Monday, December 10, 2018

Mark Twain's Rules

Mark Twain sets out the rules of adventure fiction in a scathing review of James Fenimore Cooper's Deerslayer:

There are nineteen rules governing literary art in domain of romantic fiction -- some say twenty-two. In "Deerslayer," [James Fenimore Cooper violated eighteen of them. These eighteen require:

1. That a tale shall accomplish something and arrive somewhere. But the "Deerslayer" tale accomplishes nothing and arrives in air.

2. They require that the episodes in a tale shall be necessary parts of the tale, and shall help to develop it. But as the "Deerslayer" tale is not a tale, and accomplishes nothing and arrives nowhere, the episodes have no rightful place in the work, since there was nothing for them to develop.

3. They require that the personages in a tale shall be alive, except in the case of corpses, and that always the reader shall be able to tell the corpses from the others. But this detail has often been overlooked in the "Deerslayer" tale.

4. They require that the personages in a tale, both dead and alive, shall exhibit a sufficient excuse for being there. But this detail also has been overlooked in the "Deerslayer" tale.

5. They require that when the personages of a tale deal in conversation, the talk shall sound like human talk, and be talk such as human beings would be likely to talk in the given circumstances, and have a discoverable meaning, also a discoverable purpose, and a show of relevancy, and remain in the neighborhood of the subject at hand, and be interesting to the reader, and help out the tale, and stop when the people cannot think of anything more to say. But this requirement has been ignored from the beginning of the "Deerslayer" tale to the end of it.

6. They require that when the author describes the character of a personage in the tale, the conduct and conversation of that personage shall justify said description. But this law gets little or no attention in the "Deerslayer" tale, as Natty Bumppo's case will amply prove.

7. They require that when a personage talks like an illustrated, gilt-edged, tree-calf, hand-tooled, seven- dollar Friendship's Offering in the beginning of a paragraph, he shall not talk like a negro minstrel in the end of it. But this rule is flung down and danced upon in the "Deerslayer" tale.

8. They require that crass stupidities shall not be played upon the reader as "the craft of the woodsman, the delicate art of the forest," by either the author or the people in the tale. But this rule is persistently violated in the "Deerslayer" tale.

9. They require that the personages of a tale shall confine themselves to possibilities and let miracles alone; or, if they venture a miracle, the author must so plausibly set it forth as to make it look possible and reasonable. But these rules are not respected in the "Deerslayer" tale.

10. They require that the author shall make the reader feel a deep interest in the personages of his tale and in their fate; and that he shall make the reader love the good people in the tale and hate the bad ones. But the reader of the "Deerslayer" tale dislikes the good people in it, is indifferent to the others, and wishes they would all get drowned together.

11. They require that the characters in a tale shall be so clearly defined that the reader can tell beforehand what each will do in a given emergency. But in the "Deerslayer" tale, this rule is vacated.

In addition to these large rules, there are some little ones. These require that the author shall:

12. Say what he is proposing to say, not merely come near it.

13. Use the right word, not its second cousin.

14. Eschew surplusage.

15. Not omit necessary details.

16. Avoid slovenliness of form.

17. Use good grammar.

18. Employ a simple and straightforward style.

As Tom Simon said, "it is a pity that Twain never tells us the rule that Cooper did not violate."

Thursday, December 6, 2018

Pulp Radio: The Shadow - "The Mark of the Bat"

Walter Gibson died on this date in 1985. In honor of the master, here is a radio play featuring his best-known character, the immortal Shadow.

Monday, December 3, 2018

The Science Fiction Legacy of Marvel

Over the last couple weeks, I might have sounded a bit bullish about Marvel Science Stories and its effect on science fiction. This pulp by Red Circle, the parent company for today's Marvel Comics, certainly brought science fiction to the eyes of more publishers than just Street & Smith. However, I will disagree with Isaac Asimov's assessment of the magazine. Marvel Science Stories was not a spicy; it was a weird menace pulp.

Weird menace was a skin and sadism genre that sparked an increasing backlash by the public. To build upon its thrills, weird menace featured stories of younger and younger women in impending peril. Red Circle as a line reveled in these stories of torture and porn. Public outrage built, and teens and children stopped reading pulps. When a Red Circle pulp ran a story where a crowd of leering men crucified a twelve-year old, with descriptions that bordered on the lascivious, the government stepped in, banned weird menace, and censored the pulps.

The weird manace tale did leave an imprint on the development of the genre. Even as early as the 1930s, science fiction strove for respectability. During the Campbelline Revolution, Jack Williamson recounts that”science fiction had to be pure as snow”. Fandom wanted no trace of weird menace in its science fiction.  And the censors in place after weird menace’s fall kept sexual content out of Amazing, Astounding, and their competitors. Or as much as possible, for:
It became a grim or frivolous game for some of the writers who were, of course, not fools, to see what they could slip by without editorial knowledge or consent. One famously was able to get through J. W. Campbell and Kay Tarrant a description of a tomcat as a “ball-bearing mousetrap” and Asimov’s 1951 “Hostess” in Galaxy reeked of the perversity of sexual attraction between an alien diplomat and a repressed academic’s wife but these triumphs were few and, more to the point, unnoticed. If they had attracted wide attention, the writers would have paid the price.
Malzberg, Barry N.. Breakfast in the Ruins (Kindle Locations 523-528). Baen Books.
Barry Malzberg further explains in Breakfast in the Ruins that “as late as 1965, science fiction was still a genre which in the main denied the existence, let alone the extent, of human sexuality” and that it wasn’t until “the beginning of the nineteen-seventies, [that] novels of great or relative explicitness (Silverberg’s Dying Inside, The Second Trip, and The World Inside, my own Beyond Apollo) bore the label of category science fiction.”

In short, fan and government backlash against weird menace removed sex as a topic of science fiction for over thirty years, until the rise of the New Wave--who then ran the topic into the ground with as much excess as possible.

As for authors who associated with Red Circle and Marvel Science Stories? Henry Kuttner contributed "Time Trap" to Marvel Science Stories, a move that tainted him from then on. In the eyes of many fans, Kuttner was nothing more than a smut merchant from that point onward. He became the second of the Campbelline grandmasters to be scrubbed out of the popular history by fannish contempt.

So the real legacy of Marvel Comics in science fiction is a record of three decades of censorship and the erasure of one of pulp fiction's best from the popular canon.

Thursday, November 29, 2018

A Quick Peep at the Spicy Pulps

Starting to look into the spicies via the Blood N Thunder guide. Looks like I'll have to add Spicy Mystery to the most influential pulps list. It started the weird menace craze that damn near caused the government to kill the pulps. Weird menace also drove the kids into comics.

