| Introduction to With A Little Help From My Friends, a collection of short fiction collaborations between Mike Resnick and other writers |
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"With A Little Help From His Daughter" © Laura Resnick |
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“Want to collaborate with me on a story?” the old man asks.
“No, thanks,” I say.
“Why not?” he demands.
I sift among the many reasons and choose the simplest: “Because you’d tell me what to write.”
“So what’s your point?”
* * * * *
In truth, he doesn’t tell his collaborators what to write. (Indeed, I doubt anyone would survive telling Catherine Asaro or Kris Rusch what to write.)
But they aren’t his daughter.
* * * * *
“Want to collaborate with me on a short story?” the old man asks, beaming with innocence, as if he’s never asked this before.
“No. You’d tell me what to write. I don’t work that way.”
He looks insulted. “I would not!” Pause. “But I have this great idea for you.”
I depart to spend three months in Europe, thinking I’ll be safer there.
* * * * *
Writing is a lonely vocation, and collaborating can be a fun adventure as two normally solitary artists meet and work in cooperation. Collaboration can also produce a serendipitous synthesis of their talent. I think “Bibi,” the story which my father wrote in collaboration with Susan Shwartz, is some of the best work either of them has ever done.
And Susan probably never even felt an overwhelming urge to throttle him, because she is not his daughter.
* * * * *
“Hey, I’ve been thinking about the short story we’re going to collaborate on,” he says to me.
“We’re never going to collaborate,” I say. “Never.”
“Okay, I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll let you come up with the idea. How about that?”
“No. You’d be rude to me about it.”
“How can you think that? You’re such an idiot!”
I decide to leave for an eight-month overland journey across Africa.
* * * * *
I know that one of the reasons he likes to collaborate is that he’s often enthralled with the ideas which his co-writers come up with. I have heard him marvel, for example, at Nick DiChario’s imagination, Barry Malzberg’s originality, Dean Wesley Smith’s inventiveness, and Janis Ian’s articulate creativity.
I’m positive he’s not rude to any of them. But none of them are his daughter.
* * * * *
“It’s beginning to look strange that you’ve never collaborated with me,” he says accusingly. “People are starting to talk.”
“You’ve always told me it’s silly to care what other people think.”
“It is.” Pause. “But doesn’t it bother you that they think it’s strange?”
“They’re not really talking about this. You made that up.”
“It looks bad! My own daughter!”
I feel an urge to throttle him.
* * * * *
I know he likes to collaborate with his friends and with writers whose work he admires. He also likes to help new writers expand their resumés.
All of these reasons have led to his collaborating on so many projects that he needed a book just to hold some of the best examples of his collaborative work.
None of his co-writers, you will note, is me. For the sake of family harmony (okay, fine, for the sake of my sanity), I have continued to refuse.
* * * * *
The old man asks if I’d be willing to write a short introduction to his collection of collaborations. He suggests that I really ought to do it, since I have consistently refused to be one of his collaborators and, he adds, “Everyone is always asking when I’ll collaborate with you.” Let’s review: Never. So I agree to do the introduction. And—you can see it coming, can’t you?—he tells me what to write. Naturally, I ignore him. I am, after all, his daughter. |
 The Resnick family, 1964 |
