An Edge in My Voice

by Harlan Ellison

  Small Claims Court is one of the few wonders of our current judicial system. Confronted with the reality of a major operating officer—bringing down a six-figure annual salary—having to fly in from New York; putting up at the Beverly-Wilshire because a big macher like that can’t be expected to truck on in to a TraveLodge getting up at 6:00 AM to schlep over to West L.A. Division, sitting and cooling his or her high-priced anatomy thigh-to-thigh with electricians seeking payment of their bills, retirees trying to get restitution from the high school kid who crumpled their bumper, and homeowners suing for the replanting costs of rose bushes dug up by the neighbor’s dog; and then having to defend the case without Henry Holmes or Judy Shapiro or Jerry Kushnik to plead eloquently…the great corporation would settle out of court or let it go on default. $1500 doesn’t seem like so much money in the face of that kind of aggravation and expense.

  And all for a filing fee of six dollars.

  So on February 18th of this year, Bill Starr filed against Pinnacle Books. Power.

  The case was scheduled to be heard in front of a Judge Pro-Tem at 1:15 PM on Monday, March 22nd in room 123 of the West L.A. Municipal Court Building at 1633 Purdue Avenue.

  Starr’s intent was obviously less involved with making money than it was with obtaining a semblance of justice. As Starr wrote in a press release of February 25th (also ignored by every major news outlet in the city):

  “I hope the case will save the book from sinking into oblivion before the readers for whom it was intended even learn it exists; provide writers who can’t afford the expense of regular lawsuits a less costly way of settling disputes with publishers; help publishers understand that books are special products that deserve special marketing consideration; and persuade publishers who do insist on treating books like ordinary merchandise to accept the obligation of ordinary merchants to give consumers their choice of products.”

  Striking through all the snarled mass of obstructionism that terrifies those of us with just claims, Starr correctly perceived that “except for a few bestselling authors, writers have always been economically at the mercy of publishers, who are rich enough to hire high-powered lawyers to fight their legal battles for them.” He also noted that the 1981 Columbia University Survey of American Authors, funded by The Authors Guild, revealed that 80% of America’s writers earn less than $5000 per year from their writing.

  And guess what? On March 22nd Bill Starr made history. He won.

  In the West L.A. Division of the Municipal Small Claims Court, before Judge Pro-Tem Marvin Gevurtz, Bill Starr pled his case as most of us would (though he was “pretty low-keyed and tongue-tied for a writer” according to one observer in the courtroom). Appearing for the defense was Pinnacle West Coast Editor Carole Garland, who expressed no objection when Judge Gevurtz said, “It is clear that no good faith effort has been demonstrated on the part of the publisher in marketing and promoting this book.”

  (In fact, when I called Ms. Garland for a statement, on March 25th, three days after the trial, she admitted, “His was a book that did not get publicity or promotion.” In fairness I note that when I called Ms. Garland after publication of the first installment of this matter, and advised her I was planning to use this direct quote, which I felt was particularly damning and which she had not said was “off the record,” as other remarks she’d made were labeled, she told me she hadn’t said it. She said what she’d really said was that Starr’s book hadn’t gotten “blockbuster promotion.” In fairness I enter this disclaimer. Also in fairness, I must advise you that I wrote down Ms. Garland’s words during that first phone call precisely and exactly as she spoke them.)

  Ms. Garland said she sent copies of the Reagan letter and the book to all L.A. newspapers, who ignored them. But since the book wasn’t even well-distributed to bookstores in the L.A.-Southern California area, where its subject matter was most likely to reach interested readers; since it was not available; it naturally produced reactions from the media such as that expressed by Art Seidenbaum, editor of the L.A. Times Book Review, who explained, “We do not review books not in the marketplace.” So much for good intentions, backing-and-filling, and the vagaries of telephonic communication.

  The downside of the trial is that Bill Starr did not win a monetary judgment of one red cent. He was awarded $35 in court costs and nothing in terms of the potential $1500 recovery permitted by Small Claims Court. More on that in a moment.