Part of the reason the spicies remained popular with authors is because they PAID. Not just on time, which was a novelty, but well--as in 5 cents a word at a time where 1 cent a word was professional rate. The problem is, in markets limited to innuendo and indirect description of undress, only a score of authors could write within the rules.

Guess how many of those were Weird Tales authors writing under pseudonyms.

Three, including R.E. Howard as Sam Walser . (As I said, at least the spicies paid, which wasn't always the case with Weird Tales under Farnsworth Wright.) Add three more WT writers willing to write spicies under their own name, including E. Hoffman Price and Henry Kuttner.

That said, the rest of the field wasn't quite up to the same quality. The catch was being able to write suggestively without resorting to tab A into slot B depictions of the act, and few could deliver.

Anatomical descriptions were out, as was complete nudity and any details of the act the heroine submitted to. The women could disrobe voluntarily or have their clothes torn from them, but some scrap of cloth had to remain. The idea was to have a strong sexual element without being obscene or vulgar. That said, right now, many YA, LNs, and romance novels would be too explicit for the spicies.

But with (the barest hint of ) sex selling, the rest of the story not surprisingly fell by the wayside. Many of the spicies chose exotic settings as to offer more convincing opportunities for the ladies to be in undress. Unfortunately, the exotic settings and plots don't compare to the descriptions found in the hero pulps and Weird Tales. Everything was a thin excuse to get to the ellipses, where the real action occurred in the readers' minds.

To no surprise, with the restrictions of the spicies compare to outright girlie or "smoosh" magazines such as Stage and Screen Stories and Tattle Tales, which both featured far more revealing covers, writers made up for lack of titillation with a penchant for peril, which became impending torture, which became weird menace. Afterwards, the spicies burned out as stronger thrills and more explicit images became easier to acquire. But for five years, the Spicy was queen.

Monday, November 19, 2018

Uncanny: How Marvel's Spicies Saved Science Fiction

Pulps and comics are kissing cousins. Not only have comics plundered the pulps for heroes, stories, and franchises, in many cases, comics and pulps were owned by the same publishers. For instance, Street & Smith's Chelsea House imprint ran comics of most of their pulp books. But Marvel holds special ties to science fiction. Not only does The House of Ideas continue to provide opportunities for science fiction writers to work in comics, it set the stage for the Campbelline Revolution through Marvel Science Stories, a nine issue pulp that ran between 1938 and 1941.

Like Marvel's predecessor, Timely Comics, Marvel Science Stories was part of the Red Circle imprint, published by Martin Goodman, who would later become a cousin by marriage to Stan Lee. Red Circle books covered the gamut of westerns, detective stories, weird menace, and adventures, but they appealed to a baser instinct than most of their competition. That's right, Red Circle dealt with the "spicies", those salacious stories of sin and sadism that seem so utterly quaint in today's age of Game of Thrones.

Originally, Marvel Science Stories adhered to the growing fannish standard of science fiction. But as editor Robert O. Erisman learned, sex sells:


Williamson was not the only one in science fiction to despise Marvel Science Stories. Fandom's impressions were generally negative, if not outright hostile:

"I was just about to write you a letter of complete congratulations when my eyes fell upon Kuttner's "The Time Trap". All I can say is: PLEASE, in the future, dislodge such trash from your magazine."--William Hamling

"For some half a dozen issues or so, a magazine I won't name" published "spicy" stories about "the hot passion of alien monsters for Earthwomen. Clothes were always getting ripped off and breasts were described in a variety of elliptical phrases" for its "few readers" before "the magazine died a deserved death" -- Isaac Asimov

Some of this is just fannish snobbery, as Williamson explained. And Marvel's sister magazines "Dynamic Science Stories", "Uncanny Stories", and more fell along the same pattern, with similar disdain for the quality. "Historians identify only three stories of quality: Nelson S. Bond's "The Message from the Void" (published under the pseudonym "Hubert Mavity"); L. Sprague de Camp's "Ananias"; and Manly Wade Wellman's "Insight"."

But what Marvel Science Stories represents is the first new science fiction magazine since the original rush of science fiction stories. "After 1931, when Miracle Science and Fantasy Stories was launched, no new science fiction magazines appeared until August 1938, when Abraham and Martin Goodman, two brothers who owned a publishing company with multiple imprints, launched Marvel Science Stories." It kindled publisher interest in science fiction and fantasy as a genre, leading to the creation of Unknown, Planet Stories, and more. And to compete in this new boom market of science fiction, Astounding hired John Campbell...

So, if it was not for the publication of Marvel Science Stories by a smut peddler of its day, science fiction would have continued to stagnate in the mess caused by Hugo the Rat's predations. After all, as Gus Grissom said in The Right Stuff, "No bucks, no Buck Rogers."

Tuesday, November 13, 2018

Storytelling and Communication

Over the weekend, The Frisky Pagan put on an impromptu writing clinic over at his blog, The Emperor's Notepad. And when he ponders, he ponders deeply. Of particular note are his first three days.

On the 9th, he tackles what he calls "Deep POV"--or a strict, character-locked version of the limited third-person point of view:
I believe that what defines [deep POV] is something that doesn’t appear in any of its definitions, it’s something that is implied but not acknowledged, an unintended consequence: killing the narrator as an independent character and observers. In other words, no text will be written unless it’s perceived or processed through some character’s (deepish or not) POV. I don’t believe deepness is really the point here; it’s that the narrator disappears as an independent character.
On the 10th, first-person narrators:
I became very aware of that when I found myself reading a story, I think it was a short story but it could have been a novel, an urban fantasy I believe, with a first-person, past-tense narrator. The narrator was in the middle of a car chase and did all sort of cool stuff, very detailed cool stuff, and I thought, this is it, that’s what is wrong with these stories: there’s no way anybody could remember all that. 
All these first-person narrators have an eidetic memory. They keep pointing out the people’s shoe colors, or that they were fiddling with their cuffs, or that their own eyebrows arched at a precise microsecond… And this is supposed to be someone telling you his personal story, his life, perhaps years later after the fact? It’s not, of course, it’s just a traditional third-person narration with the pronouns switched.
And on the 11th, the traditional method vs. the traditional wisdom of story openings:
Now, I’m not saying this will make me throw out the book, but you notice the difference, right? All the older books start by setting the scene, the setting, even the plot… contemporary fiction starts by telling you someone you know nothing about leans to one side of his chair.  
Although modern fiction tries to imitate movies, if this were a movie, this is not how the movie would start. A movie doesn’t start with a close, very close shot of someone smiling and leaning on his/her chair. It starts with a wider shot of the television set, establishing the scene, telling you it’s not a live interview, THEN you focus on the characters.
In response, Misha Burnett joins in teaching the clinic:
What Emperor X got me thinking about, though, was that there is another side to the fictive conversation. Voice is determined not simply by who is talking, but by whom is being talked to. 
Imagine that you are relating the story of an accident that occurred at your workplace. You are going to tell the story very differently to the police, to your boss, to a coworker who was off that day, and to a friend who knows you, but has never been to your work. 
Even assuming that you tell the absolute truth in all instances, the way you tell the story, which details you include or leave out, how you describe the actions and personalities of the people involved, the order in which you describe the events, all of these things will be determined by the person listening to the you tell the story. 
Hence the “Invisible Character”, the Listener.
Taken together, the blog posts reaffirm the ancient wisdom of communication, that the act of communicating requires a speaker, a message, and an audience. Given that writing has such a separation between the speaker and the audience, it is no surprise that many writers forget about the audience altogether. Many literary novelties are written for the speaker's sake--such as three codas to a story written in the three persons of point of view--and not for the effect on the audience. The faults tackled in these blogs all boil down to writers forgetting about the audience and focusing on the flash of writing, like a metalhead speed freak who can shred through guitar riffs but cannot play a song.

