Castle of Days (1992) SSC
Page 32
Q: It seems to me that if a person could write successfully, he wouldn’t have to teach.
A: That’s true, but not every teacher teaches because he has to. Many writers enjoy teaching. It’s fun, and it gives them a break from the typewriter. Algis Budrys doesn’t have to teach; but from time to time he gives a course at some college in Chicago. If you live in or around Chicago and you want to write, you’d be smart to take his course.
Q: Have you ever tried teaching?
A: Once. In 1975 I taught a week at the Clarion Writer’s Conference at Michigan State.
Q: Was it fun?
A: Not really, although I did meet three people who have become more or less permanent friends. On the whole, the students were mainly interested in smoking dope and meeting celebrities. I don’t smoke and I’m not a celebrity.
Q: Right. Who were the three people?
A: Lois Metzger, Stan Robinson, and Vic Webb.
Q: Harlan Ellison, Damon Knight, and Kate Wilhelm seem to be great friends of yours, and they teach at Clarion every year. Weren’t you ever asked to come back?
A: Yes, but only after six years, when there was a new faculty advisor.
Q: Did you go?
A: No.
Q: Are you ever going to try teaching again?
A: Perhaps, if I find somebody who wants to learn. Writers tend to think that everybody wants to learn to write. The truth is that very few do, and that most of those who do succeed. Most people don’t care to take the time and trouble, and there’s no reason why they should. I enjoy music, but I don’t plan to learn the violin.
Q: Teaching doesn’t seem to have been much fun for you. Aren’t there other fringe benefits attached to your writing? What about conventions, for example.
A: The good ones are a great deal of fun, yes. But only about 40 percent are good, and you don’t have to be a writer—or even a reader—to go.
Q: I’d hate to spend a hundred bucks or so for a plane ticket and another hundred for two nights in a hotel and get stuck with a bad con.
A: Everybody does.
Q: Isn’t there any way to weed out the bad ones in advance?
A: There’s no sure way. World conventions—Worldcons—are almost always good, but if the Worldcon is your first convention you’re likely to feel lost. Cons being held for the first time are very risky; I wouldn’t advise you to go to one unless it’s close enough to where you live that transportation costs are minimal. If you have friends who go to cons, ask them which ones they enjoyed last year. If you don’t, read the con reports in Locus and SF Chronicle.
Q: I took your advice and went to a convention. I enjoyed it, found a couple of books I’d been looking for for months, and made some new friends. But now I want to write more than ever, and it seemed to me that the professional guest of honor had more fun than anybody.
A: It was Tucker, right?
Q: No, his name was Robert Bloch. He let me have a couple of drinks of his bourbon.
A: Well, anyway, it’s true the pro guest of honor has more fun than (almost) anyone else at a good con; but it’s also true that he has the worst time at a bad one. It’s a disaster and he’s lent his name to it. His name is one of the few things a writer has to sell.
Q: I see what you mean, but isn’t it really his fault if enough people didn’t come? He’s supposed to draw people to the con.
A: No. In the first place, he didn’t select himself—the con committee chose him. They should know who the fans in their area are interested in and would like to meet. In the second, the pro goh is a fairly minor factor in determining attendance. The most important is the amount of publicity the con has received, and that is strictly a function of the con committee. The con’s track record is important too; for example, Boston puts on a good con every year; thousands of people come, no matter who the goh is. In the third place, lack of attendance is only one of many things that can go wrong.
Q: But the guest of honor—the goh, as you call him—gets his transportation and hotel room paid by the committee, doesn’t he? A: He’s supposed to, yes; and if it’s a good convention, he does. (This may be a good place to mention that most conventions have a fan guest of honor as well as a pro; the fan goh’s expenses are customarily paid as well.) If it’s not a good convention, he takes his chances. I have heard that Wilson Tucker once flew a thousand miles or so to be guest of honor at a convention that subsequently stated it was unable to reimburse him. I know that Larry Niven once flew from the Pacific Coast to St. Louis, and discovered when he got there that the convention had been cancelled. Niven, at least, could afford it—he’s a wealthy man. A good many fans who couldn’t afford it came too, and then found they had wasted their money.