  Starr had this to say after he won: “This case, as minor as it is in itself, sets an important precedent for those of us who rely on our creative talent for survival. By using the Small Claims Courts, we can face-off the powerful corporations that try to exploit us, as equals before the law, and demand that they treat us with a little respect. That’s a big step forward, even if we don’t make any money out of it.”

  No, he didn’t make even that piddling $1500 as restitution for seeing six months’ worth of creative energy pulled off sale within ninety days of its publication, for the anguish of seeing the main chance go down the drain to oblivion.

  It was the same naiveté that led Bill Starr to find a way to win the day for himself and all writers laboring in this weed-choked field, that cost him the final measure of vindication. As the man said, he snatched defeat from the jaws of victory.

  Instead of simply suing Pinnacle Books, per se, Bill Starr should have named in his complaint Stanley L. Reisner, President and Publisher of Pinnacle Books in New York; Patrick O’Connor, Editorial Director; Ira G. Corn, Jr., the Chairman of the Board of Michigan General Corporation, of which Pinnacle is an affiliate firm; Vice President and National Sales Director Jim Reddam; and Pinnacle’s Chief Financial Officer, Larry Ostrow.

  Can you picture how quickly a check for $1500 would have come winging out of New York into Bill Starr’s deserving hands when each and every one of those high officials was served with notice to appear in piddling little West L.A. Small Claims Court? Instead, Pinnacle dumped the onus on Carole Garland. After all, in the schema of corporate arrogance, an Editor is only a vassal (and what does that make the writer?) and losing her from the office for half a day didn’t upset anyone very much. (Besides, in the minds of most publishers, editors have too much loyalty and sympathy for those goddamned writers already.)

  But even if Pinnacle had toughed it out, and sent in their three piece suiters, Starr could have won damages had he been smart enough to prepare some documentation. Had he assembled royalty statements on other books, had he gotten witnesses from the community of writers whose books had been properly pushed, who had made big bucks from conscientious marketing and promotion, had he taken the Reagan letter to an attorney-agent like Jerry Kushnik or a film / tv agent like Marty Shapiro and asked them to give testimony as to the potential of a book like CHANCE FORTUNE for motion picture purchase…he could have won full damages.

  How do I know this? Because Judge Gevurtz told me, “If Starr had had any verification, I’d have been inclined to award him damages.”

  Now it’s too late. The case cannot be retried in Small Claims on the same allegations. The principle is res adjudicata, “that which has already been adjudicated,” in effect double jeopardy.

  But Bill Starr has learned from his innocence. He is considering alternate charges, and considering suing in pro per. When I learned this, I spoke to Pinnacle’s Editorial Director in New York, Patrick O’Connor. We discussed the case and the startling precedent it sets for redress by any author, and I suggested maybe Pinnacle, out of the goodness of its heart, ought to send Bill Starr a check for $1500, a mere bagatelle, just to demonstrate good faith. He opined that was not a bad idea, that he’d take it up with the great gray masters for whom he worked. He said he’d get back to me.

  Later that day he did get back to me. The great gray masters had, in effect, said why bother. They still had not learned. To them, Bill Starr was still a pisher, farting into the wind.

  But Bill Starr, like such other Pinnacle authors as Don Pendleton and Bob Slatzer who are cu
rrently engaged in having the publisher’s books audited for nonpayment of royalties, has tasted the power that he possesses as a creator and as a private citizen who is mad as hell and ain’t gonna take it no more. Pennywise and poundfoolish ennobles the thinking of the great gray masters.

  They may find themselves being outfoxed as they were most recently by one of their successful authors, Marc Savin, author of A MAN CALLED COYOTE, who beat them at their own game. But that’s another, also fascinating, story.