Check out all the articles, there's more gold to be gleaned.

Monday, November 12, 2018

Rest in Peace, Stan Lee.

Beloved comicbook creator Stan Lee has passed on. In memory, here is one of Stan's rants, against "comic books". May he get his wish, and let us all enjoy our favorite Stan Lee comicbook in his memory.

Saturday, November 10, 2018

Anthony Bourdain's Hungry Ghosts

In Anthony Bourdain’s Hungry Ghosts, the celebrity chef and his co-writer, Joel Rose, combine three of Bourdain’s obsessions, food, storytelling, and the legends of Lafcadio Hearn’s Kwaidan, into an anthology homage to EC Comics’ classic horror comics. Despite the five recipes in the the extensive appendix, food here is a garnish, little more than a thin thread running throughout each of the tales of Japanese monsters. In the spotlight is the Japanese bestiary of horror, youkaikappaoni, etc., set loose in more familiar haunts to the reader. And in the best traditions of Japanese wordplay, the title, Hungry Ghosts, is not just an allusion to the food and horror themes, but a reference to a specific type of spirit found in Japanese legend.
It takes more than themes and gimmicks to bind together a horror anthology. Here, Bourdain and Rose rely on the popular Edo-era storytelling game called 100 Candles (or Hyakumonogatari Kaidankai), where participants would gather in a dark room illuminated by 100 candles. Each participant would tell a harrowing tale before extinguishing a candle. Once complete, the storyteller would glance into a mirror to check if they were still human. As the light fades in the room, the stories grow more disturbing. Summoned to this particular test of courage, hosted by a wealthy Russian kingpin, are eight of the world’s best chefs, each with their own Weird Tale.
As mentioned, the nine ghost stories are familiar to Japanese folklore, showcasing youkai (monsters and spirits) of all kinds. Favorite youkai from Kwaidan appear, including the flying heads of the rokurokubi and the snow woman. Each Japanese monster gets shifted in setting to a more Western one, following the tradition of horror and weird tales in moving from the familiar to the strange. The result, paired with the excellent art, adds to the haunting creepiness of each story. And final panel twists turn even the melancholic tale of the snow woman into implied horror. Standouts include “Deep”, a story of kappa and hazing, “The Starving Skeleton”, a story of selfishness and spite, and the traditional “The Snow Woman.” Finally, the hungry ghosts appear, wrapping up their story and the book with a hellish feast.
It is these hungry ghosts, the jikininki of Kwaidan, that reveal the underlying theme of this anthology. Driven by intense emotion into animal frenzy, the youkai of Hungry Ghosts invariably prey on men and women who have allowed their urges to turn themselves into animals. The Seven Deadly Sins are showcased here, luring the proud, the glutton, the lustful, and the wroth to their destruction at the hands of monsters. Given Bourdain’s involvement in the recent #MeToo movement, several of his tales dealing with revenge against sexual predations might appear linked to current events. The vengeance meted out in each story is timeless and always tied into the actions of the doomed, not to the whims of 2017 politics–else “Deep”, the kappa’s tale of male hazing in the kitchen straight from Bourdain’s earlier autobiographical works, would not have been included. Unfortunately, “Deep” also reveals a weakness in Bourdain’s comic books. For such a well-traveled author and television host, his three comic books invariably rely on the same set pieces found in Kitchen ConfidentialMedium Raw, and The Nasty Bits.
As a showcase for the art of many of the best horror comics artists, Hungry Ghost features a number of divergent styles. Save for the ukiyo-e influence on the ghostly narrator who, like the Cryptkeeper in EC Comics, opens and closes the book and the manga styling of “The Snow Woman,” the art styles are Western, with traditional American comics, bandes dessinĂ©es, and even newsprint design elements. Rather than glory in the shock of blood and violence, Hungry Ghosts instead keeps the most frightening bits off panel and in the mind’s eye. While a couple stories rely on the gruesome for horror, such as “The Salty Horse”, the artists rely on a number of effects including color palette, contrast, and even panel design to heighten the emotional impact of this book.
With the sheer number of Japanese terms thrown around, it is easy for a reader unfamiliar with the culture to get lost. Fortunately, Hungry Ghosts offers an appendix explaining the 100 Candles game and each of the monsters found within. The charcoal depictions of the youkai are excellent, mimicking those found in classic Japaness youkai books, and in some cases are more terrifying that the depictions in the graphic novel. For the foodies, Bourdain offers five new recipes not found in any of his other cookbooks. With the exception of Tokyo ramen, these all reflect Bourdain’s roots in French cuisine. Those foodies looking for a take as unique on Japanese dishes as Hungry Ghosts is on folklore should instead try David Chang’s Momofuku. Finally, Joel Rose gives a memorial to Anthony Bourdain, revealing that the obsessions with Kwaidan and EC Comics were Bourdain’s.
Foodies might be disappointed with Hungry Ghosts, as the stories are about the ghosts instead of the food. But for those looking to recover a bit of the dark moody danger of folklore, fantasy, and horror from a world increasing making the monstrous familiar, Hungry Ghosts is a welcome collection of weird tales.

