At one point my younger son, Nicholas, wanted to be a writer. He is just graduating from law school as I write this—two weeks in fact till his graduation—specializing in intellectual property law, so possibly he will end up being a writer well versed in the legal issues surrounding publishing his own books and stories. Nik does love science fiction, especially what he tells me is science fiction fantasy. Mothers try to be close to their children by understanding what their children love and I would occasionally ask Nik—who majored in creative writing at UCLA (the University of California, Los Angeles )—to suggest books he thought I might enjoy. I got some great suggestions that way, in fact, so this is a general policy I can recommend.

One night while Nik was still living at home, he found a book for me to read and placed it on the floor outside my bedroom door. I picked it up as I staggered into bed around 1:00 a.m., thinking I would read a bit before drifting off to sleep. I started the story, which was well written and engaging. I was already exhausted by a busy day and hence perhaps exhibited even less than my usual level of alertness to detail, so I perhaps missed a few of the telltale signs. But when I got to the part where the grandfather's tentacles stretched out, I thought, “What? This is odd.” As I read on, I realized Nik had given me a science fiction story. I was not amused!

Nik was then a high school water polo player who had to be up, fed and in the chilly water of the outdoor pool at University High School by 6:00 a.m., even in the middle of December. The next morning, after he had gone to school and I had time I read more in the book, I changed my mind. The book turned out to be a compilation of science fiction stories; one by Octavia Butler I found especially intriguing. More autobiography than science fiction, Butler's work posed a question that resonated for me when she told how she is frequently asked why a Black woman would write science fiction fantasy.