| Remembering Geo W. Proctor |
| pierce@piercewatters.com |
from Locus magazine
Writer GEORGE W[YATT] PROCTOR, 61, died August 3, 2008 after a sudden illness. Proctor
wrote a number of SF novels, beginning with The Esper Transfer (1978). Other genre books
include Shadowman (1980), Fire at the Center (1981), Starwings (1984), Stellar Fist (1989). With
Robert E. Vardeman he wrote the nine-book Swords of Raemllyn series, beginning with A Yoke of
Magic (1985). With Steven Utley he edited Lone Star Universe: The First Anthology of Texas
Science Fiction Authors (1976) and with Arthur C. Clarke edited The Science Fiction Hall of Fame,
Volume 3: Nebula Winners 1965-1969 (1982). Proctor also wrote numerous Westerns, including
the Texians series under the name Zach Wyatt, the Chance series as Clay Tanner, and three with
Andrew J. Offut under the joint pseudonym John Cleve, as well as some media tie-ins and books
of non-fiction. In all he published about 90 books, including two nominated for the Western Writers
of America Spur Award.
Proctor was born December 8, 1946 in Lampasas TX and earned a journalism degree from Texas
Tech University in 1969. For the past dozen years he taught journalism, marketing, and
advertising in the communications studies department at the University of Texas at Arlington, and
previously worked in broadcasting, advertising, and print journalism, including a stint at The Dallas
Morning News. He is survived by his wife, Lana, brothers Hap Proctor and Tom Proctor and
sisters, Mary Jo Halloway and Barbara Bomar.
Writer GEORGE W[YATT] PROCTOR, 61, died August 3, 2008 after a sudden illness. Proctor
wrote a number of SF novels, beginning with The Esper Transfer (1978). Other genre books
include Shadowman (1980), Fire at the Center (1981), Starwings (1984), Stellar Fist (1989). With
Robert E. Vardeman he wrote the nine-book Swords of Raemllyn series, beginning with A Yoke of
Magic (1985). With Steven Utley he edited Lone Star Universe: The First Anthology of Texas
Science Fiction Authors (1976) and with Arthur C. Clarke edited The Science Fiction Hall of Fame,
Volume 3: Nebula Winners 1965-1969 (1982). Proctor also wrote numerous Westerns, including
the Texians series under the name Zach Wyatt, the Chance series as Clay Tanner, and three with
Andrew J. Offut under the joint pseudonym John Cleve, as well as some media tie-ins and books
of non-fiction. In all he published about 90 books, including two nominated for the Western Writers
of America Spur Award.
Proctor was born December 8, 1946 in Lampasas TX and earned a journalism degree from Texas
Tech University in 1969. For the past dozen years he taught journalism, marketing, and
advertising in the communications studies department at the University of Texas at Arlington, and
previously worked in broadcasting, advertising, and print journalism, including a stint at The Dallas
Morning News. He is survived by his wife, Lana, brothers Hap Proctor and Tom Proctor and
sisters, Mary Jo Halloway and Barbara Bomar.
by Robert E. Vardeman
Geo. W. Proctor was a man of boundless enthusiasms. We began trading fmz in the late '60s and
met for the first time in March 1973, when he invited me to drive down to AggieCon with him and
his wife, Lana. There was an instant connection that forged a friendship that has lasted ever
since. Geo was a reporter for the Dallas Morning News when I met him and was giving Henry
Wade (of Roe v. Wade fame) hell on an almost daily basis. Wade even offered him a job to buy
him off. Geo wasn't the kind to give in so easily. He remained at the courthouse beat while
building a solid base of short stories and a novel or two. He badgered me into coauthoring a
story. I did and about that time he began writing full time. So did I. We coauthored nine books in
the Swords of Raemllyn series and had another sf novel, Forge of the Stars, in the works when he
took ill in the late '90s. We never got back to it after Geo beat the cancer and he drifted away
from writing, after publishing 96 novels. Geo was best man at my wedding and made sure I didn't
derail when my wife died. He constructed Faberge eggs, was expert at bonsai, understood
horses and racing, was an accomplished cook, took me to more than one Texas Star Party (and
built a 10" Dobsonian reflector 'scope for my birthday present), knew comics, especially Batman,
taught in the communications department at UT Arlington as their "go-to" lecturer in five different
courses for the last twelve years, was an early adopter of about any computer gadget you could
name, loved the Universal monster movies and Tom Corbett and Flash Gordon and, of course,
King Kong. The real one. The original one. I will miss Geo and his rainbow of interests terribly.