Q: From what you’ve said, it seems that being a goh is almost a fifty-fifty risk. Still, I’d like to try it. I’ve already had several good short stories published. What else should I do?
A: Write a good book, or at least a popular book. Go to cons and be witty, but not too witty. Be one of the gang—the same sort of thing you’d do to get ahead at a dentists’ convention.
Q: I’m already trying to write a good book, but that other stuff sounds like what I got into writing to get away from.
A: Then why do you want to be a pro goh?
Q: Despite all you’ve said, I still want to. Is there anything else?
A: I almost forgot, and it’s very important. Publicize your telephone number. At the very least, let everyone know where you live, and have a listed number so that con committees can look you up in the phone book or get your number from Directory Assistance. When fandom started back in the ’30s, it was largely carried on by letter. Today many people on con committees are virtually illiterate.
Q: How did they get into fandom if they can’t read my books and stories?
A: Mostly by watching TV. They got interested in “Star Trek,” “Lost in Space,” “Dr. Who,” or some similar show, then heard about a convention. Many cons have a movie program or run video tapes of old shows or both. These fans enjoyed the con so much that they offered to help with the next one, or with another con scheduled to take place in a few months in another city.
Q: I don’t see anything wrong with that.
A: Neither do I. But these people aren’t your fans, and they never will be. They belong to Mr. Spock and Han Solo.
Q: You mentioned the origin of fandom in the ’30s. I’d like to learn more about that.
A: Get a book called All Our Yesterdays, by Harry Warner, Jr.
Q: I looked in Walden’s and on the paperback rack at the supermarket, but neither of them has it.
A: Go to a con and ask around in the Huckster Room.
Q: Huckster Room?
A: Most cons have them. The con rents table space to book dealers, many of them amateurs just out to make their convention expenses.
Q: Could I do that? I have some books I’d like to sell.
A: If they’re also books somebody would like to buy.
Q: How would I know how much to charge?
A: Go around the room and see what other hucksters charge for similar books.
Q: Let’s get back to writing. It seems to me that it would be fun for a writer to attend a con even if he wasn’t the guest of honor. Don’t you writers get special treatment?
A: Yes, but that’s not always good. Once I received a personal invitation to a convention. They told me they’d give me a free membership—at most cons, that’s as good as it gets, and some won’t even go that far—if I would agree to appear on panels and so forth. I wrote back and said I would do anything they wanted short of going out for ice. When I was at the con, I was literally asked to go out for ice.
Q: You’re kidding.
A: No. I got another personal invitation, from the same individual, for the same con, the following year. That time I was told that if I’d come they would not only give me a membership, they would provide free transportation to and from the airport. I went, but there was no one to meet me.
A: No, I rode the hotel’s shuttlebus. I don’t think any of this was intentional; just carelessness and bad management. The point I’m trying to make is that if I hadn’t been promised special treatment, I would have enjoyed the con much more.
Q: How about the Science Fiction Writers of America? I’ve heard of them, and I’d like to join.
A: You should. You’ll get quite a bit of valuable information that way and make some good contacts. But I warn you, it’s fairly expensive—$40 a year for full, active membership.
Q: I still want to do it; how will I know if they’ll take me?
A: They’ll take you if you’ve had three sf short stories or one sf book published in the U.S.
Q: I live in London. Will they still take me?
A: Yes, but I’m not sure I’d advise you to join. Most of the complaints about SFWA seem to come from the overseas members. Information is sent sea mail to save postage, and often it’s lost or it arrives too late to be of value. SFWA is what its name says—the Science Fiction Writers of America.
Q: I’m still interested. Where can I write for information?
A: Peter D. Pautz, Executive Secretary, 5 Winding Brook Drive, Guilderland, NY 12084 USA.
Q: I’m enthused. Being a member of SFWA should be fun!
