Interview With Tim Myers

My life as a writer began, in a specific way, that is, when I was at Divine Redeemer School in Colorado Springs, Colorado.  Most of our teachers were nuns from the Sisters of Charity; my sixth-grade teacher, Sister Mary Boniface, responded personally to some homework I'd handed in, and did so in a way that sparked something powerful in me—though I hardly realized it at the time.  She was already an older woman then; out of gratitude (and, I suppose, my instinct for fantasy), I'm invoking her spirit as my interviewer.

SISTER:  Well, Tim, you've written a story for an anthology of Catholic science fiction.  As you can imagine, I'm a bit "old school"—this seems rather strange to me.  Catholic science fiction?

TIM:  I understand your surprise.  But when you think of it, it's a very "catholic" thing.  Science fiction casts its nets far and wide; it moves further toward the universal than some other forms of literature do.  Or at least toward certain forms of the universal.  I love the words of St. Ignatius on this:  "The more universal the good is, the more it is divine."

SISTER:  I see.  Well, before we talk about the anthology, maybe you could explain why you've conjured me to interview you.

TIM:  I'd be delighted!  I was pretty goofy as a little kid—certainly not a good student.  I got in trouble sometimes—got an F on my report card in second grade (I like to think of it as ironic; I failed reading comprehension).  That kind of thing.  One day in sixth grade you assigned us an essay for homework, and for some reason—mysterious to me still—I decided to write a poem.  I'd not only never done anything remotely similar—I hadn't even imagined such a thing.  It was utterly outside my awareness.  I still remember the first line:  "St. Stephen, a martyr, so holy and bold…"  (That picture with all the arrows has to have been part of my inspiration).
                Anyway, after I handed it in, I suddenly realized I'd broken a cardinal rule—I hadn't followed directions.  I felt sick, convinced I'd be in trouble.  My fears were confirmed when, the next day, you asked me to talk with you while the other kids went to recess.