Black Evening

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Rereading the stories in this collection, I wasn't prepared for the flood of powerful memories that they evoked. I suddenly recalled the circumstances under which each was written – where I was living, what I was feeling, why I was motivated to compose each tale. Those emotion-filled memories extend back more than thirty years, and yet it seems only last week that I was a graduate student in American literature at the Pennsylvania State University.

The year was 1967. I was 24, about to complete my Master's degree, looking ahead to course work for my Ph.D., but unable to ignore a compulsion that had gripped me since high school: to be a fiction writer. Penn State 's English Department had recently hired a noted science fiction writer, Philip Klass (whose pen name is William Tenn), to teach composition. He was the first professional writer I had met, and with the innocent brazenness of youth, I asked him if he would give me personal instruction. He answered politely that his schedule was already full to bursting and if I wanted to be his student, why not sign on for a course. I explained that I felt I would benefit more from one-on-one discussions. He responded that certainly every student would benefit from that approach but unfortunately there wasn't time. Sensing that I would persist, he told me that if I gave him a story a week, he might reconsider. For how many weeks? I asked. For as long as necessary, he replied.

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