A: Only if you enjoy a good fight.
Q: Are there any other organizations I should know about?
A: You might want to look into World SF, c/o Dr. E. A. Hull, 855 S. Harvard Dr., Palatine, IL 60067. It has members in places like Communist China. The Authors Guild lobbies for writers quite effectively and deserves every writer’s support for that reason alone. It also distributes worthwhile information about writing in general. Write to: Authors Guild Inc., 234 W. 44th St., New York, NY 10036 USA. There’s also P.E.N., but you have to be asked to join.
Q: You keep mentioning information, and I suspect that a lot of that’s about marketing and contracts. I’d like to get an agent, and if I do, shouldn’t the agent handle those things for me?
A: Yes. But you should be able to judge whether the agent’s doing a good job.
Q: I know you have an agent, because you mentioned her earlier in this book. How did you get her?
A: She got me. She did me several favors—including telling me I should have an agent, that an agent would make me money, and that she would be happy to represent me.
Q: A big agency in New York has been sending me its literature. Should I go with it?
A: I don’t know.
Q: Is there any other way to get an agent?
A: The best way is to write a book and sell it. When you get the publisher’s letter of acceptance, make a Xerox copy and send it to the agent of your choice with a letter of your own asking him to negotiate the contract. If he won’t take you then, he never will, and you can forget about him.
Q: But won’t I lose 10 percent of the price of my book?
A: No. If the agent is any good at all, he’ll get you more money and retain rights worth much more than the 10 percent that you would otherwise have lost. A good agent will make you money, as well as taking part of the workload of writing off your back.
Q: I’ve heard that some agents charge 15 percent. Are they really worth 50 percent more than the ones who charge 10?
A: No.
Q: I’ve also heard that some agents charge reading fees to unpublished writers. Should I pay them?
A: An editor will read your book or story for nothing.
Q: But editors don’t say why they didn’t like my work.
A: I will tell you. If they are magazine editors, they did not like it because they did not think it would make people buy more copies of their magazine. If they are book editors, they did not like it because they did not think it would make a lot of money for the publishing company that employs them.
Q: But shouldn’t publishers give new writers a break?
A: Publishers have to give new writers a break; old writers die every year.
Q: Someone told me that something called the Thor Power Tool Decision makes it harder for new writers to get published.
A: In my opinion it doesn’t, but it makes it harder for all writers to make money.
Q: What do power tools have to do with writing?
A: A lot, as it turns out. The Thor Power Tool Co. used to keep a warehouse full of parts for their old tools. That way, if someone who owned one of their old tools needed a new part, they could supply it.
Q: That sounds good.
A: Thor thought so too. The reason they were able to do it—pay for the warehouse and so on—was that they depreciated the old parts on their tax return each year. In other words, they said each year that the old parts were worth less than they had been the year before, since they would eventually become completely obsolete and would have to be scrapped.
Q: That sounds reasonable.
A: The IRS didn’t think so. They said that if Thor wanted to write them off, they had to scrap all of them right away. Thor fought the case in court and lost. The IRS then applied the decision to every other kind of business, including book publishing.
Q: Publishers don’t warehouse old parts.
A: No, but they warehouse old books, and they had been writing them off in the same way, because they would eventually have to be pulped when they stopped selling. Now they have to pulp them, or remainder them, right away.
Q: What do you mean, right away? They don’t pulp them as soon as they publish them, do they?
A: You’re right, that was poorly phrased. What I should have said was “after the initial sale.” Hardcover publishing works on a six-month cycle. At the end of winter, the publisher brings out his spring list, and his salesmen go around to the bookstores and try to persuade them to order the books. At the end of summer, he brings out his fall list, and the salesmen do the same thing for it. It used to be that when the fall list came out, the spring list books were stored, and sold whenever an order came in. Often a book would sell 20 or 30 copies a month that way for years. Now those books are destroyed or remaindered, because the profits from selling 20 a month won’t pay the storage costs for the rest.
Q: If my book is remaindered, I don’t get royalties, do I?