  Bill Starr is fighting the conglomerate mentality of publishers who run a profit&loss estimate on a proposed book—cobbling up fantasy rationales why they should work their asses off for a title that cost them 3.2 million while consigning to the dust heaps a manuscript they picked up for a crummy $5500—he is fighting the thinking of wholesalers who don’t give a damn what’s between the covers and ask the publisher, “What’ll you do for the book by way of promo, how much will you spend?” He is fighting the entire encysted, unworkable, mickeymouse system of Bottom Line ethics and merchandising that has turned the once-laudable publishing industry into merely another writeoff tax-deduction for parking lot owners, shoe store entrepreneurs and multinationals that make their big bucks from turning kids into video game zombies.

  Bill Starr fights and speaks for all of us pulling weeds in this field. And he fights and speaks for you, who have the right to go into a bookstore and find something more uplifting and meaningful than just another Garfield non-book.

  Bill Starr has set a precedent for writers all over this country, and if they ignore it, they do so at their—and your—peril.

  —————LETTERS—————

  Pen Power

  Dear Editor,

  Congratulations on running Harlan Ellison’s ballsy exposé of the paperback jungle, featuring my Small Claims Court joust with Pinnacle Books over their improper marketing of my novel CHANCE FORTUNE (April 23-29). I can’t speak for Ellison’s other sources, but it looks to me like he got all the facts straight.

  While modesty forces me to decline the heroic image Ellison so flatteringly painted of me, I do agree with his conclusion that only writers, and readers, can save American literature from the degradation inflicted on it by the growing conglomerate takeover of the publishing industry. Whether my book—or any book—is as great as its author thinks it is doesn’t matter very much in this conflict. The important question is: Will the readers be able to find the kind of books they desire, or will they be force-fed a bland diet of “generic books” that will be hacked out by computers? (If that’s not already happening.)

  Our chances of escaping that fate seem pretty slim, with the conglomerates possessing so much wealth and power and the ruthlessness to crush anyone who interferes with their greed for more wealth and power. But, like David bonking Goliath, we have a secret weapon—our creative imaginations. If we use that weapon wisely, we can sling our stones through loopholes in ironclad publishing contracts and other means of oppressing writers.

  My creative imagination enabled me to think of Small Claims Court as an affordable way underpaid writers can seek justice. Ellison’s creative imagination enabled him to spot the news value in my story, while the Establishment media greeted it with overwhelming indifference. What can your creative imaginations contribute?

  It has been said, with some truth, that writers are too widely scattered geographically and too stubbornly independent to form an effective union. But at least we can communicate with each other and share ideas on how we can resist being screwed out of existence by conglomerate greed and stupidity.

  —Bill Starr,

  Arleta, CA

  INSTALLMENT 26: 26 APRIL 82

  Women Without Men

  I have about as much of a chance that this column won’t get me in trouble as a cobra at a mongoose rally.

  Nonetheless, bewilderment and lack of certain answers to what has emerged as one of the imponderable mysteries of the universe goad me to set out what happened, in hopes some of you wiser heads can provide much-needed insight.

  Let me hasten to enter this disclaimer: misogyny does not form the basis of this essay. Confusion and the need to know do. If I stumble and commit gaffes, please credit it to innocent sojourns through the unmarked minefield of male-female relations.

  A long-time female friend, a woman in her late thirties, successful in her career, by any normal esthetic standards extremely attractive and well turned-out, intelligent and witty and educated, recently voiced a view of life that nonplused me to the degree that I began inquiring of other women I know—is this the way it is?

  What prompted her remarks was a television interview with a prominent female psychiatrist based in New York. (I believe it was a Dr. Russianoff. We were both part of a dinner group at someone else’s home and I wasn’t watching the show, only paid attention when my friend—with whom I’ve had a long, rewarding, non-sexual liaison—urged me to listen to what Dr. Whatshername was saying.) And what she was saying was that a prevailing attitude among American women, especially that group over thirty and unmarried, is summed up in the title of her new book, which is something like WHY DO I THINK I’M NOTHING WITHOUT A MAN?

