If you’ve read more than a few of my blog posts, you’ve probably learned of my admiration for science fiction writer Isaac Asimov. When he died on April 6, 1992, I had not yet experienced any great personal loss due to death in my life.

Yes, my grandparents, all four of them, had died, but by the time of their deaths none of them were a daily presence in my life, so although I was saddened by their passing, I didn’t feel their deaths as a gut punch to the solar plexus. Likewise of the other relatives and a few friends that had died, none of them had been particularly close to me.

With Isaac it was different.

True, I hadn’t known him personally, but from reading his books, his science essays, his editorials, I felt as if I had known him because he put so much of himself into his writing. This, it turned out, was a common feeling. Thousands of his readers felt similarly.

So when he died, even though I was prepared for it, because his output for the past year had been dwindling and in what he did write he mentioned his illness and his weakened condition, it did hit me as a gut punch.

I’ve been going through the back issues of Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine and I knew I’d be living his death all over again. Once I got to the memorial issue I considered reprinting all the In Memoriam pieces written by his friends and colleagues, but I quickly realized there were just too many of them, so I’d have to be selective. In the end I forced myself to just pick one.

Here is the one written by Sheila Williams who was the Managing Editor of the magazine that bore his name for the last ten years of his life, or “Sweet Sheila” as he referred to her sometimes in his editorials. As Managing Editor Sheila took care of all the day to day details of running the magazine except for actually selecting the stories, which was the purview of the Editor.

When I was sixteen, my dad took me to my first science fiction convention. Before-hand, he wrote to Isaac Asimov telling him how much we wanted to meet someone who, quoting from Isaac’s own description of himself in his introduction to The Hugo Winners, was “sane and rational, fearless and intrepid, witty and forceful, and, above all, devilishly handsome,” someone, he added, who reminded him of himself. Isaac wrote back that though he would probably be mobbed by his fans, he was sure that if I were as charming and sweet as most sixteen-year-olds, he’d be able to find a few minutes to talk to us.

I was completely in awe of Isaac. I was also awkward and shy. I did not think myself particularly charming, and I was absolutely mortified when midway through the banquet, my father decided it was time to go over and introduce ourselves to Isaac. With his prodigious memory, Isaac immediately recalled their correspondence and delightedly insisted we join his table. This table was directly in front of the headtable, and for the next hour, Isaac heckled the toast master and traded good-natured barbs with the speaker. When his masculinity was jokingly attacked, Isaac seized my hand and waved it wildly in the air for all to see. By rights, I should have died of embarrassment, but I was having too much fun to remember to do so.

At the time, I thought that this experience, sitting with the quintessential public Isaac Asimov, would be one of the highlights of my life. Yet, though the incident remains a fond memory, what I truly treasure was that I became the colleague and the friend of the private man at the magazine that bears his name.

For the past ten years, I’ve spent a part of nearly every Tuesday morning with Isaac. His visits to the office were both joyous and serious. Isaac told me jokes and limericks, and sang snatches of Gilbert and Sullivan (often inventing his own lyrics). He tried out material that was going into his editorials and his speeches, and we talked about almost everything—from politics, religion, science, and history to people inside and out of the science fiction field, letters from the readers, and of course, the magazine.

Isaac loved the magazine. He didn’t have to stop by every week. We could have handled everything over the phone and through the mail, but I know he enjoyed coming in to see us. He saw the magazine as a continuing forum for the short story writer. Science fiction magazines had given his stories their first home, and he wanted to be sure that that tradition continued for other writers. He stood behind us one hundred percent, and every one of our successes gladdened him.

He did miss a few Tuesdays. Sometimes due to illness, and sometimes because Janet had actually convinced him to take a break and spend a couple of days out of town. While we missed him on the days he was away, I knew that a two- or three-day trip to Mohonk or Washington, D.C. meant he would bounce back in the following week with a story about George and Azazel or a mystery for Ellery Queen.

Tuesdays are a lot quieter and emptier around the office now. They have been ever since he first fell seriously ill. I miss his visits, I miss being called “Sweet Sheila” in his editorials, and I miss this sane and rational, fearless and intrepid, witty and forceful and irreplaceable man. I’m happy, though, to have lived in a world in which Isaac Asimov was my own dear sweet friend.

—Sheila Williams