He was furious. He wouldn't let me bury them. It didn't matter. There was no way to dig up the deckplates. He dried up the snow. He brought the night… - Harlan Ellison

A lesson any writer can use. Don’t be afraid. That simple; don’t let them scare you. There’s nothing they can do to you. If they kick you out of films, do TV. If they kick you out of TV, write novels. If they won’t buy your novels, sell short stories. Can’t do that, then take a job as a bricklayer. A writer always writes. That’s what he’s for. And if they won’t let you write one kind of thing, if they chop you off at the pockets in the market place, then go to another market place. And if they close of all the bazaars, then by God go and work with your hands till you can write, because the talent is always there. But the first time you say, “Oh, Christ, they’ll kill me!” then you’re done. Because the chief commodity a writer has to sell is his courage. And if he has none, he is more than a coward. He is a sellout and a fink and a heretic, because writing is a holy chore.

To see an almost certain horrible death — you know how crowds all sit at the edge of their seats, /praying/ subconsciously for a spectacular accident — and then to be whisked away from it so suddenly — brought to the edge of tragedy, and then to have their better natures win out, showing them how much nicer they always /knew/ they were — that was the supreme thrill.

As one disillusioned ex-Trek official recently said, “You know why they cremated Gene? They were afraid people would come to piss on the grave.