Monday, November 5, 2018

Pulp Era Writing Advice from Stan Lee

In 1947's Writer's Digest, Stan Lee, then editor of Timely Comics, writes in his "There's Money in Comics":

One point which I can't stress too strongly is: DON'T WRITE DOWN TO YOUR READERS! It is common knowledge that a large portion of comic magazine readers are adults, and the rest of the readers who may be kids are generally pretty sharp characters. They are used to seeing movies and listening to radio shows and have a pretty good idea of the stories they want to read. If you figure that "anything goes" in a comic magazine, a study of any recent copy of Daredevil Comics or Bat Man will show you that a great deal of thought goes into every story; and there are plenty of gimmicks, sub-plot, human interest angles, and the other elements that go into the making of any type of good story, whether it be a comic strip or a novel.

Thursday, November 1, 2018

Beyond Honor

David Weber's Honor Harrington series started from the simple conceit of Horatio Hornblower in Space and grew into one of science fiction's few pillar series, critically and commercially successful in a time where most science fiction readers are turning towards the classics instead of the contemporary. Over nineteen books, the crucible of constant war tempered the charismatic Honor Harrington from a tentative ship's captain on her first command in peacetime into the fiery Salamander of Manticore, the fearsome fleet admiral found fighting where the battles raged hottest.

While many space navy adventures tend to follow the adventures of a Captain Kirk-expy, Honor Harrington, as significant as her shipboard prowess may affect history, is but one woman in a cast of hundreds that bring both a political and a human scope to the actions on the battlefield. Clearly demonstrating how politics, technology, and war influence and affect each other, Weber places his heroine in the center of many revolutions drawn from historical analogues, including the French Revolution, the Napoleonic Wars, the naval Dreadnought revolution, and the crusade against slavery. Furthermore, Weber blended Hornblower with modern command practices, ending a fascination of many Hornblower copycats with insubordination and Churchill's description of the Royal Navy's traditions as "rum, sodomy, and the lash." Honor Harrington is a true science fiction epic, spanning the Salamander's full command career and a quarter of the galaxy, through triumph, setback, hubris, and tragedy.

In Uncompromising Honor, Weber brings his epic to a conclusion. Weighing in at 961 pages, this final doorstopper will give military SF readers much to chew on. But when the final page is turned, two questions remain for the naval science fiction fan: what's next for the Star Empire of Manticore, and what to read next? Only Weber knows the answer to the first, but for the avid reader searching for more in the vein of Honor, consider a trio of suggestions.

Monday, October 29, 2018

Brandon Barr

Folks, please read this entire post. Don’t skim it. This is important.
These are the words of my friend and fellow author, Brandon Barr, as written this past week in his final days as his body is ravaged by leukemia:
“Fantasy fiction is a blessing in that it allows authors to tell heroic stories that WE need to hear. We may sit in an office chair half the day, or be stuck in traffic, or need to get groceries, or this or that; but fantasy fiction touches deep into something that humans long for. That under our suits and ties or tee-shirt and jeans, we have a hero or heroine inside of us. They may be timid, but this heroic person inside of us is an admirer of fantasy stories where they can identify with the characters, root and cheer for them, and in some cases, want to be them (even if the going is very difficult). We long to fix the world by going on a quest, or throwing the One Ring into Mount Doom, or playing out some great prophetic role like Paul Atreides in Frank Herbert’s sci-fi fantasy classic, Dune.”
Who among us could find the strength to write such hopeful and inspiring words in our final moments while suffering from such a terrible and painful disease?
Brandon. That’s who. And he’s been doing it for years.
The first three books of his Song of the Worlds series are now available on Amazon, beginning with Rise of the Seer. Certainly, please go get the books, but first I’d like to tell you a bit about them, and a bit about Brandon.
The story is brilliant: two women from distant enchanted worlds, bound together by prophecy and destiny. Huge stakes, deeply developed characters, war, heroism, magic… a true epic in every sense of the word – but what’s even more remarkable is that these books have been written while Brandon has been literally fighting for his life. If you know anyone with this disease, you already know: it’s a toss up what is more painful; the disease itself or the treatments… and the physical pain is only one part of the equation. Brandon has a wife and three young boys, and since 2015, he has had two bone marrow transplants, and has gone back and forth repeatedly between being in complete remission and on the brink of passing away. Just this February a biopsy showed NO signs of leukemia, and the battle seemed won. But the leukemia returned with a vengeance last month, and now he is out of treatment options.  He is still with us for now (we love you Brandon!) but, tragically, his time is short.
Throughout this hellish rollercoaster ride, Brandon has been writing, and in his work, he explores that single most pressing, existential question we all ponder: why?  If there is a God, why does He allow such suffering to exist? In Rise of the Seer, through his character Winter’s eyes, we see Brandon’s poignant and personal exploration of the struggle with faith and doubt. We see Aven’s fear for those he loves; an allegorical representation of the fear Brandon carries for his own family’s security after he’s gone. We see Meluscia’s search for unknowable answers to timeless questions, and her struggle for peace amidst the recognition of her own shortcomings.
More than simply being entertaining, these books are a true window into the soul and mind of a beautiful man, husband, and father who is facing his own pain, doubt, and mortality with courage, grace, and poise. If you’re a fantasy reader, or if these questions are important in your own journey through life, you absolutely must read these books. Rise of the Seer is just 99 cents right now, and free on Kindle Unlimited. The next two books are available for pre-order as well.
For more information on how to support Brandon Barr and his family, as well as his books, go to Epic Fantasy Fanatics.

