Grumbles From the Grave

by Robert A. Heinlein

  Then the galley proofs on Stranger in a Strange Land arrived and that killed three days of the time of each of us; it's a long book. Ginny has just taken them to the post office and I am now writing to you a letter that should have gone days ago.

  May 20, 1962: Robert A. Heinlein to Lurton Blassingame

  The new kittens are two weeks old and fat and healthy. A hawk or an owl got Ginny's ducks.

  April 17, 1964: Robert A. Heinlein to Lurton Blassingame

  No more news here, save that Shammie, immediately following the adoption of her latest litter last Sunday, at once went out and set a new crop—so we should have more kittens ca. 17 June. A busy body, that one—thirty-one kittens so far and she has just turned five.

  August 16, 1967: Robert A. Heinlein to Lurton Blassingame

  Both Ginny and I are temporarily physically debilitated and emotionally depressed; we lost our little tomcat. He has been gone one week now and must be assumed to be dead. It is barely possible that he is out tomcating after some female and living on the land—but it is extremely unlikely. Two or three days, yes—a full week, no. A bobcat, a fox, a raccoon, an automobile. Sure, he was just a cat and we have lost cats many times before. But, for the time being, it hurts and keeps us from sleeping and leaves us emotionally unstable. Ginny continues to work hard, although she is not sleeping at all well—me, I'm so damned short on sleep that I can hardly type and can't concentrate.

  PROBLEMS

  December 18, 1950: Robert A. Heinlein to Lurton Blassingame

  The novelette I planned to write as soon as the Puddin' story (enclosed) for Senior Prom was out of the way has been jeopardized by the headlines as it has a historical tie-in which calls for World War III holding off for a little while at least. I am shelving it and will start immediately on the next boys' novel for Scribner's—and I'll write it so that the above point is not material! I will complete it as rapidly as possible because of those same headlines. A purely personal and selfish note in the present turmoil is that I need, somehow, to complete this [Colorado Springs] house as rapidly as possible so that I will be ready for whatever comes. Mrs. Heinlein may be called up at any time; she has already received correspondence about it—and one married female reservist here in town has already been called up ahead of her husband, so that we know the threat is real. I myself must have a minor operation before I can possibly pass the physical examination, but I hope to be able to get around to that before very long. Two of my brothers are now in uniform and the third is likely to be called up soon—and I might as well get ready for anything. In the meantime, I intend to turn out copy and lots of it as long as possible.

  April 7, 1951: Robert A. Heinlein to Lurton Blassingame

  Just at present any proposed work brings a feeble response. I am in a very rundown condition and have been and may still be on the ragged edge of nervous breakdown. I had purposed spending a couple of months or a bit more supervising the completion of my house, doing some of the work myself as a therapeutic measure, then when finished, taking a look at the war news and making up my mind as to whether I was morally obligated to go at once back into laboratory work rather than continue with writing. Ginny is in reserve; if and when she gets called up, I don't want to be tangled in contracts I can't shuck off—I want to be in research that will help to win the war as quickly as possible and thereby bring her home again. (I myself cannot possibly pass the physical exam; laboratory work is all I'm good for.)

  March 1, 1953: Robert A. Heinlein to Lurton Blassingame

  . . . We are all well again—even the cat, as I finally got the big black tomcat that had been beating him up. Ginny woke me one morning and said that the black tom was out front. I hurried into robe and slippers, loaded my Remington .380 pistol, and went out. Got him with the first shot, fortunately, as he was moving and I wouldn't have gotten a second. Had him buried and was back in bed in under twenty minutes. A sad task, but Pixie was so crippled up that I don't think he could have survived another beating—and I prefer my own cat to a feral one.

  October 8, 1953: Robert A. Heinlein to Lurton Blassingame

  I tried to keep the letter factual in tone; if undue emotion has crept into it, you may charge it off (this is private to you) to the fact, among others, that ---- without consulting us, gave us as financial references all around Colorado Springs—and that Ginny was annoyed by telephone calls demanding to know when ---- was going to settle her bills. And other matters better left unsaid.

