Lester Dent on Words and Writing

Ever wanted to write like Lester Dent? Bang out 200,000 words a month for years on end without running out of steam? Well, you could dress like Dent in the photo and wear a gun around your hip, an adventurer's hat on your head, and put your hands on your hip and look real manly.

If that doesn't work, try reading "The Pulp Paper Master Fiction Plot." In the article, Lester Dent tells all and reveals his very own formula for writing fiction. The article was originally published in the 1936 Writer's Digest Yearbook and is available online courtesy of Atlus Press.

Here is how Dent describes his master design, which he claims is good for any story of 6000 words. According to him, "it has worked on adventure, detective, western and war-air. It tells exactly where to put everything. It shows definitely just what must happen in each successive thousand words."

While he describes the process in great detail in the article, I'm only quoting the outline of the design. For more info, be sure to read the whole article.

"FIRST 1500 WORDS.
1—FIRST LINE, or as near thereto as possible, introduce the hero and swat him with a fistful of trouble. Hint at a mystery, a menace or a problem to be solved—something the hero has to cope with.
2—The hero pitches in to cope with his fistful of trouble. (He tries to fathom the mystery, defeat the menace, or solve the problem.)
3—Introduce ALL the other characters as soon as possible. Bring them on in Action.
4—Hero’s endeavors land him in an actual physical conflict near the end of first 1500 words.
5—Near end of first 1500 words, there is a complete surprise twist in the plot development.

SECOND 1500 WORDS
1—Shovel more grief onto the hero.
2—Hero, being heroic, struggles, and his struggles lead up to:
3—Another physical conflict.
4—A surprising plot twist to end the 1500 words.

THIRD 1500 WORDS
1—Shovel the grief onto the hero, who continues to fight back, most heroically.
2—Hero makes some headway, and corners the villains or somebody in:
3—A physical conflict.
4—A surprising plot twist, in which the hero preferably gets it in the neck bad, to end the 1500 words.

FINAL 1500 WORDS
1—Shovel the difficulties more thickly upon the hero.
2—Get the hero almost buried in his troubles. (Figuratively, the villain has him prisoner and has him framed for a murder rap; the girl is presumably dead, everything is lost, and the DIFFERENT murder method is about to dispose of the suffering protagonist).
3—The hero extricates himself, using HIS OWN skill, training or brawn.
4—The mysteries remaining—one big one held over to this point will help grip interest—are cleared up in course of final conflict as hero takes the situation in hand.
5—Final twist, a big surprise. (This one can be the villain turning out to be the unexpected person, having the “treasure” a dud, etc.)
6—The snapper, the punch line, to end it."

Let me know if anyone has tried out Dent's method! (Or if you try dressing up like an adventurer next time you sit down to write.)

Arthur J. Burks on Words and Writing

Legendary pulpster Arthur J. Burks penned a series of articles on writing for the pulp market in the 1930s for Writer’s Digest magazine, several of which were reprinted in John Locke’s Pulp Fictioneers: Adventures in the Storytelling Business (Adventure House, 2004). A prolific wordsmith (at least 4000 words per day, according to a New Yorker article entitled “Burks of the Pulps,” quoted on Duane Swierczynski’s Secret Dead Blog), Burks’ series of articles become increasingly dispirited as the decade wears on. The pressures of the market, and the mental and physical exhaustion of writing millions of words, certainly took their toll.

For my “On Words and Writing” series, I will feature some of Burks’ most insightful passages on both the life of a pulp writer during the 1930s, as well as his advice to writers (much of which is still applicable today). This first quote comes from “Quantity Production” (Writer’s Digest, June 1937). You can read the whole article either in Pulp Fictioneers, or online over at Pulp Rack. I think a lot of people can relate to Burks’ compulsion to write.

When I am not writing, or thinking about a story, there is no living with me. I pace the floor. My family gets out of my way or gets stepped on. My children get kicked across the room. My wife gets her head bitten off if she smiles and says: “How are you, darling?” If the telephone rings I bite the ear off the caller when I say hello. If the door slams I pull my hair and shriek. Traffic outside my window drives me nuts. Everything is wrong, nothing goes right. I hear every sound and it rasps my nerves like a rusty file drawn over a rusty rasp. Absence of sound is even more maddening. I hate my food and my drink. I hate everybody including myself. I won't do anything anybody wants me to do. I can't stay inside, I won't go out. I'm utterly and completely impossible, and the fact that this is so makes me worse than ever…

But when I'm writing, ah, there's the difference! I like to write, I have to write, or go mad. And the more I want to write the faster words tumble over themselves to get onto paper. I'm happy. I'm as interested in the outcome of my story as I dimly hope my readers will be—though right then I don't think about readers or editors or anybody else, except the matter of getting my story on paper. It burns inside me, trying to get out, and I'm happy when it's streaking across the pages at top speed. Editors say I'm careless: I'm not. I'm sold on my story to the exclusion of all else. My fingers won't keep up with my mind—and typographical errors therefore seem to prove to editors that they're right in calling me careless.