Geo. W. Proctor was a man of boundless enthusiasms. We began trading fmz in the late '60s and
met for the first time in March 1973, when he invited me to drive down to AggieCon with him and
his wife, Lana. There was an instant connection that forged a friendship that has lasted ever
since. Geo was a reporter for the Dallas Morning News when I met him and was giving Henry
Wade (of Roe v. Wade fame) hell on an almost daily basis. Wade even offered him a job to buy
him off. Geo wasn't the kind to give in so easily. He remained at the courthouse beat while
building a solid base of short stories and a novel or two. He badgered me into coauthoring a
story. I did and about that time he began writing full time. So did I. We coauthored nine books in
the Swords of Raemllyn series and had another sf novel, Forge of the Stars, in the works when he
took ill in the late '90s. We never got back to it after Geo beat the cancer and he drifted away
from writing, after publishing 96 novels. Geo was best man at my wedding and made sure I didn't
derail when my wife died. He constructed Faberge eggs, was expert at bonsai, understood
horses and racing, was an accomplished cook, took me to more than one Texas Star Party (and
built a 10" Dobsonian reflector 'scope for my birthday present), knew comics, especially Batman,
taught in the communications department at UT Arlington as their "go-to" lecturer in five different
courses for the last twelve years, was an early adopter of about any computer gadget you could
name, loved the Universal monster movies and Tom Corbett and Flash Gordon and, of course,
King Kong. The real one. The original one. I will miss Geo and his rainbow of interests terribly.
by Pierce Watters
George Wyatt Proctor was a friend—a very good friend. We met more than 30 years ago and
have interacted in almost every way possible. George was something of a polymath. I stood by
and watched him paint, a painting that would grace the cover of Heavy Metal magazine.
George helped me get started in my study of Chinese Internal Arts, which has lasted, so far, 25
years. George was there first.
George taught me about Bonsai plants. Hell, he taught me how to pronounce the word: Bone-
sai! He showed me the true meaning of organic control. I had agreed to take care of George’s
beloved Bonsai’s whilst he and his wife Lana were on vacation. This is not that easy during a
torrid Texas summer. However, the main problem was bag worms. They built their impenetrable
bags up in the trees, then dropped down to devour helpless plants. “Here’s what you do,”
George said. He plucked a bag worm off of a Bonsai, dropped it on the deck and then stomped
it. Easy enough.
George was a writer, and a damned good one. He wrote science fiction and fantasy, and was
nominated for several Golden Spur Awards for his westerns.
George was an editor. He edited the Science Fiction Hall of Fame Vol III with Arthur C. Clarke,
and was co-editor of Lone Star Universe, a splendid collection of stories by Texas writers.
And George was a teacher. That is what he was doing at the end, teaching at the University of
Texas at Arlington. And he was a very good teacher. I spoke to several of his classes over the
years and George’s students were devoted to him, and he to them.
Of course that’s not all George was capable of. I remember walking into his house and finding a
plucked duck hanging from the ceiling fan in the kitchen. George was making Peking duck. He
was an excellent cook. Even just sitting at the kitchen table eating homemade pimento cheese
on saltines was a delight.
George, Warren Norwood, Neal Barrett, Jr., and I were founders of HACs—Higher Arts Council,
devoted to lunch, mindless chatter, and publishing gossip. This group eventually became so
large that the founders quit, in disgust. “If anyone ever starts taking minutes, I’m leaving!” said
George.