  December 11, 1964: Robert A. Heinlein to Lurton Blassingame

  We have a new phone number—UNLISTED—so please write it down here and there. Ginny has wanted this for years to put a stop to fan calls at all hours. I must admit the quiet is welcome.

  (221)

  Robert and Virginia with Arthur C. Clarke in Sri Lanka.

  January 9, 1968: Robert A. Heinlein to Lurton Blassingame

  I am returning Art Clarke's article as you asked in your note on the face of it. I take it that Spectorsky's [a Playboy editor] request was made to you this time rather than direct to me. He makes this request of me almost every month; I have long since quit answering these little notes. The first one was several years ago and concerned a short story by Fred Brown—quite a good one and I wrote a nice plug for it, which Spec published.

  It was a mistake; I should have ignored it. I've been bombarded with similar requests ever since. Quite aside from the time such free work would require, correspondence is the bane of my existence and the major interference with my working time; I've no wish to add to it by writing letters to editors. And it is indeed "free work" that Spec wants; he is soliciting unpaid reviews from well-known writers.

  But, hell, I might go along with it if that were all there is to it—Playboy is a number one market and it wouldn't hurt me to grease Spec a bit. But here is the trouble: I will not under any circumstances write anything unfavorable about any of my colleagues—and some of the stuff Spec asks me to comment on stinks. This one by Art Clarke is a dilly.

  But the last request concerned a story by ----. I'm on good terms with ---- and intend to stay that way—but, had I written in as ---- asked me to, the letter would have read: "Dear Spec, You should be ashamed to have printed it and ---- should be ashamed of having written it."

  So what should I do, Lurton? Pick out only the ones I can honestly praise and ignore the others? Or do as I have been doing and never comment on the work of my colleagues?

  CHAPTER XIV

  STRANGER

  (223)

  Stranger in a Strange Land became one of the most influential novels of our century. Heinlein began sketching out the idea for Stranger in 1949, but it took him until 1961 to be satisfied enough to write it.

  Valentine Michael Smith is the only survivor of the first expedition to Mars. He is brought up by Martians, knowing nothing of Earth's culture, but well-educated in Martian ways by the ancient and wise race there. Now the second expedition has found him and returned him to Earth. He has never seen another man—or a woman.

  He is confined to a hospital at first. But a nurse frees him and takes him to wise old Jubal Harshaw, where he quickly learns and adapts. There he demonstrates Martian powers—making things or people vanish, levitation, transmutation, etc. He makes all there his "water brothers" and teaches them to "grok." Then he sets out to bring his message to all, through what seems to be a new religion.

  Some object. He is fatally shot. But he has learned on Mars to survive after his body dies, as he proves.

  June 20, 1952: Robert A. Heinlein to Lurton Blassingame

  I am writing every day but, frankly, the copy stinks. This novel may involve several rewrites, followed by a decent burial.

  Editor's Note: In early 1949, Robert was searching for a theme for the short story "Gulf" which he had promised to John Campbell. During the course of the discussions, I suggested to him that it be a story about a human being raised from infancy to maturity by a race of aliens. This notion arrested him, but he thought it an idea whi
ch required more room than a short story afforded. However, he went into his study and wrote for some hours—fourteen single-spaced pages, mostly questions to be answered. That was the beginning of Stranger in a Strange Land.

  July 16, 1952: Robert A. Heinlein to Lurton Blassingame

  Yes, I am still having trouble with that novel. Trouble is all that I am having—with the story itself and trouble with my surroundings. I have lost almost a month to houseguests, Arthur C. Clarke followed by the [George O.] Smiths—and now we are about to spend a week in Yellowstone and Sun Valley, leaving tomorrow. I could cancel this trip, but there are reasons why it is desirable not to cancel it. Furthermore I hope that a few days away from a constantly ringing phone will help me to straighten out this novel in my mind. (Sometimes I think that everyone in the country passes through Colorado Springs in the summer!) When I get back, I expect to have to go to the hospital for another operation. All in all, entirely too many days this year have been eaten by the locusts. My intentions have been good. I have not been idle—far from it! But I haven't accomplished much.