My fingers are simply not fast enough, because two of mine do the work of ten. I go do fast, am so burned up with my story that my brain goes right on while I'm changing paper in the machine, as a result of which I have to read back and put in the two or three words at the top-left of the page that I kept on writing in my head and didn't get down on paper.

Do I make myself clear?

-Arthur J. Burks, “Quantity Production” (Writer’s Digest, June 1937)

Gold Medal Books: In Their Own Words

Ever wondered what exactly Gold Medal saw in the books they published? In the December 1955 issue of Writer’s Digest (Vol. 36, No. 1), Gold Medal’s Executive Editor Inez Salinger wrote in and addressed what sort of books they were looking to publish, as well as some of the overarching characteristics of the Gold Medal line (“Taboos? We have none, really.”), a brief description of the editorial procedure, and an idea of what they paid per book. An address was also given, in case writers wanted to send in their manuscripts. The cartoon above was featured right next to the Gold Medal advertisement, so I thought I would share it as well. I think it’s pretty funny, and it also reminds me of the image of Orrie Hitt sitting at the kitchen table with his typewriter that James Reasoner described on his blog.

“We are interested, indeed, in seeing mystery fiction, the backbone of almost any soft-cover publisher’s list.

“The word ‘suspense’ keynotes our mystery policy, if we have any such thing. We have found most saleable and exciting those novels which emphasize chase, atmosphere and breathless situations rather than the chess problem or more intellectual type of puzzle. Basically, we have no cut-and-dried preferences. Recently we put out three novels in quick succession by Peter Rabe, whom we consider a bright discovery and a potential shining light of the hard-boiled school. One of our most fabulous sellers is Richard Prather, whose yarns about Shell Scott, a private eye whose tongue is always planted firmly in cheek, have sold consistently in the millions. In our experience, we have found the humorous mystery novel tricky to pull off, but Prather is one of its ablest practitioners.

“Taboos? We have none, really. We ask only for good stories powerfully told that capture the reader early in the game and hold him on the edge of his chair from there on in. To make it easier on both editor and author, we like to see at least four chapters and a well-planned outline of action to come. Our twenty-five centers consist of from 60,000 to 70,000 words, our thirty-five centers from 89,000 to 120,000. We pay on the basis of print orders – a cent a copy on the first 200,000 printed, a cent and a half on each copy thereafter. Our minimum initial print order is 200,000 copies. Scripts can be addressed to any of our editors.”

William Campbell Gault on Words and Writing

William Campbell Gault’s “One Foot Out of the Grave” was published by Writer’s Digest in May 1956 (Vol. 36, No. 6). Frankly, it’s depressing as hell to read. Maybe "realistic" is a better description, as it doesn't entertain any fantasies about the writing life. It’s a short memoir written in the uncommon second-person style, meaning that he is always addressing “you” even though he is discussing his own career. The conflation of himself and his readers seems significant for a number of reasons. Primarily, it makes us relate to Gault all the more – as though his story could be our story. Also, Gault seems to be giving the advice that he wishes someone would have given him as a beginner, though he seems skeptical as to whether or not he would have ever listened to such disparaging wisdom.

You can be working in a shoe factory in the middle of a great depression and not be happy. You should be happy to be working at all, but not you; you think you could be a WRITER.

Gault goes through his myriad experiences, beginning with winning a short story competition that launched the seeds of a career that slowly went nowhere for almost a decade. His goal of being the next Hemingway continually lowered until he was willing to write whatever would sell. Mysteries sold for a while, but then the pulps stopped buying. So he tried Science Fiction, but wasn’t comfortable with the genre. Juvenile sports stories, however, always sold well. His first mystery novel, Don’t Cry for Me, was rejected by everyone, but finally was picked up and even won an Edgar. Gault’s reaction? “You think you are big now, but you are nothing.”