Thursday, October 25, 2018

Log Horizon

The alternative world genre of isekai overflows with the adventures of teens questing through fantasy worlds that blend video game and Western fantasy tropes. While most of these tales escape the server farms and silicon gates of actual MMO games for divinely-crafted fantasy worlds, a few return to the central premise of modern isekai:
What would it be like to live inside a video game?
Most Japanese litRPG anime and light novels are aimed at an early teen audience, following eighth-grade protagonists through simple power fantasies. But what adventures might await the adults who form a majority of the MMO player base?
Log Horizon, the multi-media franchise based on the light novels by Mamare Touno, takes up the challenge, simultaneously delivering a World of Warcraft/EverQuest-inspired game world that, for once, resembles current MMO gameplay while challenging its characters with the social quandaries and responsibilities that twenty-something adults encounter. By eliminating the hoary convention of death in the game world resulting in death in real life, Log Horizon forces the players to deal with each other and the inhabitants of the world. The result is a richer story absent of the false drama caused by player death.
For twenty years, the MMO Elder Tales has been the most popular and ambitious MMO, eclipsing even World of Warcraft in its player base. As Elder Tales’ twelfth expansion, Homesteading the Noosphere, rolls out, a socially awkward engineering graduate student known as Shiroe finds himself trapped inside the game along with hundreds of thousands of players worldwide. As the trapped players struggle to adapt to the new reality inside Elder Tales, a growing malaise, poor food, and decaying relations with the non-player characters known as The People of the Land cloud the game world. Together with his friends Naotsugu and Akatsuki, Shiroe sets out to rekindle hope and create a place that the gamers can call home. The end to this quest will not be found at the bottom of a raid dungeon.
While Log Horizon is best known over here for the anime, manga and light novel versions exist as well. Yen Press is publishing an excellent English translation of the light novels, with the latest scheduled for English release in January 2019. Since such a tale of alliances can leave a cast sprawling and characterization thin, two manga spin-off series cover the adventures of guilds allied with Shiroe, The West Wind Brigade and Honey Moon Logs.
Log Horizon’s characters come from the full sweep of MMO players, including busy professionals blowing off steam, the chronically ill who find in gaming worlds to explore that are otherwise denied them, and the introverts, the socially awkward, and the wounded hearts which find socializing in gaming easier than real life. Shiroe is a renowned master strategist among the player base, seeking the most harmonious path through the entangling politics, but he is vexed by his own doubts and the nagging suspicion that most people only show interest in him to mooch from his talents. Because of these doubts, Shiroe tends to withdraw from polite society and potential sources of social conflict, such as player guilds. But to protect his friends and adopted hometown from the perils of the new Elder Tales world, including other players, Shiroe has to steer into situations he once avoided, and use his considerable talents for someone other than himself. Fortunately, he is backed by his longtime companion, Naotsugu, a cheerful skullcracker in Elder Tales and a successful salesman in the real world. The brawn to Shiroe’s brain, Naotsugu also thrives in the social circles Shiroe would rather avoid. Too bad Naotsugu’s occasional bouts of exuberant immaturity often undermine his successes. While university student and avid role-player Akatsuki is the mascot character for Log Horizon, she is also a highly competent ninja who is also plagued by insecurity caused by her short stature. Practically invisible to all but children, she desperately wants to fit into an adult society that is denied her in the real world, but is unsure of how. Likewise, each member of the tangled mesh of guilds that Shiroe calls on for his schemes carries both success and burden. Unfortunately, the sheer scope of the intrigues does not always allow for the characterization of these conflicts of self to be painted in anything other than broad strokes.
Compared to the exuberance of moe shows, the character designs are less exaggerated and more refined, depicting a wide range of ages without resorting to the old trope of depicting all adults, including university students, as late middle-aged or older. The teen supporting characters are depicted with an awkward earnestness missing from the age-of-consent fantasies cluttering isekai and anime.
By the way, whoever at Sentai Filmworks it was that turned the gentlemanly swashbuckling cat Nyanta from an infestation of meow puns into the gamer version of Lando Calrissian needs a raise.
The litRPG genre can be daunting to outsiders. Log Horizon attempts to ease the audience into the complexity of an MMO. The rules of the world encourage Shiroe and the gamers to use the menus and obvious gaming controls as little as possible. The best results come when players actually use their bodies to swing swords and craft items instead of relying on menus. This all but eliminates the rules crunch that turns off many from litRPGs, leaving only trappings such as HP and MP as occasional reminders of the game. The few times MMO mechanics such as the eternal nature of the player characters intrude on the story, they become actual plot points instead of distractions. MMO encounters and strategy, such as threat, taunting, roles, groups, dungeons, and raids, are explained at an introductory level, necessary for non-gamers, but remedial for the gamers that Log Horizonappeals to. However, the MMO stylings exist only to provide a framework for the intrigues and alliances necessary for Shiroe’s plans.
But what sets Log Horizon apart from its light novel and anime contemporaries is in how it deals with its setting. A survey of isekai light novels will quickly reveal that the genre is dominated by burned out salaryman nostalgia for high school or the attempts of the socially awkward to recast their high school experiences into how they think high school should have been. (Western YA is also plagued by the same backwards-looking approach and suffers as a result.) This creates YA books aimed at adults instead of teens, often filled with age-inappropriate humor and outright fetishes. Log Horizon instead provides a more aspirational approach. In articles covering her Rachel Griffin YA series, L. Jagi Lamplighter pointed out the children and even adults don’t want to read stories about people their age and younger, but instead devour stories of the next stage in life. Log Horizon exemplifies this idea in a rare story revealing the responsibilities and expectations of young professionals to high school and university students. As leaders in the evolving order in Elder Tales, Shiroe and his friends exhibit the leadership, mentorship, composure, bravery, selflessness, and sound judgement expected from adults, channeled into the admirable goals of protecting the weak, preserving the peace, and promoting the greater good. Shiroe’s machinations are designed to benefit all parties involved, rather than indulging the blatant self-interest seen in many teenage power fantasies. But to fit within the emerging society, Shiroe, Akatsuki, and many of the other characters have to overcome doubts, misgivings, and fears to rise to the challenges. And when they fail, they pick themselves up and try again. This is not accomplished through overt messaging, but demonstrated through action and consequence. The selfish, cowardly, and rash cause chaos, while the selfless, brave, and deliberate earn a hard-won peace. And, most importantly, being an adult is fun and desirable.
And that is a rare sentiment in an entertainment world increasingly flooded with the adventures of adults who want to be teens.

Tuesday, October 23, 2018

Kwaidan: Of a Mirror and a Bell


Pre-Tolkien Short Story Challenge
Bond groaned. 'Spare me the Lafcadio Hearn, Blofeld!' -- Ian Fleming, You Only Live Twice

After reading "Of a Mirror and a Bell", found in Hearn's Kwaidan (Ghost Stories), Bond might be protesting too much. Hearn's collection of Japanese legends, written months before his death, has been highly influential, influencing many Weird Tales authors, including Manly Wade Wellman, and Japanese culture as well. Kwaidan holds the first appearance of the legendary yuki-onna (snow woman), a favorite monster in Japanese popular fiction. And four of its tales became the basis for the Oscar-winning film Kwaidan.

But reading from Kwaidan is different than most fairy tales and fantasies. Rather than make up his own tales, Hearn, an Irish writer who stopped in New Orleans before emigrating to Japan, collected many oral tales from around Japan and published them. The result is a set of unembellished stories that might read thin on the page, but are utterly riveting when read out loud, like many early collections of oral traditions. Over time, these tales have been rewritten and embellished by other authors, but they lose the stark focus of the recorded oral tale. Hearn preserves this and provides cultural explanations to explain to English audiences what is happening in the tale.

"Of a Mirror and a Bell" is two stories bridged by an explanation of sympathetic magic. The first story, found elsewhere as The Bell of Mugen, tells of the making of a bell some 900 years ago. The local temple wanted to make a bell and asked for donations of bronze mirrors. A young woman gave her cherished bronze mirror, then regretted it. Because her gift-giving was not pure, the mirror would not melt. Out of shame--and bullying by the town--the young woman killed herself, but placed a blessing upon the bell. Whoever struck the bell and broke it would become rich. Tired of the near constant ringing of the bell, the priests threw it into the swamp.

