It is my sad duty to report that my friend, science fiction writer Howard Waldrop, died yesterday, January 14, 2024.
According to Robert Taylor: “Howard had a stroke around 1pm. EMS worked on him for over an hour. They got a pulse and took him to the hospital, but at the hospital they were unable to maintain the pulse and he died around 3pm.”
Howard had suffered a number of health maladies recently, but had been on the mend. I saw him just last week, and he was moving slightly better, and still mentally sharp.
I had known Howard since we interviewed him for Nova Express in 1987, and I’m one of the legions of people who corresponded with him (his preferred form of communication) when our respective journeys took us away from Austin.
Howard was one of the finest short story writers the field has ever produced. “The Ugly Chickens” is an acknowledged classic. “Night of the Cooters.” “Fin de Cycle.” “…The World As We Know’t.” “Horror We Got.” Great stories only Howard could have written. Plus great collaborations like “Black As the Pit, from Pole to Pole” (with Steve Utley) and “The Later Days of the Law” (with Bruce Sterling).
Howard was never far away from penury, and he relied on a network of friends to keep him above water. He rented a spare room from me for six months, for values of “rent” that included no exchange of money, but he did do odd jobs around the house, and he always paid his share of utilities. Before that I had paid him to stain and varnish several bookcases when I moved into my house.
Living with Howard was half like living with the smartest, most erudite man that ever lived, and half like living with Grandpa Simpson. Howard had a nearly encyclopedic knowledge of mid-20th century pop culture, and had seen just about every damn English language movie made up into the 1970s or so (and a bunch of foreign ones beside). His knowledge of history was similarly immense.
And then he would do things like come into the kitchen were I was bleary-eyedly eating breakfast and tell me “You know, the milk at the local HEB is three cents more than the milk at the HEB down south.” As though this was information vital to my existence.
Howard was brilliant, but he was also as stubborn as the day is long, and a decided Luddite. He never owned a computer and would only use one under duress (he grudgingly agreed to enter his portion of our joint movie reviews into my Mac when he lived here). At one point around 1989 or so, Howard was at (I think) Pat Cadigan’s house after a con, and joined one of our Delphi Wednesday Night Group chats (attended by Gardner Dozois, Mike Resnick, and a host of other luminaries, many now also gone). “Howard, what do you think of cyberspace?” “It’s icky!”
Howard loved movies, television, history, reading, and fishing, and got around to writing either when deadlines pressed, or when all the pieces finally mentally clicked into place just so.
I mourn for Howard, and for the numerous in-progress works we may never get to read. Maybe enough of The Moone World (in progress since the late 1980s) exists for someone like longtime friend George R. R. Martin to finish it. I suspect even less exists of the even-longer in gestation I, John Mandeville. And Moving Waters, a fictional history of America through third-party politics and fishing, probably only existed in Howard’s head.
Howard was universally loved by pretty much everyone he knew and the science fiction field as a whole. He was our own homegrown Mr. National Treasure and a sturdy friend, and will be greatly missed.
Howard after tripping on some steps at the 2013 San Antonio Worldcon.
