Ender's Game (Ender Wiggins Saga)

(Masada), and James Michener (The Source) that had set me dreaming. Potsherds!   Better to be a dentist than to spend your life trying to put together fragments of old pottery in endless desert landscapes in the Middle East.
    By the time I realized that not even the semi-science of archaeology was for someone as impatient as me, I was already immersed in my real career.   At the time, of course, I misunderstood myself: I thought I was in theatre because I loved performing.   And I do love performing don't get me wrong.   Give me an audience and I'll hold onto them as long as I can, on any subject.   But I'm not a good actor, and theatre was not to be my career.   At the time, though, all I cared about was doing plays.   Directing them.   Building sets. and making costumes and putting on makeup for them.
    And, above all, rewriting those lousy scripts. I kept thinking, Why couldn't the playwright hear how dull that speech was?   This scene could so easily be punched up and made far more effective.
    Then I tried my hand at writing adaptations of novels for a reader's theatre class, and my fate was sealed. I was a playwright.
    People came to my plays and clapped at the end. I learned--from actors and from audiences--how to shape a scene, how to build tension, and--above all--the necessity of being harsh with your own material, excising or rewriting anything that doesn't work. I learned to separate the story from the writing, probably the most important thing that any storyteller has to learn--that there are a thousand right ways to tell a story, and ten million wrong ones, and you're a lot more likely to find one of the latter than the former your first time through the tale.
    My love of theatre lasted through my mission for the LDS Church.   Even while I was in São Paulo, Brazil, as a missionary, I wrote a play called Stone Tables about the relationship between Moses and Aaron in the book of Exodus, which had standing-room-only audiences at its premiere (which I didn't attend, since I was still in Brazil!).
    At the same time, though, that original impetus to write science fiction persisted.
    I had taken fiction writing courses at college, for which I don't think I ever wrote science fiction.   But on the side, I had started a series of stories about people with psionic powers (I had no idea this was a sci-fi cliché at the time) that eventually grew into The Worthing Saga. I had even sent one of the stories off to Analog magazine before my mission, and on my mission I wrote several long stories in the same series (as well as a couple of stabs at mainstream stories).
      In all that time, the Battle Room remained an idea in the back of my mind.   It wasn't until 1975, though, that I dusted it off and tried to write it. By then I had started a theatre company that managed to do reasonably well during the first summer and then collapsed under the weight of bad luck and bad management (myself) during the fall and Winter. I was deeply in debt on the pathetic salary of an editor at BYU Press.   Writing was the only thing I knew how to do besides proofreading and editing.   It was time to get serious about writing something that might actually earn some money--and, plainly, playwriting wasn't going to be it.
    I first rewrote and sent out "Tinker," the first Worthing story I wrote and the one that was still most effective. I got a rejection letter from Ben Bova at Analog, pointing out that "Tinker" simply didn't feel like science fiction--it felt like fantasy.   So the Worthing stories were out for the time being.
    What was left?   The old Battle Room idea.   It happened one spring day that a friend of mine, Tammy Mikkelson, was taking her boss's children to the circus in Salt Lake City; would I like to come along?   I would.   And since there was no ticket for me (and I've always detested the circus anyway--the clowns drive me up a wall), I spent the hours of the performance out on the lawn of the Salt Palace with a notebook on my lap, writing "Ender's Game" as I had written all my plays, in longhand on narrow-ruled paper. “Remember,” said Ender.   “The enemy's gate is down. ”
    Maybe it was because of the children in the car on the way up that I decided that the trainees in the Battle Room were so young.   Maybe it was because I, barely an adolescent myself, understood only childhood well enough to write about it.   Or maybe it was because of something that impressed me in Catton's Army of the