  Dr. Whooziwhat then proceeded to say that the situation in New York anent “finding acceptable men” was execrable. There are, she said, a million more women than men in the Big Apple, and that meant, she said, that men could have their pick of any woman they wanted, while all these estimable women were rotting on the vine or making do with “unacceptable” men. Or something.

  And my friend said, “See, I’m not the only one who can’t find a decent man.” Her phrase: decent man.

  I must have said something offhand, not realizing I’d walked into a buzz saw, because she then buttressed her argument that it is murder for eligible women trying to find “decent men” by recounting a sight she’d seen the preceding Saturday night at Canter’s Delicatessen.

  There, seated in a booth, were four extremely well-known and attractive actresses, without men, having a late night snack. “If they can’t get men,” my friend opined, “what chance do I have?”

  My remark was then far from offhand. “That’s fucking crazy!” I yelled. “How do you know they hadn’t all gone to a movie together, or just come from performing in some stage production, or maybe they were gay, or maybe they just wanted a night out with friends, without male companionship? You’re viewing the world in the most monocular way possible.”

  “But it was Saturday night!” she yelled back. “If they’d had men with whom they were involved, they’d have been with them.” I felt myself reeling from exposure to the concept.

  But another woman in the dinner party, a talented and personable executive secretary for a large corporation, chimed in, saying, “I went to a movie by myself last Saturday night, and everyone stared at me with such pity, I felt like a worm. And when I go to a restaurant for dinner alone on a Friday or Saturday night, I’ll be damned if the waitress doesn’t ignore me in favor of all the couples.”

  At that point I was genuinely horrified and awash with confusion. So I started asking around, and these views have now been verified by at least half a dozen well-oriented and exemplary females of my acquaintance.

  And what it comes down to, as best I can parse it through my dizzying bewilderment, is that vast sections of the eligible female population of this country truly believe (as they did in 1911 or thereabouts) that they can only have a full, satisfying personal life if they are involved with a man whose company can “go somewhere” (their phrase, repeated by each of these ladies at least once in our conversations). The somewhere these liaisons are supposed to go, of course, is a pair-bonding situation in which someone moves his or her clothes into the other’s closet.

  I’ve begun to suspect that I’m living in Cloud Coo Coo Land, believing that things had changed sufficiently over the past thirty years so that women in large numbers had come to realize that their worth should not be measured in terms of their acceptability to members of
the opposite sex.

  (We will, for the nonce, exclude homosexual relationships, because they don’t apply to the problem at hand.)

  It all seems deranged to me. Take for example that highly dubious statistic of a million more women than men in New York. How many of those women are pre-pubescent? How many are gay and would prefer to be with other women? How many are at an advanced stage of life where their interest isn’t in getting married or hooked-up with some guy? And what of the concept of the floating population, those who move from relationship to relationship so they aren’t always in the dating pool?

  Okay. Ignore all of that. Let’s say there are a million more women than men in New York. All of them beautiful and rich and talented and fulfilled in their professional lives. They are considered “excess” only if one accepts the argument that it is a one-woman-for-one-man world.

  But isn’t that the kind of concretized, tunnel-visioned thinking more applicable to, say, Kansas City in 1911 than to the realities of life in New York or Los Angeles?

  Or am I nuts? Is it a sight one should pity when one sees four attractive women dining “alone” on a Saturday night instead of paired with men? Or should one merely think—if one thinks about it at all—that here is a woman, or four women, who chose to be sans male companion?

  Is it not possible for a man to be “decent” if he is good company and has no intention of going somewhere? Does all of this apply if there is no sexual implication? Should it be considered rational and healthy for a woman attending a movie alone—on Friday, Saturday, or any day—to think of herself as a pariah?

  Or have we begun running backward on the treadmill of self-esteem? I ask all of this wanting to know. Observations and opinions and statistical data, experiences and little-known universal truths are solicited.

  Because, friends, as far as I can tell, something is very twisted here.

  Interim memo