Foundations

![Image of me](https://i.imgsafe.org/fe/fe2df6e9fc.jpeg) Freerangestock.com

"It's dead," rang through my head like a clap of thunder. Blurred words glowed from the monitor, taunting me. Jumbled, meaningless words, seemingly typed at random. On and off the cursor throbbed, as if the words had a heartbeat. I knew better. This story was dead. I kicked the desk in disgust and left the computer before I knocked it onto the floor. I needed a break. On my bed lay two opened manila envelopes, left earlier by my mother. More rejections, at this rate, I'd need to move my comic books from the speaker box stored in my closet.

The red light of my clock radio shined: 1:21 am. Once again, I failed to create the life that a good story needs. I couldn't decide whether to bury it or to save it for a later attempt at resuscitation. I hated these moments. As I walked back to my computer, the curtains ruffled and a slight swell of a breeze ran through my room. I checked the window, shut tight with plastic, taped around the edges just as I remembered it. My parents went to bed early, so I figured the heat kicked in and created the wind. I sat down at my computer and opted for later resuscitation, after all, even dead, it was still my story. Another gust flowed through the small room, but this time one of my books fell off the shelf. I went over and replaced the Foundation Trilogy on the shelf, trying to figure out how it fell, when I felt the cool gust of air again. That's when I turned around and saw the ghost of Isaac Asimov.

"Hello," the ghost said, looking up from examining himself. He looked older, not too fat, but not too slim. He wore a suit jacket and dress pants with a western string tie at the neck of his shirt. His thick rimmed glasses framed his deep dark eyes and two of the largest mutton chops I ever saw adorned his face. "Would you happen to know where I am?" He asked.

"In my house," I answered, thinking I spent a little too much time writing tonight. I've never really believed in ghosts, but hallucinations from overwork might be possible.

"Funny," he said, examining his hands front and back. "Where is your house and who might you be? I don't recognize you, or for that matter, myself in this condition."

"Well, I recognize you, but to answer your questions, my name is Daniel Bailey and you're in Chicago," I said.

"That's a good one," he laughed. "I bet you have a brother named Olivaw or Lije."

"No, my parents never read science fiction. I guess coincidence plays a part in a lot of things. Call me Danny," I answered, remembering the ribbing of my grade school days.

"Okay, Danny. Why am I here?"

"Sorry, but I don't know what you, or what looks like your ghost is doing here," I answered.

"I remember being in the hospital, but not checking out in either sense," he said, running his hand experimentally through my computer monitor.

"I'd read of your sickness and inability to write, but I didn't know you were that sick," leaving what seemed obvious unspoken.

"I wonder if I died?" He said, darting with youthful speed, into and out of my wall. "Could my religious beliefs be the reason I am here?" He said to no one in particular.

"I don't know, but I love science fiction and I've always wanted to meet you. I want to write for a living, but getting published seems very difficult."

"Let me see some of your writing," he said with a friendly wink while walking through my desk to get in front of the computer screen.

I couldn't believe it, but if Isaac Asimov or what looked like his ghost, wanted to see some of my writing, who was I to say no. I called up one of my stories and let him read it. He started humming the tune of a well known, somewhat risqué limerick, but stopped after the first page and began shaking his head.

"I don't really think I can tell a good story from a bad one except in extreme cases, either way, but I'm afraid this seems an extreme case," he said, turning to look at me.

"Can you help me fix it?" I asked.

"I have firmly maintained that I have no real editorial capacity, so I cannot be sure what changes must be introduced to change a bad story into a good one or a good story into a better one. I never could do it for the stories I had written," he answered.

"Yeah, but I thought of you as the greatest science fiction writer ever. I even read some of your nonfiction. I hated Shakespeare until you helped me. You have to teach me."

"I'll see what I can do. But first tell me a little about yourself," he said

"I've been reading science fiction since the age of ten and specifically every story of yours that I could find."

"That might be your problem," he laughed.