Hearn then pauses and explains a tradition similar to the voodoo doll in Japan. Using similar magic, many would try to break a small brass basin and get the blessing for breaking the buried bell. Some actually succeed and get a significant portion of wealth, enough to be immortalized in song. But one couple finally wins the full blessing, and the woman's ghost appears to have over a cup--

Hearn ends this legend with an unfinished tale of a likely not-blessing delivered by the woman's ghost herself. Some think the unmentioned treasure was money or jewels. Knowing youkai, it was likely something horrific. But Hearn won't say.

The retellings omit these later tales, as well as the mirror woman's shame and suicide. This results in a story cleaned up for kiddies, but also one robbed of the horror and sympathy found in Hearn's version. Living in Ireland and New Orleans prior to moving to Japan, Hearn was familiar with the strange and foreboding, with the Gothic in a way last seen in Weird Tales. Losing this familiarity has robbed much of horror and legend of its impact.

It must also be mentioned that Hearn was a major translator of the renowned French writer Guy de Maupassant. I might add a fourth writer to this triad of the challenge, just to see if and how the master's work affected Hearn's--beyond the economy of style, that is.

In short, Hearn's ghost stories read like legends, but until you read multiple versions side by side, it is difficult to see how less is more.

Wednesday, October 17, 2018

The Bleak Shore

“Now I have heard tell that death sometimes calls to a man in a voice only he can hear. Then he must rise and leave his friends and go to whatever place death shall bid him, and there meet his doom. Has death ever called to you in such a fashion?” 
Fafhrd might have laughed, but did not. The Mouser had a witty rejoinder on the tip of his tongue, but instead he heard himself saying: “In what words might death call?” 
“That would depend,” said the small man. “He might look at two such as you and say the Bleak Shore. Nothing more than that. The Bleak Shore. And when he said it three times you would have to go.”

“The Bleak Shore.” With a third mention of this strange land, Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser leave Lankhmar on a red-sailed sloop, braving wave and storm to arrive at the cursed land. As the months grow long, the city believes the two men to be dead, but the last of Fafhrd’s Mingol crew turns up in the city, spreading tales of their journey.
At the far end of the Bleak Shore’s bonefield, a voice greets Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser. “For warriors, a warrior’s doom.” Then armored beasts rise from the sands…
One of the shortest stories in Fritz Leiber’s classic Swords Against Death, “The Bleak Shore” is one of the most memorable, hooking readers instantly with Death’s call to action. While the plot is a stripped down version of what we’ve seen before in , where Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser are hypnotized into some strange adventure and escape due to the Mouser’s keen eye, the mood utterly captivates. Starting with Death’s eerie introduction and summons, to the slave sailor’s spooky sea tale, and, finally, the battle on the beach, each scene builds up the dread that Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser might not return. While the Mingol sailor’s sea story might violate the well-worn adage, “show, don’t tell,” the extra distance it places between the readers and Fafhrd and the Mouser only heightens the aloofness inflicted by whatever spell compels them. Not only that, but the contrast between the safe passage through the storms on the way to the Bleak Shore compared havoc wreaked as Mingol and his sailors try to escape the cursed shore amplifies the suspense created by the ominous knowledge that someone wanted Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser to arrive. It is good to know the rules of storytelling, but it is better to when to break them for effect.
After five stories full of mesmerized characters, Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser need to do something about their willpower saves.

Monday, October 15, 2018

The White Road

A poem from Weird Tales in 1928, and a reminder that many pulp writers were also poets:

The White Road, by Manly Wade Wellman

The desert is dun at the noon of day
And sable at noon of night;
At dawn and at dusk it is silver-gray
But the caravan route is white.
Across the sand
Like a pallid band,
The caravan route is white.


The traveler's face is drawn and pale
And he prays beneath his breath;
For the bones of Dead Things fill the trail
Like the road to the gates of Death.
Instead of stones
It is paved with bones,
Like the road to the gates of Death.


The men of Egypt, the men of Rome,
The men of many a land
Lay down to die far away from home
On the road through the weary sand.
They died, and each
Left his bones to bleach
On the road through the weary sand.


Men turn from the path when daylight dies;
For after the sun is ser
The ghosts of the Dead Things stir and rise
To travel the roadway yet.
Dead beasts and men
Are alive again,
To travel the roadway yet.


The desert is dun at the noon of day
And sable at noon of night;
At dawn and at dusk it is silver-gray
But the caravan route is white.
The silent dead
Build a road of dread--
The caravan route is white.

Sunday, October 14, 2018

How I Write, by Norvell Page

Norvell Page is best known for the adventures of pulp hero The Spider, but he also wrote science fiction, sword and sorcery, and even dabbled in the spicies. In the midst of the Great Depression, Page became a millionaire thanks to his high output and penchant for weird menace. In 1935, Page was asked to contribute an article on the nuts and bolts of writing. Here is Norvell Page's response:

by Norvell Page

People who talk of "art for art's sake" annoy me. I did it once myself, but I learned better. I write now for two reasons: because I like to, and because I earn a better living writing fiction for magazine editors than I did working for newspaper editors.

I begin this way to avoid misunderstandings. This is an article about how a writer-for-money produces manuscripts which sell.

I turn out 100,000 to 120,000 words a month for the "pulps"—magazines (so called because they are printed on "wood pulp" paper). These words—the pulp writer always talks of words—because he's paid on a wordage basis—are written as well as I am able to write them. I try constantly to improve the quality, the forcefulness and the keenness of character interpretation in my stories. I spend twice as much time on rewriting as on writing.

To me, these things and pride in my work are art enough . . .

But let's get on with the article.

When the editor asked me for three or four thousand words on "How I Write," I smiled. "I don't know how I write," I told him, "I've been too busy writing to analyze my methods."

The editor chased me to my files, looked over some of the stories I had written, and picked out one.

"Tell me how you wrote this one," he said.

I looked at the carbon copy of the story—I file a carbon copy of every story until I can cut the printed story out of the magazine, then I compare them to see how the editor edited my work. Well, here was the carbon copy, and I looked from it to the wall of my office, where hung the covers of the magazines which illustrate stories I have written. It was there, the illustration that went with this story.

It shows a man hanging from a rope over a bloody pool in which floats a skeleton. To the left, a man in a black robe and a hood is holding a red-headed girl clothed only in a scant yellow sheathe of silk. The hooded man is trying to make the red-headed girl cut the rope and drop the man into the bloody pool. You have an idea it would prove fatal if she did.