  The story itself is giving me real trouble. I believe that I have dreamed up a really new S-F idea, a hard thing to do these days—but I am having trouble coping with it. The gimmick is "The Man from Mars" in a very literal sense. The first expedition to Mars never comes back. The second expedition, twenty years later, finds that all hands of the first expedition died—except one infant, born on Mars and brought up by Martians. They bring this young man back with them.

  This creature is half-human, half-Martian, i.e., his heredity is human, his total environment up to the age of twenty is Martian. He is literally not human, for anthropology has made it quite clear that a man is much more the product of his culture than he is of his genes—or certainly as much. And this Joe wasn't even raised by anthropoid apes; he was raised by Martians. Among other things, he has never heard of sex, has never seen a woman—Martians don't have sex.

  He has never felt full earth-normal gravity. Absolutely everything about Earth is strange to him—not just its geography and buildings, but its orientations, motives, pleasures, evaluations. On the other hand, he himself has received the education of a wise and subtle and very advanced—but completely nonhuman—race.

  That's the kickoff. From there anything can happen. I have tried several approaches and several developments, none of which I am satisfied with. The point of view affects such a story greatly, of course—universal, first person, third person central character, third person secondary character, first person secondary character narrator—all have their advantages and all have decided drawbacks. A strongly controlling factor is the characteristics and culture of the Martian race—I started out using the Martians in Red Planet. I'm not sure that is best, as they tend to make the story static and philosophic. This story runs too much to philosophy at best; if I make the Martians all elder souls it is likely to lie right down and go to sleep. Affecting the story almost as much is the sort of culture Earth has developed by the time the story opens. After all that comes the matter of how to manipulate the selected elements for maximum drama. And I'm not pleased with any plotting I've done so far. I've messed up quite a lot of paper, have one long start I'll probably throw away and a stack of notes so high.

  If this thing doesn't jell before long I had better abandon it, much as that goes against my personal work rules. I do have about three cops-and-robbers jobs which I can do, one a parallel-worlds yarn and the other two conventional space opera. I don't want to do them; I want to do a big story. But perhaps I should emulate Clarence Buddington Kelland and give the customers what they are used to and will buy, rather than try to surprise them.

  July 18, 1952: Lurton Blassingame to Robert A. Heinlein

  The book idea sounds tremendous, but I can well understand why you would find yourself in difficulties. Put it aside, work on something else, return, and find a new perspective.

  June 10, 1953: Robert A. Heinlein to Lurton Blassingame

  . . . Unfortunately, I cannot report that I have cracked the novel . . .

  The novel is really giving me a lot of trouble. This is the one that I told you about long ago, I believe—a Man-from-Mars job, infant survivor of first expedition to Mars is fetched back by second expedition as a young adult, never having seen a human being in his life, most especially never having seen a woman or heard of sex. He has been raised by Martians, is educated and sophisticated by Martian standards, but is totally ignorant of Earth. What impact do Earth culture and conditions have on him? What impact does he have on Earth culture? How can all this be converted into a certain amount of cops-and-robbers and boy-meets-girl without bogging down into nothing but philosophical speculation? Contrariwise, what amount of philosophizing does it need to keep it from being a space opera with cardboard characters?

  I got so bogged down on it last week that I had decided to shelve it for a year or so, when Stan Mullen [a science fiction author and personal friend] gave me a fight talk and quite a lot of help. Now I am continuing to try to sweat it through. When I get through I will either have nothing at all, or I'll have a major novel. I rather doubt that I will have a pulp serial; it doesn't seem to be that sort of a story. I will continue to sweat on it and you won't get anything else from me for quite a while.