"The thought of writing science fiction never occurred to me until I started college, but I also worked, so that limited my time spent writing," I continued. "By the way I'm going to school to be a systems analyst."

"An interesting profession, one that might give you many ideas for stories and I can understand the difficulty of juggling all of that. It's good to see you're not a sluggard. I spent forever trying to prove that to my father, but if you love to write like myself, you need to make time," he said.

"Let's not talk about my dad. He thinks I'm crazy for trying to write science fiction."

"Some people don't understand," he said, shaking his head.

"I've been taking only one or two classes at a time the last year or so, so I've done a lot more writing recently. I even took a writing course at school."

"How did it turn out? They can sometimes be more trouble than they are worth."

"Not too well. The professor gave me some help with the basics, but most of the time he made fun of my stories just because of the science fiction content," I answered.

"Well, he must have been ignorant. Let's see what I can do. There are some general rules I have worked out as far as the writing of science fiction is concerned and I have written many articles to that end," he said, pointing to a pencil and paper on my desk.

"Thanks," I said as I started to take notes.

"First, some general rules. Writing should be fun, always remember that. Second, I liked to work in a room with no windows or with the shades pulled down. That way there are fewer distractions," he said, looking at my television and stereo.

"I understand that," I said, writing down every word.

"Next, here are some general principles that could be useful, to my way of thinking. One, you have to prepare for a career as a successful science fiction writer-as you would for any other highly specialized calling. You must develop a good vocabulary and brush up on such prosaic things as spelling and grammar," he said, leaning back on the desk as if he could really feel it.

"Two, you have to work at the job. You can't completely understand what good writers do until you try it yourself," he said, counting it off on his fingers.

"Three, you have to be patient. Since writing is itself schooling, you can't very well expect to sell the first story you write. Each story you write is one more step in your literary education, a rejection shouldn't matter. The next story will be better, and the next one still better, and eventually-"

"But then, why bother to submit the stories," I asked.

"If you don't, how will you possibly know when you graduate? After all, you don't know which story you'll sell," he continued.

"I understand," I said, thinking of all the rejections I had already gotten.

"Fourth, you have to be reasonable. Writing is the most wonderful and satisfying task in the world, but it does have one or two insignificant flaws. Among those flaws is the fact that a writer can almost never make a living at it," he said sadly.

"But what about you, you made a living at it," I said.

"Three years after I sold my first story, I reached the stage of selling everything I wrote, so that I had become a successful writer. Nevertheless, it took me seventeen more years as a successful writer before I could actually support myself in comfort on my earnings as a writer," he answered.

"I didn't know that," I said, rubbing my eyes. "I'm sorry and I don't want to sound disrespectful, but it's really late. Could we continue this tomorrow morning?" I asked.

"Sure," he said. "I didn't realize the time. Besides, I wanted to explore my new circumstances. I'll see you in the morning," he said as he left through the window, not needing to open it.

If this delusion or whatever, will help my writing, then I hope it comes back in the morning. I put down my notes and shut off the computer, still wondering about it all as I went to bed. I woke up early the next morning and looked at my notes. As I read them, I hoped Isaac Asimov would come back. I got dressed and went down to get a cup of coffee and see my mom off to work.

"You're up early," my mom said as she put on her coat.

"Yeah, They canceled class today. My professor is out of town."

"I'll be back at the usual time. Could you start dinner for your dad?" She asked.

"Okay, see you tonight," I said as she left. I poured a cup of coffee and went back up to my room. Isaac Asimov floated above a chair, waiting. "Glad to see you up early, we have a lot of work to accomplish today," he said, motioning me to the desk. "Let's see one of your other stories." "I'll show you a story rejected only once," I said. "Only once? At least you're persistent," he said with a grin."Yeah, I guess that's a start," I said as I turned on my computer. This time he read the whole story, but reacted the same to this one as the other. "Of all the requirements for writing good science fiction stories, the one that is nearest my heart is that of scientific rationality," he said, pacing across the room."What do you mean?" I asked. "Note that I didn't say 'scientific accuracy'. To remain absolutely accurate, one would have to stay on ground level and science fiction must be able to soar; that is, the science fiction writer must guess, extrapolate, take liberties. However, no matter how the writer guesses, extrapolates, and takes liberties with the present beliefs in science, he must know enough about these beliefs to remain rational in the use of science even in the wildest flights of imagination." "But what does that have to do with my story?" I asked. "Titan is not a satellite of Jupiter, but it is a satellite of Saturn," he answered.

