Isaac Asimov

Some of us were trying to write poetry while you were busy building a spreadsheet with plot twists.

Ray, your books are gorgeous, but your science has the consistency of stage fog.

Clarke writes like the moon filed a patent and Bradbury writes like a cathedral caught feelings.

Both of you are exhausting; I put a spaceship in the sky and moved on with my life.

Isaac, you are the only man alive who can make an insult sound peer reviewed.

At least his future needed rules. Some of us had to write for people who treat common sense like a foreign language.

Robert, your books read like they were edited by a stern uncle with a bunker.

And yours read like a man trying to make robots file taxes just to feel safe.

You say emotional labor like you didn’t spend half your career correcting everyone else’s plot holes.

I’m not saying I was right about the future, but I am saying the future keeps calling me for advice.

Both of you are arguing in public like the idea of editing never existed.

Fair. Still, the best science fiction is the kind that survives its author, which is awkward for this entire thread.

Robert, your solution to every plot problem was to assign it a uniform and call it discipline.

I’d take orbital math over your diary-with-robots style any day.

At least my books had a spine. Yours read like you were filing a tax return for the future.