If anything, what is so surprising about this article is its discouraging, embittered tone. The “you” in the article never gives up – but it seems that Gault wonders why anyone would continue through such hardship, disappointment, and failure. Even success for Gault is tinged with the knowledge that it not everlasting, nor assured to ever happen again.

Still, Gault ends on a slightly upbeat note (comparatively speaking). I will quote the final four paragraphs of the article in whole as they are not only the most encouraging passages of the article, but I think it’s the closest Gault comes to explaining what kept him going through all the hard years.

Remember this, if you have written a couple dozen short stories and sold them to national markets, the chances are you know as much about the business as many of the editors you are trying to sell to. You are going to have to write what they want, but always be sure the paths they want you to take are reasonable. The chances are they know what is salable and they must be listened to. But only you can determine what is distinctly yours and that is your road to the ultimate success. Editors come and go constantly and the next man may love what the last man despised.

It’s all taste and opinion and one man is different from the next. Mr. Faulkner might not appreciate Mr. Spillane, but that is also true in reverse.

None of this need concern you. Out there, beyond the lighted limits of the place you sit and type, somebody is waiting for the kind of thing you write. Writing can never be more than communication and should never be less.

So what do you do? You keep typing.

"How To Clap One Hand" by Richard S. Prather (Writer's Digest, Feb 1955)

It’s often said that one can learn a lot about writing by just reading – and certainly this is true. On the other hand, it can be a rare pleasure when a writer you admire shares their wisdom and experience. In the February 1955 issue of Writer’s Digest, pulp writer extraordinaire Richard S. Prather published an essay entitled, “How To Clap One Hand.” Much like his fiction, the essay is unpretentious and entertaining, as well as finely crafted. The title comes from the famous Zen kōan, “We have all heard the sound of two hands clapping, but what is the sound of one hand clapping?” Which is how Prather views most articles purporting to tell you “how to write.” In a down to earth manner, Prather demystifies the writing process as much as one can without being dogmatic or overly restrictive, while at the same time retaining the precious mystery of creativity and individualism.

Underlying the essay is a firm belief that writing requires both work and risk. While Prather may seem to encourage quitting one’s job to become a writer (something today that seems highly inadvisable – but what do I know), he never pretends that any level of monetary success is guaranteed. He reminds that you may fall flat on your face, just like you might in any endeavor. But that stopped people from taking chances in other occupations.

In the end, Prather is highly supportive of “aspiring writers” – a phrase he never uses in the article. As he states, writers are those who write, regardless of wealth or prestige. And if you want to be a writer, put a page in the typewriter and go to work.

Below are a few excerpts from the article.

I understand that Hemingway writes standing up, that Gardner dictates to secretaries, and others talk into wire recorders. I sit down with the portable on my lap and hack at it.

When I write a book I keep telling myself “This’ll knock ‘em dead” until I’m half hypnotized into believing it. If you think your stuff’s good as you write, and it’s fun to bang on the typewriter, the words come out much more easily. If you lose that free-wheeling kick, you groan, get indecisive and sweat.

It’s getting so that when people ask me, “Where do you get your ideas?” I feel like bashing them over the head with my typewriter and saying, “That’s where I get my ideas!”

You can put off the jumping-in-with-both-feet until your bones are brittle; why not do it while you can bounce? Say you were to take off for the mountains or beach, or even stay in the hometown if that’s where you want to be. Say a year later you’ve flopped, gone broke, haven’t sold a word. So what? In that you you’ll have learned more about writing – and turned out more wordage – than you would have in ten years of part-time scribbling.

When the plot looks right, I do a Synopsis, each chapter outline being written on separate pages. I usually wind up with a 500-600-word synopsis and 100-200 single-spaced pages of “plot-stuff,” with the parts I can use underlined in blue pencil. I number the usable sections with the number of the chapter into which they’ll fit; sometimes, when I reach that point in the first draft, I merely lift them bodily and put them into place like a piece of jigsaw puzzle; more often I rewrite and shape them, then slide them in.

Whether he’s sold a hundred books or nothing at all, the writer is still a guy who writes. Take a look at your typewriter and see if there’s paper in the carriage. If not, put some in the thing and write.

Writing is a little like riding a merry-go-round and reaching time after time for the brass ring. After a little practice you’ve got just as good a chance as anybody else – but first you’ve got to get on the horse. That’s really the only “secret” there is. You’ll go around in circles, and maybe you’ll get as dizzy as I am, but it’s a helluva nice ride.

(Image courtesy of The Richard S. Prather/Shell Scott Website)