And, of course, of all the many things at which George excelled, he was best at being a friend.
He will be missed by many, many folks.
George Wyatt Proctor was a friend—a very good friend. We met more than 30 years ago and
have interacted in almost every way possible. George was something of a polymath. I stood by
and watched him paint, a painting that would grace the cover of Heavy Metal magazine.
George helped me get started in my study of Chinese Internal Arts, which has lasted, so far, 25
years. George was there first.
George taught me about Bonsai plants. Hell, he taught me how to pronounce the word: Bone-
sai! He showed me the true meaning of organic control. I had agreed to take care of George’s
beloved Bonsai’s whilst he and his wife Lana were on vacation. This is not that easy during a
torrid Texas summer. However, the main problem was bag worms. They built their impenetrable
bags up in the trees, then dropped down to devour helpless plants. “Here’s what you do,”
George said. He plucked a bag worm off of a Bonsai, dropped it on the deck and then stomped
it. Easy enough.
George was a writer, and a damned good one. He wrote science fiction and fantasy, and was
nominated for several Golden Spur Awards for his westerns.
George was an editor. He edited the Science Fiction Hall of Fame Vol III with Arthur C. Clarke,
and was co-editor of Lone Star Universe, a splendid collection of stories by Texas writers.
And George was a teacher. That is what he was doing at the end, teaching at the University of
Texas at Arlington. And he was a very good teacher. I spoke to several of his classes over the
years and George’s students were devoted to him, and he to them.
Of course that’s not all George was capable of. I remember walking into his house and finding a
plucked duck hanging from the ceiling fan in the kitchen. George was making Peking duck. He
was an excellent cook. Even just sitting at the kitchen table eating homemade pimento cheese
on saltines was a delight.
George, Warren Norwood, Neal Barrett, Jr., and I were founders of HACs—Higher Arts Council,
devoted to lunch, mindless chatter, and publishing gossip. This group eventually became so
large that the founders quit, in disgust. “If anyone ever starts taking minutes, I’m leaving!” said
George.
And, of course, of all the many things at which George excelled, he was best at being a friend.
He will be missed by many, many folks.
by Neal Barrett, Jr.
I feel we were sort of a tribe, out there in our lonesome in Fort Worth, Arlington and Dallas. If
there was science fiction and fantasy going on in the outside world we were largely unaware of
it----and, for the most part, they were largely unaware of us. This didn't bother us a great deal.
We had our own Chinese restaurant, our own history and timeless traditions, sometimes going
back four or five years.
One thing we all shared was the dedication to GET there. We were proud of what we were
doing, and proud of one another. George was multi-talented: He gloried in his world and
bitched about the rest of it. We all shared that trait. Nothing has changed, and likely never will:
it's US and THEM. We shared horror stories of editors and agents (if we had any agents.)
George was often host to our gatherings, and his wife Lana was our lovely and ever-caring
hostess and den-mother. And, on top of that, she collected dinosaurs! What more could you
ask?
I tried never to let George off the hook about using the named Geo. and would call him
"rge" as often as possible. It was hard to pronounce, but worth the effort. Did I mention that he
had his own observatory and kept us up to date on new developments in the universe? It was
an honor to be allowed to go out in the backyard where Mount Proctor prevailed.
George raged, George ranted, George laughed and made the rest of us laugh. You can't think
of him without thinking of him smiling. That's what "Geo" did. And "Rge" too. Bless you, pal.
And eternal love to you, Lana.
I feel we were sort of a tribe, out there in our lonesome in Fort Worth, Arlington and Dallas. If
there was science fiction and fantasy going on in the outside world we were largely unaware of
it----and, for the most part, they were largely unaware of us. This didn't bother us a great deal.
We had our own Chinese restaurant, our own history and timeless traditions, sometimes going
back four or five years.
