The science fiction author Ray Bradbury died this morning at the age of 91: he was born on August 22, 1920.

Back in June of 1989, a friend of mine called me all excited. He’d just found a flier about the Santa Barbara Writer’s Conference and thought that I might want to go. He knew that I was both an aspiring author and a science fiction fan. Breathlessly he told me that the first night of the conference Ray Bradbury would be there to give a speech about writing. Wasn’t that something I would want to go to?

At the time, I was feeling discouraged about my writing and was not particularly enthusiastic about going anywhere. But my wife thought it was a great idea and so she got me loaded into the car and off we went to Santa Barbara. The drive took us nearly an hour and a half.

When we got there, we discovered that the presentation wasn’t really free and it wasn’t open to the public, unlike what our friend had told us. I turned to leave, figuring that this was typical and just one more thing in my life that wasn’t working out. But then to my astonishment, the nice woman at the door took pity on us and invited us in to hear Ray Bradbury anyhow.

My wife, in contrast, was unsurprised. Her optimism and enthusiasm were boundless. She had, in fact, brought along one of my short stories and intended to give it to Ray Bradbury to read. I had attempted to talk her out of this plan. I thought it was an exceedingly bad idea and presumptuous. She brought it anyhow, but I was certain that she’d never have the chance to meet him, and that even if she did get to talk to him, there was no way he’d take it.

We had arrived early and so we wandered about the reception hall, snagged some bottled water to drink, and then my wife went off to use the restroom. While she was gone, I found a place to sit down and stared at all the people wandering about—quite a large crowd. While I was sitting on the bench, an older man approached and sat down next to me; I said hi and then turned back to people watching.

I had a vague feeling that I should recognize the man, however. When I glanced back at him a second time, I did recognize him. He was Charles Schultz, the creator of Charlie Brown and Snoopy. I thought it best not to bother him. Just as my wife returned from the rest room he stood up and walked away.

“Did you see who that is?” I asked her, pointing at Charles Schultz.

“Huh?” she responded.

“That’s Charles Schultz.”

My wife quickly followed him and engaged him in conversation. It wasn’t long before she’d gotten his autograph, which she thought would be great to show to her students at school. In contrast to me, she was having a great time.

My wife was dressed in a bright purplish pink dress. When it was finally time to go hear Ray Bradbury talk, my wife and I wound up sitting on the front row. Ray Bradbury spoke about writing, since this was a writing conference after all. He admitted that he very much preferred writing short stories to novels; they were, he said, just “too long.” Of course, he’s well known for several of his novels, such as Fahrenheit 451 and Something Wicked This Way Comes, both of which have been made into movies. He also talked about the genesis of his books, The Martian Chronicles and The Illustrated Man, which, he explained, were essentially just collections of his short stories. An editor had approached him and in the conversation Ray Bradbury came up with the idea of connecting the short stories with an overarching theme that transformed them into a connected narrative. Both books were then subsequently made into movies as well.

He had sold his first short story in 1941 for only fifteen dollars. But by the end of 1942 he had become a full-time writer. His first book was Dark Carnival, published by Arkham House in 1947. It’s a collection of his short stories. Only 3112 copies of that book were printed. Remarkably, a few years ago, I picked up a copy for only a quarter at a used book sale. Only later, did I find out it’s worth several hundred dollars.

As Ray Bradbury continued to speak, he kept turning to look at my wife. That purplish pink dress was rather eye-catching, after all. And when you’re speaking, it’s the people on the front row that you’re most likely to notice anyway, especially if one of them is wearing bright clothing.

After his speech he sat down at a table to sign autographs, so my wife bought his latest collection of short stories and hurried off to get it signed. She also had my short story in a manila envelope. So she talked to him, got his autograph, and gave him my short story to read, which he gladly accepted, to my great surprise. Of course, things had gone just as my wife expected.

Barely a week later I got the story back from him in the mail, together with a handwritten letter. He told me how much he enjoyed the story. He thought it could stand to be shortened a bit and he encouraged me to do that. Then he told me that he was leaving for Paris and wouldn’t be back until October.

I kept his letter. It’s in a frame that hangs on my office wall. Ray Bradbury’s letter was an encouragement for me to keep writing and not give up. Good thing. Just last November, my fourth book was published by a major publisher.

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