One Last Farewell to Tim Sullivan

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So Tim Sullivan and I are, back in the early eighties, intensely browsing the science fiction paperback section of a bookstore when the young woman running the place comes up and brightly asks, "Are you interested in science fiction?"

Tim kind of shuffles his feet and, looking down at them, says, "Not really."

"Don't let him kid you!" I say. "This is Tim Sullivan, the famous science fiction writer. You may or may not have his books in stock, but you've definitely sold a lot of them."

"Really!" the clerk says, and addressing him directly, "How did you decide to become a science fiction writer?"

"Well," Tim replies, "I'm not any good with my hands and I don't have any talent for music or art, so..."

And now you know why you probably have never heard of this good man.

The last time I saw Timothy R. Sullivan was at Gardner Dozois's funeral. He had lost a little weight and shaved off his unfortunate mustache and, to everyone's surprise, it turned out that he was handsome. Not that that mattered to anyone when he and Gregory Frost shared rooms just off Brown Street. They two and Gardner Dozois and I were the beating heart of science fiction in Philly back then. We were, in the parlance of Saturday Night Live, "wild and crazy guys."

So the news that Tim died recently, of congestive heart failure, leaves me mourning not only him but a time in my life when we were all undiscovered geniuses only a matter of months away from the astonished recognition and accolades of a grateful world.

Old people like to say that youth is wasted on the young.  They're full of it. We all had great fun, great plans, and a heartfelt appreciation of how lucky we were to have such friends as each other. Somewhere in there, we managed to write a lot of worthwhile fiction.

Tim was a solid writer. He was a finalist for the Nebula Award. And he and I collaborated on a story, "Fantasies," which, it must be admitted, was not much of a much. He had a good start on a writing career when he veered into movies, acting in Somtow Sucharitkul's The Laughing Dead and co-writing and starring in Twilight of the Dogs, both ultra-low budget endeavors. He moved to California and then to Florida, focused on scriptwriting, and we fell out of touch. I regret that.

Rather than mope about the loss of someone who was a very good friend (we had lunch together when our friendship was new and when Tim objected to me picking up the check, I said, "Be honest. You're a writer, a creator. Don't you honestly feel that the world owes you a living?" Tim thought about it and replied, "Yes." I got out my wallet and said, "I've been authorized by the world to say: Fuck you. You're lucky to get a sandwich"), I would like to celebrate those days when we all knew we were the best thing about to happen to literature ever.

And you know what? I am authorized by the world to say we were.

Rest in peace, Tim. You never got your just deserts. But maybe nobody ever does.

Above, l-r: Gregory Frost, Gardner Dozois, Tim Sullivan, John Kessel (not a Philadelphian, but visiting), and me, mugging for the camera. Those were the days.

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