One thing we all shared was the dedication to GET there. We were proud of what we were
doing, and proud of one another. George was multi-talented: He gloried in his world and
bitched about the rest of it. We all shared that trait. Nothing has changed, and likely never will:
it's US and THEM. We shared horror stories of editors and agents (if we had any agents.)
George was often host to our gatherings, and his wife Lana was our lovely and ever-caring
hostess and den-mother. And, on top of that, she collected dinosaurs! What more could you
ask?
I tried never to let George off the hook about using the named Geo. and would call him
"rge" as often as possible. It was hard to pronounce, but worth the effort. Did I mention that he
had his own observatory and kept us up to date on new developments in the universe? It was
an honor to be allowed to go out in the backyard where Mount Proctor prevailed.
George raged, George ranted, George laughed and made the rest of us laugh. You can't think
of him without thinking of him smiling. That's what "Geo" did. And "Rge" too. Bless you, pal.
And eternal love to you, Lana.
Remembering Geo.
By Al Sarrantonio
This is easy.
I first met George Proctor at Noreascon in Boston in 1980, where, at one of the various parties,
he and Patrick LoBrutto, then sf editor at Doubleday, were trying to, as they claimed, “reinvent
the boilermaker.” Little did I know that George didn’t drink – but that night we forged a
friendship, based mainly on a mutual love of amateur astronomy and sf pop culture, that
enriched me more than I can ever say.
We hit it off because George and I were both twelve year old boys at heart and because we
shared a budding interest in amateur astronomy.
Because of George’s (and his wife Lana’s) kindness and over-the-top hospitality, I was able to
visit, more than once, some of the darkest skies for astronomy in North America, in West Texas
– and because of those visits I was able to expand my writing career into something I’d never
dreamed of even trying, Western novels.
George tried his hand at a lot of things – and he was pretty darn good at them all. He was an
accomplished painter, a novelist in many genres, an editor, a newspaperman, and, finally, a
teacher. I don’t have to be told that he was very good at the last, which is the only one I never
saw him do.
I hope someone else talks about his early days with the Texas Crowd – I heard stories about
Utley and Waldrop and of course Bob Vardeman and Neal Barrett and, later, Joe R. Lansdale
and Pierce Watters and Scott Cupp and the rest.
I have my owns stories as an honorary Texan in George’s company, something George let me
be. (Well, not really, but I’m claiming the right.) Stories about nights in the Davis Mountains
under a Milky Way bright enough to read by, so bright it looked like a white cloud rising over
the horizon after midnight. About a preacher with a .44 magnum, and a man named Raoul who
made the best barbeque I’ll ever have and put all of his kids through college serving it out of a
shack your grandmother wouldn’t be caught dead in. About a week it rained so hard in the
Texas desert that we watched videos and never got near the telescopes, arguing for the tenth
time which was the better and greatest movie, Destination Moon (George) or Rocketship X-M
(me, and I still say I was right). About one of the best meals I’ve ever had, in Arlington of all
places, in a Chinese food joint that made the whole blackened red snapper for George just
because George asked him to. About a hundred friendly arguments and discussions, in
person, on the phone and, later, by email, about literature and religion and music (Jimmy
Buffet! I never want to hear Jimmy friggin’ Buffet again!) and Things In General, which are the
best kinds of all. About going to Mars, and if either of us had a dam’s chance of doing so, or
even into space. About Chesley Bonestell, the god of all astronomical artists. Topps Space
cards, Aurora monster models and, especially, the spaceship models we both built as kids and
(guilty pleasure) as adults. Old television and movies.
A thousand other things.
Because of George, I stepped in the Rio Grande, saw the Brazos, saw Carlsbad Caverns and
dinosaur footprints along a calcified ravine. Saw one of the great telescopes in the world, and
a lot of other small ones that still worked wonders on the head and heart.
In a lot of ways, when I was with George I was twelve again – and in all the good ways: when
the Universe is ahead of you, and Sense of Wonder is a way of life.
