I remember when I first encountered Jack McDevitt's writings. A full twenty years ago, back in 1988, Bantam Books sent every member of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America a copy of their new anthology Full Spectrum—first in what became a distinguished series—in hopes of garnering Nebula Awards attention for the stories in the book. I read them all, but only a few have stuck with over the years, and foremost among those is Jack's "The Fort Moxie Branch" (which did indeed get nominated for the Nebula, as well as the Hugo). Here, it was clear to me, was an author who loved writing, and who cherished the art of fiction. His Fort Moxie branch library contained very special books—books unknown to the world, books abandoned by their authors or forgotten by history, books such as Hemingway's Watch by Night, Melville's Agatha, and The Complete Works of James McCorbin, whoever the heck he might be (but canny readers will see significance in his initials). I was reminded of that book-loving Jack McDevitt a short time ago when I read his much more recent "Henry James, This One's For You," also a Nebula finalist. That story is in part about how we choose which works will be remembered and which forgotten. There's a wistful quality to Jack's ruminations on one's literary legacy, and yet his own seems safe, as I'll explain in a moment—even though, in a field full of teenage wunderkinds, Jack didn't come to writing until his mid-forties. Jack McDevitt was born in Philadelphia in 1935, and now lives in Brunswick, Georgia, with his wonderful wife Maureen. My (often faulty) math skills tell me that Jack must be in his early seventies—but he could pass for twenty years younger. Recently, he kindly blurbed my own latest novel, Rollback, about rejuvenation. I wonder . . .
Jack had a full life before coming to science fiction. He'd been a Navy officer, an English teacher, a Philadelphia taxi driver, a customs officer, and a motivational trainer. It wasn't until 1980 that Maureen suggested he try his hand at writing SF. The result is one of the most important bodies of work in the SF field in the last quarter-century.
Jack's first publication was just a year later—a remarkably short apprenticeship in this field—with "The Emerson Effect" in the late, lamented Twilight Zone magazine. And it didn't take long for the award nominations to start coming in.
His first of fourteen Nebula nominations came in 1983 for "Cryptic," the title story of the wonderful collection you're now holding in your hands. His first award win was in 1986 for the remarkable SETI novel The Hercules Text, which took the Locus Award for Best First Novel, and also received a special citation for the Philip K. Dick Award. The Hercules Text was one of Terry Carr's new Ace Specials, published as part of the line that launched the careers of Kim Stanley Robinson, Michael Swanwick, Lucius Shepard, and William Gibson.
In 1992, Jack won the world's largest cash prize for SF writing, the $10,000 Premio UPC de Ciencia Ficción, for his novella "Ships in the Night," and in 1997 his novella Time Travelers Never Die won the Homer Award, voted on by the members of CompuServe's Science Fiction and Fantasy Forums (and it was also nominated for the Hugo and the Nebula).
In 2002, his novel DeepSix took the Southeastern SF Achievement Award—and then, at last, the biggies started rolling in. In 2004, Jack's Omega won the John W. Campbell Memorial Award (the SF field's principal juried award), and in 2006, he received the Life Achievement Southeastern SF Achievement Award. And then, at last, on his thirteenth nomination—the most of any author without a win—Jack's Seeker took the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America's Nebula Award, the academy award of the SF field, for Best Novel of 2006 (and his Odyssey was nominated for the same award the following year).
All the nominations and wins are enough to ensure Jack's legacy, but it doesn't address the question of why McDevitt books have proved so popular. And, make no mistake, they are popular: without anyone really noticing, Jack has become one of the top-selling authors in the science-fiction field; Ginjer Buchanan, who edits his novels for Ace, tells me he's now within spitting distance of the New York Times bestsellers list, an extraordinarily rare achievement for books that aren't media tie-ins—and Ginjer is determined to put him on the list soon.
Once you read the 200,000 words collected here, the reasons for Jack's popularity will be obvious. In a field that often contains clunky prose, Jack's writing is exemplary: not just smooth and clean, but charming. In a field that often gives short shrift to the human in its pursuit of the grandly cosmic, Jack's writing is warm and intimate; it appeals as much to the heart as to the head.
It's that charm, that warmth, that sticks with you—and, if you are ever lucky enough to meet the man in person, you'll see that he shares those traits. Jack is, above all else, a nice guy. He's friendly, welcoming, supportive, kind, and wise. There's no one in the SF field I more look forward to seeing at conventions.
That isn't to say that Jack is softhearted, or softheaded. Indeed, he and I recently attended a conference entitled "The Future of Intelligence in the Cosmos," jointly sponsored by the NASA Ames Research Center and the SETI Institute. I was too chicken to give a talk of my own—after all, others on the agenda included Marvin Minsky and Frank Drake. But Jack stepped up to the plate (demonstrating the skills he'd honed as a motivational speaker) and gave a stirring, mercifully PowerPoint-free, presentation entitled "Invent a Printing Press and Hang On." In it, he argued that the way to ensure the long-term survival of our species was to emphasize the development of critical thinking in high schools (Jack keeps this skill honed for himself with frequent games of chess). Yes, Jack wants us all to be goodhearted, to look with awe and wonder at the stars—but also to use our reasoning powers and to take responsibility for our actions.
Indeed, my friend Jack has a little catch phrase. Whenever we part, he always says, "Be good, Rob."
Be as good a person as he? I try.
Be as good a writer as he? I can only hope.
I can't give the same advice back to him. Jack is good, in all the ways that adjective can be applied. How good, you're about to find out; just turn the page.