnt changed. We began to get to know each other as people and struck up the friendship that eventuall lured me, the ex-New Yorker, across the Mississippi to Oklahoma.

My only regret is that I wasted so many years in awe of her. CJ is a lady, one of the grand ladies of our field, but shes not every inch a lady Shes, maybe, every other inch a lady and what falls between is dry wit and mischief. Bucconeer has chosen its guest of honor wisely and everyone who attends can expect to be charmed.

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