We drifted apart after awhile, too many years ago, when George seemed to lose his avid
interest in amateur astronomy and I got very busy wrangling two twelve year old boys of my
own and trying to drive the loud, dangerous jalopy that is a writing career.
But I’ll never forget all those good times I had with George.
And if there is fairness in the Universe, or a Great One who watches over all and makes things
right, George is, I bet, on Mars right now, thumbing his nose at the rest of us and saying, “Beat
you to it, dumbass.”
By Al Sarrantonio
This is easy.
I first met George Proctor at Noreascon in Boston in 1980, where, at one of the various parties,
he and Patrick LoBrutto, then sf editor at Doubleday, were trying to, as they claimed, “reinvent
the boilermaker.” Little did I know that George didn’t drink – but that night we forged a
friendship, based mainly on a mutual love of amateur astronomy and sf pop culture, that
enriched me more than I can ever say.
We hit it off because George and I were both twelve year old boys at heart and because we
shared a budding interest in amateur astronomy.
Because of George’s (and his wife Lana’s) kindness and over-the-top hospitality, I was able to
visit, more than once, some of the darkest skies for astronomy in North America, in West Texas
– and because of those visits I was able to expand my writing career into something I’d never
dreamed of even trying, Western novels.
George tried his hand at a lot of things – and he was pretty darn good at them all. He was an
accomplished painter, a novelist in many genres, an editor, a newspaperman, and, finally, a
teacher. I don’t have to be told that he was very good at the last, which is the only one I never
saw him do.
I hope someone else talks about his early days with the Texas Crowd – I heard stories about
Utley and Waldrop and of course Bob Vardeman and Neal Barrett and, later, Joe R. Lansdale
and Pierce Watters and Scott Cupp and the rest.
I have my owns stories as an honorary Texan in George’s company, something George let me
be. (Well, not really, but I’m claiming the right.) Stories about nights in the Davis Mountains
under a Milky Way bright enough to read by, so bright it looked like a white cloud rising over
the horizon after midnight. About a preacher with a .44 magnum, and a man named Raoul who
made the best barbeque I’ll ever have and put all of his kids through college serving it out of a
shack your grandmother wouldn’t be caught dead in. About a week it rained so hard in the
Texas desert that we watched videos and never got near the telescopes, arguing for the tenth
time which was the better and greatest movie, Destination Moon (George) or Rocketship X-M
(me, and I still say I was right). About one of the best meals I’ve ever had, in Arlington of all
places, in a Chinese food joint that made the whole blackened red snapper for George just
because George asked him to. About a hundred friendly arguments and discussions, in
person, on the phone and, later, by email, about literature and religion and music (Jimmy
Buffet! I never want to hear Jimmy friggin’ Buffet again!) and Things In General, which are the
best kinds of all. About going to Mars, and if either of us had a dam’s chance of doing so, or
even into space. About Chesley Bonestell, the god of all astronomical artists. Topps Space
cards, Aurora monster models and, especially, the spaceship models we both built as kids and
(guilty pleasure) as adults. Old television and movies.
A thousand other things.
Because of George, I stepped in the Rio Grande, saw the Brazos, saw Carlsbad Caverns and
dinosaur footprints along a calcified ravine. Saw one of the great telescopes in the world, and
a lot of other small ones that still worked wonders on the head and heart.
In a lot of ways, when I was with George I was twelve again – and in all the good ways: when
the Universe is ahead of you, and Sense of Wonder is a way of life.
We drifted apart after awhile, too many years ago, when George seemed to lose his avid
interest in amateur astronomy and I got very busy wrangling two twelve year old boys of my
own and trying to drive the loud, dangerous jalopy that is a writing career.
But I’ll never forget all those good times I had with George.
And if there is fairness in the Universe, or a Great One who watches over all and makes things
right, George is, I bet, on Mars right now, thumbing his nose at the rest of us and saying, “Beat
you to it, dumbass.”