I grinned at the editor. "Okay, if that's what you want, you can have it."

* * * *

That story is titled "Dance of the Skeletons" and it's of the pulp type called "Mystery-Horror"; that is, it's about foul deeds which are to make the reader's blood run cold and to keep him guessing as to who actually committed those deeds.

The history of this particular story began one evening when I climbed three steep flights to a Greenwich Village attic and invited a writer friend to visit a new speakeasy with me.

My friend was depressed. He sat before a table on which sheets of manuscript were scattered.

"The editor wants me to cut my sixty-thousand word novel to thirty-six thousand," he said bitterly, "and get it in by next Monday. I've only written ten thousand and I like the plot as it is."

My friend decided he wouldn't cut his story and that he couldn't plot and write another in seven days.

"Mind if I have a shot at it?" I asked. "I've never written for that editor, but I can give him thirty-five thousand words in a week, if that's what he wants."

My friend said morosely, "Go ahead," and the drinks were on me.

They have a saying: When you want trout for breakfast, you first catch your trout. Or maybe it's a bear. The same thing applies to writing. When I began writing, I didn't believe that. I'd see a market note in a writer's magazine that a magazine was buying western (or mystery or what have you) stories of a certain length and I'd sit down and write a story which I thought filled the bill and send it in. I didn't read his magazine first—why should I when my story had to be original? But in those days I didn't sell.

Now, when I want to sell a new magazine, I pick up a market tip, and then buy that magazine and read it from cover to cover, with especial reference to the lead story and the blurbs—the score or so of words that the editor writes at the top of a yarn to sell it to the reader.

When you see a blurb like this:

"Through the fog-choked grayness these horrors prowled. Their faces were pale as the fog itself and even knives could draw from them no blood. Yet it was blood they sought, blood they sucked from their victims' headless corpses . . ."

Well, you get the idea that the editor wants it sca-a-arry.

There's more to it than that, of course. You go through your magazine and find that the editor uses some first person stuff; that he has a woman interest in all his yarns, maybe a bit of sex; that the girl should be in danger from the chief menace of your story—this is what is known as "slant" or "formula." Actually it is what the editor likes or thinks his readers like. When a story has it, he buys it. When it doesn't, it goes back to the author.

Having learned this magazine's "formula," I next sought an idea for a story. A story idea is the most nebulous and elusive thing in the world, yet its acquisition can be simple. I believe it is a matter of habit, of training your mind to think in certain grooves.

It is doubtful if any two writers come by their story ideas the same way. A friend of mine saw a corollary between the song "Smoke Gets In Your Eyes" and the fact that a gangster would talk of "smoking down" an adversary. Another writer went walking and noticed the shadows of people, who passed him, sliding along the pavement. He got a story out of that. I looked out of the window once and noticed the unconscionable number of dogs that clutter the parks of New York. I was seeking a horror story with an overwhelming menace. I thought, "Suppose all those dogs had hydrophobia . . ."

But these are haphazard methods. There are few writers, I believe, who can pull a story out of their brain by staring at a blank wall. Most writers have some system of jotting down ideas. I have a file into which I drop clippings from newspapers, cards on which I have scribbled ideas that occurred to me from time to time, many of which were of no particular use at the time.

This night, when I had finished reading the magazine, I ran through my file. I was looking for some clipping that might suggest horror, that would give me a menace to make the reader's blood run cold. I soon found what I wanted, a typewritten note made after coming home from a motion picture. The movie concerned some lad who had gone up the Amazon for something or another. My note stated that the explorer lowered the carcass of a forty-pound pig into the waters of the river and, forty seconds later, lifted it out a clean white skeleton.

The answer to the stripping of the skeleton was a species of fish known as caribs. The particular type found in the Amazon headwaters are called piranha, and they are cannibals. Only as large as a man's hand, they have remarkably large mouths fitted with a row of razor-like teeth top and bottom.

That much I jotted down after seeing the picture. It was an idea, nothing more. Now, let's see how I maneuvered that into a story. My thoughts ran something like this: I must have a background of terror and mystery. Obviously, these carib fish, operating in the Amazon River, would involve little terror. Furthermore, the solution would be too obvious, hence no mystery either. Then the necessary murders via the caribs must be committed somewhere else, preferably against a city background. So much for locale.

Now then, how shall I use the fish? Obviously, if they are seen at work on the carcasses of the victims, there's no mystery. The point about these fish is the speed with which they work. It becomes apparent then that the maximum of terror would be obtained by converting living men into nice white skeletons within a few minutes, and concealing the method by which this was done. There's the menace decided upon.

Next we turn to motive and the villain. The two are inseparable. The usual resort in terror stories is to devise a "mad scientist" who is making experiments. I've used that. So have thousands of others. It is trite because it is the simplest explanation for unspeakable horrors. Editors don't want it anymore.

I sought frantically for a possible and logical reason for killing people by turning them mysteriously into nice, fresh skeletons (and incidentally, I think motivating stories of this type is the most difficult part of the plotting). My mind flitted to murders for various kinds, torch murders where bodies were soaked in gasoline and burned, murders in which bodies were dismembered and tossed into rivers, . . . ah!

People who commit that kind of murder frequently desire to destroy the identity of the victim. You couldn't do a much more thorough job of hiding identity than by removing all the clothing—and the flesh too. So much for that. Our villain wanted to prevent identification.

But to have the horror of the story to the full, these skeletons must be flaunted in the face of the city, they must appear at the festive board, thud at the feet of the police commissioner entering headquarters. That is obvious intensification.

To motivate such activity, the murderer not only must want to hide the identity of his victims, but he must want publicity for his skeletons. That was rather a tough problem. Also the motive must not be too apparent. That made it tougher. The tip came from the daily newspaper. The stock exchange was fighting Washington over some threatened publicity move. It would ruin the stock market, it was contended, and send shares crashing . . .

This, then, was what I had: The villain feeds his victims to the carib fish because he wants to hide the identity of his victims; he wants publicity for his skeletons also. From the newspaper I learn that publicity harms the value of stocks. Non-sequitur? Well, here's what I worked out of it, though I'll admit the publicity part of it stumped me for a while:

An unscrupulous capitalist who has fallen on hard times sets out to clean up in the stock market by foul means. He kills off certain captains of industry to make the stock of their companies decline. However, mere murder of these men would not depress the stocks. He must contrive to kill them and make it seem they have merely disappeared because the financial condition of their companies is no longer sound. To accomplish this, he kidnaps them and feeds them to carib fish, piranha, which can within a course of minutes eat all the flesh from the bones. The villain then tosses the skeletons in various conspicuous places. By this means, he not only depresses stocks through the mysterious disappearances of leading men, but he distracts the attention of police from the stock market manipulations, by which alone he could be traced. When the skeletons finally are identified, stocks rise again and the villain cashes in both ways. The hero is a detective from a Midwestern city studying New York methods. The girl would be the daughter of a victim, and for a time, a suspect also.