A: Bingo!
Q: Would it do any good to write my congressman?
A: Yes. Bills aimed at reversing the Thor Power Tool Decision have been introduced in both the House and the Senate. But it’s better to telephone.
Q: Would my congressman talk to me—just one voter—on the telephone?
A: He’d better, or he won’t be a congressman long. Many congressional elections are decided by less than a thousand votes.
Q: Wait a minute! I’m a taxpayer. Won’t reversing the Thor Power Tool Decision mean that rich companies like Thor and Simon & Schuster will pay less, and I’ll have to pay more?
A: No. Thor and Simon & Schuster and the other companines are paying less tax now. They used to make some profit selling old parts and old books; now they don’t make it, so they don’t pay tax on it.
Q: Wait a minute again. I often buy remaindered books—I like getting a $12 hardcover for $1.98. If the Thor Power Tool Decision is reversed, won’t there be fewer remaindered books for me to buy?
A: Does the store where you buy your remaindered books have as many as they used to?
Q: No, come to think of it, they don’t. They’ve taken out a couple of remainder tables and put in shelves of new books. Even the tables that are left aren’t all real remainders now, there are a lot of cheap reprints for $5.95 or so. I’ve complained to the manager about it.
A: It won’t do any good. Knowing that they’ll have to remainder (or pulp) just about everything after the initial sale, publishers have cut their print runs. There are fewer remaindered books now than there used to be.
Q: Every other writer I ever talked to has griped about publishers; you seem to like publishers and bookstores.
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A: I recognize that writers, publishers, and bookstores depend on one another. Publishing, as a business, was invented by booksellers in order to create books for them to sell. That in turn created professional writing—Grub Street—by making it possible for a writer to live by his pen. If bookstores or publishers go down, they’ll drag writing down with them.
Q: Gee, I was looking forward to bad-mouthing publishers.
A: Go ahead. They all deserve it from time to time. Besides, they’re used to it, and you ought to hear what they say about writers. Q: You said that conventions aren’t much fun, even if you’re guest of honor— A: Especially if you’re guest of honor.
Q: And SFWA isn’t much fun, and in fact that all the things I’d thought I’d enjoy when I became a writer aren’t much fun. Don’t you enjoy anything about it?
A: It’s the only thing I really like to do.
Q: The only thing?
A: Outside of the normal human functions—eating, sleeping, and so forth.
Q: Okay. “So forth,” I like that. What do you like about it? Writing, I mean.
A: Doing it. Creating something. Cashing the checks. Talking to people who have really enjoyed reading what I’ve written. Reading their letters.
Q: How about reviews and stuff like that?
A: Sure, but we’re getting ahead of ourselves—that belongs in the next essay.
The Castle of the Otter
In March 1978, Virginia Kidd—my agent—asked, “Not to push you, but just to express cheery interest: how is the trilogy coming?” With an archness that now appalls me, I answered, “The three-decker is running before the trades under all plain sail, but seems unlikely to make port east of Christmas Island.”
(The basic reference in that mishmash is to Kipling’s poem “The Three-Decker,” which likens a three-volume novel to a three-decker sailing ship. The “trades” are the trade winds, and in the publishing trade, hardcover books that are not textbooks or such-like garbage are called trade books. Christmas Island is an actual island in the Indian Ocean.)
As the astute reader will already have noted, Virginia and I were still thinking in terms of a trilogy, although I, at least, must already have been growing uneasy with the idea. On April 8, I wrote: “Virginia, I need some advice. Please read this carefully and tell me what you think in some detail. I am not quite finished with the second draft of the second volume of The Book of the New Sun. From what I can tell at this time, it looks as if both the first two volumes will end up somewhere between 350 and 400 pp. (Vol. I runs 384 in second draft; that should change very little in final draft. I now have 345 pp of the second draft of Vol. II, and I estimate that there are about 25 more pages to go, for a total of about 370 pp.) I normally figure 250 words to the page, which would make each book about 94,000 words; that seems to me to be a good length.