Professor Proctor
by Bob Wayne
Spring of 1974. I think that's when I met George and Lana Proctor.
Tom Reamy was staying with the Proctors in Arlington, I was living in Fort Worth and giving
Tom a ride to AggieCon at Texas A&M. I was still getting used to the idea that these
published authors were tolerating my countless questions, and George offered to answer a
few at some future date.
Which lead to George teaching me how to write a press release, with his declaration: "You
need to send out a press release." I don't know how to write a press release, I protested.
"Yes you do." George got up, went into his office, and came back with a piece of paper.
"This is a press release. Go home and copy it. When you get to the part that quotes
someone else, put your name in there instead. When you get to the part that tells about
something else, put your information in there instead. That's it."
"Now we come to the hard part. Where are you going to send it?"
This went on for what seemed an eternity.
Fast forward twenty-plus years.
"I'm going to lecture journalism students at UTA."
They're going to pay you to torture students?
"Yes!"
He was damn good at it.
I miss him.
by Bob Wayne
Spring of 1974. I think that's when I met George and Lana Proctor.
Tom Reamy was staying with the Proctors in Arlington, I was living in Fort Worth and giving
Tom a ride to AggieCon at Texas A&M. I was still getting used to the idea that these
published authors were tolerating my countless questions, and George offered to answer a
few at some future date.
Which lead to George teaching me how to write a press release, with his declaration: "You
need to send out a press release." I don't know how to write a press release, I protested.
"Yes you do." George got up, went into his office, and came back with a piece of paper.
"This is a press release. Go home and copy it. When you get to the part that quotes
someone else, put your name in there instead. When you get to the part that tells about
something else, put your information in there instead. That's it."
"Now we come to the hard part. Where are you going to send it?"
This went on for what seemed an eternity.
Fast forward twenty-plus years.
"I'm going to lecture journalism students at UTA."
They're going to pay you to torture students?
"Yes!"
He was damn good at it.
I miss him.
by James Reasoner
I was in the dealers' room at AggieCon in 1981, my first-ever science fiction convention,
when a bearded fellow grabbed my hand, shook it, and said, "You're James Reasoner?
I've been wanting to meet you. I'm George Proctor."
That was the beginning of a friendship that saw our paths intersecting numerous times
over the years. George was teaching fiction writing at a junior college, and he asked me to
come and speak to some of his classes. We were invited to many of the same book
signings, some of them at Bob Wayne's legendary Fantastic Worlds Bookstore. I was an
early member of the HACs, along with some of the others who have contributed memories
to this page, and those wonderful lunch meetings were the first time I had gotten to be
around other professional writers on a regular basis. It was an education, and a heck of a
lot of fun, to boot. George and I had the same agent for a while, and he was kind enough
to let me meet with her at his house while she was in Texas visiting him. Eventually we
wrote for a couple of the same house-name Western series. George was a pro and that
came through in his writing. His Westerns were always well-plotted and thoroughly
researched, and his Spur nominations for the books he wrote under his own name were
well deserved.
Eventually the HACs went the way of most such groups and disappeared. Bookstores
hardly ever have mass signings anymore, the way they did in the Eighties and Nineties,
and I didn't make it to very many science-fiction conventions. Writing careers took us in
different directions. But George and I still ran into each other from time to time, and we
talked occasionally on the phone. I remember he called once to ask if I remembered a
particular line in the theme song from the TV series "Maverick". "I figured you'd know if
anybody would," he said.
He probably wouldn't like it because it's a cliche, but Geo. W. Proctor was a fine writer and
a better man, and we are all, indeed, worse for his passing.
I was in the dealers' room at AggieCon in 1981, my first-ever science fiction convention,
when a bearded fellow grabbed my hand, shook it, and said, "You're James Reasoner?
I've been wanting to meet you. I'm George Proctor."
