Montreal . . .
Jun. 12th, 2026 05:36 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sartoriasIt's pretty hot and humid here, but wonderful. But yesterday I was trying to cope with the news that Jane Yolen is no longer among us.
I got to know her through an apa we were in together; through that, I was invited along with a pair of other writers to stay with her in Hatfield, where she had a fifteen-room house, before going to World Fantasy Con. It was Halloween. Her daughter, in high school at the time, breezed in the night before we left for the con to report that she and friends had been going around smashing people's Halloween pumpkins on their porches, and Jane laughed like a fellow teenager, making me feel that she was ageless. Also I wondered if smashing pumpkins was a thing. (There was a band called Smashing Pumpkins.)
On the drive to the con, I was in the front seat and two other writers in the back. Jane was talking writing as she drove. (Very fast.) I gained the impression that she respected everybody who was trying to write, wherever they were along the path, but impatient with those who wanted to have written. (Writers know what I mean, for example the folks who say, "I've an idea, but I'm too busy to sit down and write it. How about me telling it to you, you write it, and we'll split the profits?" or, further along the weedy path, plagiarists who seem to need to be known as writers but can't quite do the work themselves.)
Then she asked us what we were writing, and my friends in the back described their project--they wrote together as collaborators. Then it was my turn and I said I was writing a sequel in a sequence. She said, "How many books are in this sequence?" and I said, "One hundred and thirty-five notebooks." And she slewed around to look at me--while still driving. The car swerved with a dramatic swoop and my friends in the back got saucer-eyed, but Jane straightened out the wheel as she said, "Are they any good?" "Probably not," I said.
Which was oh so true--it's taken me another forty years of slow labor to learn to RE-write, still learning--but that aside, it was a pretty funny episode. She then at that con introduced me to the woman who would become my agent. Which turned out to be problematical to a painful degree, but that was not her fault.
Subsequent meetings were always at cons, or in New York, which included insider data on how the publishing world worked, as she knew all the editors of the day. What a force of nature she was! And how generous to those of us further back on the path!
I got to know her through an apa we were in together; through that, I was invited along with a pair of other writers to stay with her in Hatfield, where she had a fifteen-room house, before going to World Fantasy Con. It was Halloween. Her daughter, in high school at the time, breezed in the night before we left for the con to report that she and friends had been going around smashing people's Halloween pumpkins on their porches, and Jane laughed like a fellow teenager, making me feel that she was ageless. Also I wondered if smashing pumpkins was a thing. (There was a band called Smashing Pumpkins.)
On the drive to the con, I was in the front seat and two other writers in the back. Jane was talking writing as she drove. (Very fast.) I gained the impression that she respected everybody who was trying to write, wherever they were along the path, but impatient with those who wanted to have written. (Writers know what I mean, for example the folks who say, "I've an idea, but I'm too busy to sit down and write it. How about me telling it to you, you write it, and we'll split the profits?" or, further along the weedy path, plagiarists who seem to need to be known as writers but can't quite do the work themselves.)
Then she asked us what we were writing, and my friends in the back described their project--they wrote together as collaborators. Then it was my turn and I said I was writing a sequel in a sequence. She said, "How many books are in this sequence?" and I said, "One hundred and thirty-five notebooks." And she slewed around to look at me--while still driving. The car swerved with a dramatic swoop and my friends in the back got saucer-eyed, but Jane straightened out the wheel as she said, "Are they any good?" "Probably not," I said.
Which was oh so true--it's taken me another forty years of slow labor to learn to RE-write, still learning--but that aside, it was a pretty funny episode. She then at that con introduced me to the woman who would become my agent. Which turned out to be problematical to a painful degree, but that was not her fault.
Subsequent meetings were always at cons, or in New York, which included insider data on how the publishing world worked, as she knew all the editors of the day. What a force of nature she was! And how generous to those of us further back on the path!
