(cross posted from my Live Journal)

When I went to Clarion in 1981, I was already a published writer several times over. My first two books were in print; the galleys on the third arrived at MSU while I was at the workshop; and I had just turned in the fourth right before I left for Michigan. However, these books were all Regency romances, and I wanted to write science fiction and fantasy. I sort of expected people to sneer at me (I have a long history of believing that everyone else is cooler than I am and will sneer at me). So when we did introductions the first night–name, where we were from, any publishing experience, what we wanted to get out of the workshop–I sort of mumbled: “Hi, I’m Madeleine, I’m from Boston (as I was at the time), um, tiny little voice I’ve published two Regency romances…” Fulfilling my worst fears, there were some snickers from around the room.

Then Algis Budrys spoke up. If you never met AJ, he was a big man with a sharp, incisive, funny way of speaking, and one of the few humans I’ve ever met who literally had a twinkle in his eye. Many of his comments were prefaced by a huge, gusting sigh, and “Okay.” He had the intriguing vestige of an accent–he was Lithuanian–and a slow, deliberate way of speaking; when he was building up to say something funny you could see him trying to keep his smile under wraps. So AJ, one of the two instructors who were with us that night (the other one was Robin Scott Wilson) shifted in his chair, sighed and said, “Okay.” He looked around at assembled class. “This woman has just told you that she’s published two books. Any one else here published any books yet?” Silence. “Uh huh. So.” And that was that.

AJ was a clean, crisp, smart writer, and a sharp, perceptive critic. He was a funny, thoughtful, excellent teacher (his demonstration of the seven-beat plot had the entire class in giggles, and led to the liberation of a boy-mannequin from an East Lansing department store, and the subsequent gilding of its head, in order to create a “golden haired moppet” we could introduce into the classroom) and encouraged our writing with kindness and enthusiasm. I don’t know that he was always a happy man; caught unawares he had a slight tinge of melancholy about him. He plainly adored his wife Edna, who plainly adored him right back. AJ gave me confidence as a writer, he made me think, and I was always happy to see him in years since. More, he made science fiction a richer, more complex and more vibrant genre. He died yesterday, and whether you have ever heard of him before or not, chances are your world is poorer for it. Mine is.