That was the beginning of a friendship that saw our paths intersecting numerous times
over the years. George was teaching fiction writing at a junior college, and he asked me to
come and speak to some of his classes. We were invited to many of the same book
signings, some of them at Bob Wayne's legendary Fantastic Worlds Bookstore. I was an
early member of the HACs, along with some of the others who have contributed memories
to this page, and those wonderful lunch meetings were the first time I had gotten to be
around other professional writers on a regular basis. It was an education, and a heck of a
lot of fun, to boot. George and I had the same agent for a while, and he was kind enough
to let me meet with her at his house while she was in Texas visiting him. Eventually we
wrote for a couple of the same house-name Western series. George was a pro and that
came through in his writing. His Westerns were always well-plotted and thoroughly
researched, and his Spur nominations for the books he wrote under his own name were
well deserved.
Eventually the HACs went the way of most such groups and disappeared. Bookstores
hardly ever have mass signings anymore, the way they did in the Eighties and Nineties,
and I didn't make it to very many science-fiction conventions. Writing careers took us in
different directions. But George and I still ran into each other from time to time, and we
talked occasionally on the phone. I remember he called once to ask if I remembered a
particular line in the theme song from the TV series "Maverick". "I figured you'd know if
anybody would," he said.
He probably wouldn't like it because it's a cliche, but Geo. W. Proctor was a fine writer and
a better man, and we are all, indeed, worse for his passing.
by Steven Utley
I met George Proctor at his and my first meeting of the Dallas Science Society, in
October 1970. I sat with my then-wife and George and his then-and-always wife,
incomparable Lana, and sized up Howard Waldrop and Tom Reamy, among others --
little imagining what lay in store for us: real actual careers as real actual writers. Along
the way to Fame And Fortune (or whatever) there was George's splendid little fanzine,
Citadel, for which I loved writing and drawing, and there were those inchoate, boozy,
bluesy jam sessions in the Proctor kitchen ("Up against the wall, redneck mothers!"),
and championship boxing bouts on the Proctor coffee table with battery-powered,
remote-controlled dinosaurs, and, oh, the AggieCon costume contest that began with
Luke Skywalker punching a hole in a projection screen with his light-saber and
concluded with some elf wannabe spieling about how "human dogs destroyed the elf
kingdom" and George and Lana and Bob Vardeman and I and everybody in the
audience duly barking him off the stage. What fun. What good people.
I met George Proctor at his and my first meeting of the Dallas Science Society, in
October 1970. I sat with my then-wife and George and his then-and-always wife,
incomparable Lana, and sized up Howard Waldrop and Tom Reamy, among others --
little imagining what lay in store for us: real actual careers as real actual writers. Along
the way to Fame And Fortune (or whatever) there was George's splendid little fanzine,
Citadel, for which I loved writing and drawing, and there were those inchoate, boozy,
bluesy jam sessions in the Proctor kitchen ("Up against the wall, redneck mothers!"),
and championship boxing bouts on the Proctor coffee table with battery-powered,
remote-controlled dinosaurs, and, oh, the AggieCon costume contest that began with
Luke Skywalker punching a hole in a projection screen with his light-saber and
concluded with some elf wannabe spieling about how "human dogs destroyed the elf
kingdom" and George and Lana and Bob Vardeman and I and everybody in the
audience duly barking him off the stage. What fun. What good people.
by Joe R. Lansdale
George was a hell of a nice guy, and though we didn't spend a lot of time together
after the early years when we met at AggieCon, and talked endless hours about books
and movies and even martial arts, as I recall, I remember those moments well and
fondly. He also introduced me to a number of people who became very important in my
life. I'm sorry he is gone so young. Sorry too for Lana. Joe Lansdale
George was a hell of a nice guy, and though we didn't spend a lot of time together
after the early years when we met at AggieCon, and talked endless hours about books
and movies and even martial arts, as I recall, I remember those moments well and
fondly. He also introduced me to a number of people who became very important in my
life. I'm sorry he is gone so young. Sorry too for Lana. Joe Lansdale