  January 13, 1955: Robert A. Heinlein to Lurton Blassingame

  I am now on page 68 of the draft of A Martian Named Smith, which will be book length and adult—i.e., more sex and profanity than is acceptable in juveniles. I cannot now estimate date of finish-draft as there are some plot kinks I am not yet sure about.

  February 23, 1955: Robert A. Heinlein to Lurton Blassingame

  I am sorry to say the novel aborted last week—two months and 54,000 words of ms. wasted. Ginny says that it cannot be salvaged and I necessarily use her as a touchstone. Still worse, I suspect that she is right; I was never truly happy with it, despite a strong and novel theme. I am, of course, rather down about it, but I have started working on another one and hope to begin a draft in a day or two.

  March 29, 1960: Robert A. Heinlein to Lurton Blassingame

  I finished a draft a couple of days ago of the novel I have been writing and I am still groggy. It is very long (800 pages in its uncut form) and about all I can say about it now is that it is not science fiction and is nothing like anything I've turned out before. I intend to work on it all I possibly can until we leave, then have it smooth-typed while we are out of the country.

  I am utterly exhausted from sixty-three days chained to this machine, twelve to fourteen hours a day. Now I must rest up in preparation for a physically arduous trip . . . while accomplishing a month of chores in two weeks, studying Russian history, politics, and geography so that I will understand some of what I see, and doing my damndest to cut about a third out of this new story. In the meantime, Shamrock O'Toole is about to have kittens any moment—the period is 60 to 65 days and today is her 62nd; she looks like a football resting on toothpicks and complains bitterly about the unfairness of it all. I'll send you a kitten by air express timed so that you can't send it back. Maybe four kittens.

  October 10, 1960: Robert A. Heinlein to Lurton Blassingame

  I assume that you have sent The Man from Mars to Putnam, since they are entitled to first look. I have on hand, should we ever need it, a clean, sharp carbon of this ms. on the same heavy white bond. I am aware of the commercial difficulties in this ms., those which you pointed out—but, if it does get published, it might sell lots of copies. (It certainly has no more strikes against its success than did Ulysses, Lady Chatterley's Lover, Elmer Gantry, or Tropic of Cancer—each at the time it was published.)

  The Man from Mars is an attempt on my part to break loose from a straitjacket, one of my own devising. I am tired of being known as a "leading writer of children's books" and nothing else. True, those juveniles have paid well—car, house, and chattels all free and clear, much travel, money in the bank and a fairish amount in stocks, plus prospect of future r
oyalties—I certainly shouldn't kick and I am not kicking . . . but, like the too-successful whore: "Them stairs is killing me!"

  I first became aware of just how thoroughly I had boxed myself in when editors of my soi disant adult books started asking me to trim them down to suit my juvenile market. At that time I had to comply.

  But now I would like to find out if I can write about adult matters for adults, and get such writing published.

  However, I have no desire to write "mainstream" stories such as The Catcher in the Rye, By Love Possessed, Peyton Place, The Man in the Grey Flannel Suit, Darkness at Noon, or On the Road. Whether these books are good or bad, they each represent a type which has been written more than enough; there is no point in my adding more to such categories—I want to do my own stuff, my own way.

  Perhaps I will flop at it. I don't know. But such success as I have had has come from being original, not from writing "safe" stuff—in pulps, in movies, in slicks, in juveniles. In pulp SF I moved at once to the top of the field by writing about sociology, sex, politics, and religion at a time (1939) when those subjects were all taboo. Later I cracked the slicks with science fiction when it was taken for granted that SF was pulp and nothing but pulp. You will recall that my first juvenile was considered an experiment by the publisher—and a rather risky one.

  I have never written "what was being written"—nor do I want to do so now. Oh, I suppose that, if it became financially necessary, I could imitate my own earlier work and do it well enough to sell. But I don't want to. I hope this new and different book sells. But, whether it does or not, I want my next book to be still different—neither an imitation of The Man from Mars, nor a careful "mixture as before" in imitation of my juveniles and my quasi-juveniles published as soi disant adult SF books. I've got a lot of things I'd like to write about; none of them fits this pattern.