My agent showed the above to an editor who needed a story and he said he'd be glad to see a detailed outline of the novelette.

He'd like to see a detailed outline! Yeah, so would I. There is nothing on earth I hate more than an outline. Some writers never use them, but I find that an outline holds me to the course of my story, keeps me in the right length, helps in a thousand ways. But it's still a job.

I can't compose outlines leaning back on a soft pillow with my eyes closed. I'd go to sleep. I have to sit down at the typewriter and watch the words beaten out by the flying keys. Then my mind works story-wise. The first thing I do is pick my characters. I had already chosen the type of hero, but that was all. I hammered out a character sketch of him, including the old folks back home in the Midwest and the size of his hat. Most of it never was used, but it planted the character firmly in my mind, brought him to life. I never have been able to write a salable story unless the character "comes to life" and actually at some point in the story takes the action out of my hands and runs it himself. And I've found that the spots where that occurs are the best parts of my stories. Or so the editors tell me, without even knowing that those special bits were "inspiration," if you care for the word.

I also did a sketch of the girl, and of the other leading characters I intended to use. Minor characters might be handled the same way. At current word rates, I never had the time to try it.

The next step was to single out the suspects. After that came the brow-wetting labor of digging up detailed information in the library—this time on caribs—figuring out dramatic incidents, and batting the ball around among the suspects. A tried and true device is to throw all the suspicion on one man, then kill him near the end of the story. But when you do that, be sure you have another suspect all ready and waiting to take the burden of suspicion—and don't let him be the guilty man.

I decided to do that, then I sought a dramatic incident to open the story, a scene also that would introduce the leading characters, and the main theme—the Dance of the Skeletons. And, in this case, I couldn't forget the atmosphere. I knew from analyzing the magazine that the editor likes them eerie.

I started "Dance of the Skeletons" in the police headquarters with our hero and his mentor, a hardboiled New York detective, reading a note that invites them to see the skeletons dance. It's a foggy night, etc. Atmosphere. Hero and mentor go to the spot where the skeleton is to dance. An attack in a dark alley, a glimpse of brown-skinned naked men (I brought in the Amazon Indians, too) and finally, in the dark, our hero touches the bones of the skeleton, dangling from the brick wall beside which the two men stand. He flashes on his light and a cold wind brushes them; the skeleton dances!

Back at headquarters, a detective says he has a clue, but refuses to tell what it is. He goes out to follow it—and an hour later, his skeleton is tossed out in front of the police headquarters! And so on. Another skeleton is dumped on the dance floor of a nightclub. The solution—well, it was easy once the thing got underway. The simplest way to carry the fish northward from the Amazon would be a swimming pool, naturally in a private yacht. The villain tortures our hero by lowering him slowly toward the pool of cannibal fish. (See cover illustration.) One gets his toe, that's all, and in the end, the villain himself dies in his own pool of horrors. Our hero tells who else is guilty and how he figured it out and the hero and the girl clinch. Curtain.

That's the outline of the story, and then the hard work starts, the writing of it. Thirty-five thousand words in a week—with deductions of time for outlining, revision and final typing—a finished product ready to go on the editor's desk.



There are some writers making a living in the pulp market today who turn out no more than three thousand words a day. They may or may not send out the story as it falls from the typewriter. I'm the reverse of that. I once turned out 25,000 words in a fifteen-hour day. In pinches, fifteen and sixteen thousand words a day are not unusual for me. I once wrote a draft of a fifty-five thousand word novel in four days.

But these high production days are spurts. No writer living can keep that up long. I knew one who was topping 200,000 words a month—one month he beat 250,000—but he cracked after a while. There came a time when 80,000 was a good month for him. He's made his pile, he says, and doesn't care.

An editor told me that the author of the Shadow stories, which run around 50,000 words each, received an outline for a story on Tuesday and turned in the completed manuscript on Friday.

It's a great life if you don't run out of words.

On my Spider stories, fifty-five thousand lead novels for the magazine of that title which I write monthly under a house name, I have written as many as six different opening chapters, and spent a full day getting the first two thousand words on paper. I may have written eight, ten, twelve thousand in getting those two, and even then, I don't always like them.



I started out to tell you how a writer-for-money produces his stories. I've tried to tell you how I go about it, but after all, this is my private process. It probably doesn't fit the methods of anyone else. I have a friend—one of the three-thousand-word a day men when he's working at it—who never thinks on paper. He reclines, smokes and builds his stories in his mind. He thinks out his sentences beforehand. When he finishes a scene, he stretches out again and dreams over the next scene, even figures out some of the dialogue. And he, too, revises endlessly. That's the way I used to think "authors" worked.

I have another friend who thinks up his plots pacing the floor with quick, springy strides. Now and then he stops and stares up at a corner of the ceiling and suddenly he flings himself at his typewriter like a hungry man at a steak and pounds out his story. But that "plot" was merely an idea. He'll pour the story on paper with only that idea at the start, and turn out as neat a yarn as any writer I know. He swears he doesn't know from one minute to the next what will happen in his story and he'll often leave the last page of a manuscript in his typewriter overnight while he seeks the right ending, the right "tagline." He's the one who burns them out at 2400 words an hour and sells them as they come from his typewriter without revision.

Personally I stand a little in awe of such men. Turning them out that way is one thing, but selling them is quite another and he does that, too. Be damned if I don't think the man is a genius. (And he'll break my neck if he reads this article and finds I said it.)

They tell of another writer who sits before his typewriter in a dark room and writes his story by touch. He sells them to the "slicks."

But these authors all have several things in common. They study the magazines to which they intend to sell; they are close observers of life; they keep files of notes for stories unless they are possessed of exceptionally retentive memories which can recall not only events but actual conversations which occurred years before; they know what they write about, either from experience or research.

May I speak frankly?

I never turned out a story in my life that wasn't plain, hard work. Not that the writing itself wasn't enjoyable. I don't have to sweat out words, or worry about action when my characters "come to life." But somewhere in that story, the work was hard. Getting the idea, working out the outline, revising the copy, trying to get a fast opening that still would carry all the information it should; straining to tell a scene just as I see it in my mind's eye.

That's "how I write." I hadn't analyzed it before, but that's more or less the course on any story, whether it's a four-thousand word short or an eighty-thousand word novel.

Writing for a living is hard work, but I wouldn't trade with any man I know.