My small upstairs bedroom became a new and wondrous world. Just as wondrous as the worlds of Isaac Asimov seemed to me. We went on like this for many days. I, always making mistakes and he, always finding ways of correcting me without actually editing my story. I still attended classes, but used every spare hour to write and talk with him. He always appeared when I had time to write or listen. On some occasions he would just sit and listen to me. He even helped me understand my chemistry homework. He talked on many different writing subjects, but each seemed to be exactly the problem I needed help with at the moment. Such as characterization:

"The double task of building the background society and developing the foreground plot is extremely difficult, and it requires an extraordinary amount of the writer's attention. There is that much less attention, that is, or can be, paid to the characters. There is, physically, less room in the story for character development."

He spoke on the vocabulary of science fiction: "Words and etymology are among my favorite passions and I can rarely pass up a chance to discuss such things. Science fiction is a happy hunting ground for made-up words, and of all the words that science fiction has donated to the world at large (and as far as I know, into every language of the world), 'robot' is the most important."

He spoke on many other things such as: science fiction's ability to predict the future, the dreams of science fiction, and even a very emotional speech on critics and reviewers. I ate and slept every word he said. Not daring to miss one of them for fear that it would be the most important. He constantly said my writing improved, but fear of more rejections kept me from sending them off. He quickly changed my mind about that. Once we even talked about his new situation.

"How is it being dead? Can you fly?" I asked, holding out my arms and flapping like a bird.

"I don't know. I find plenty to occupy my time, but there are no women around in my condition. I don't fly. I'm afraid of heights," he said, dismissing the idea outright.

"I didn't know that anything could scare a ghost," I said.

"Well . . . Speaking of fears, I fail to see any women around here except your mother," he said with a grin.

"I've been a little busy with college and writing these stories."

"Nonsense. You must always make time for women. It's not healthy if you don't," he answered.

"What do you do when you're not here?" I said trying to change the subject.

"I've been spending a lot of time finding writers such as yourself and helping them with their writing, although some of them can't see me," he answered.

"How do you help the ones that can't see you?"

"I must admit I can't, but I've taken the liberty to use their bodies to continue my afterlife writing. It's probably the best writing some of them will ever do. Besides, I take it personally that they refuse to see me, after all I'm still quite good looking, even for a ghost," he said posing at an invisible reflection in my dresser mirror.

He began to leave me largely to myself and my writing. His visits became less frequent as we both spent more and more time writing, me on my computer and he through his unseeing writers. He told me he enjoyed our conversations, but I could tell he sometimes itched to get out and write. I knew I'd eventually lose him to his writing. He once lived to write and now I didn't think he would let death stop him. He once joked that he gave new meaning the words 'ghost writer'.

"That should do it," I said, sliding back from my desk. I looked at the brightly lit new science fiction story that glowed back at me from the monitor. It felt like my best work yet. I left the computer before I the temptation to start another story overwhelmed me. I needed a break.

On my bed lay two envelopes that my mom had left earlier, one small and white, one large and Manila. I opened the Manila envelope first. Inside I found a contract for the first complete story I wrote after Isaac Asimov's ghostly visit. My first sale. I took a few minutes to jump up and down in celebration, and then vowed to find a new speaker box for my accepted stories. I picked up the small white envelope that fell to the floor in the excitement. Inside, a small piece of paper with a brief note, read: "I told you! - I.A."

The End

# I wrote this a while ago. It is my first ever attempt at writing.