Thank God It’s Monday 16

I’m laying down the law. Don’t buy white ink pads.

This postcard was published in Germany before World War I. There are probably beach towns up and down the West Coast of the United States that claim the same scene but with their name on it.

Here’s another example:

This card was published in the 1920s in the USA. The style has changed; it’s more painterly than photographic. Also, the printing is not as crisp.

I managed a related scene with an airy, all-black image.

Unfortunately, a white stamp pad will pick up every other color you use, unless you steam-clean each stamp before you use it. Trying to safeguard the precious bodily fluids of a white stamp pad gets really boring really fast. I tried it twice and gave up. A white stamp pad is about as useful as a white No. 2 pencil. (I’ve tried that, too.) Now I’m back in black.

Can writing be taught?

My answer is no. Last month, at the Port Townsend Writers’ Conference in Fort Worden, Wash., I was prompted, challenged, and possibly transformed. But on the day I arrived, I already knew how to write. I doubt that any of my fellow students, all 150 of us, came to the conference to learn to write, either.

But let’s hear an opposing point of view.

The Famous Writers School of Westport, Conn., was not an MFA program or even a low-residency MFA where you do everything online but meet in person once a year. The Famous Writers did business only through the mail. The school imploded over shady business practices in 1972 but lives on in a lengthy entry on Wikipedia.

Those of us who were reading magazines in the 1960s (I was young and precocious) remember their ads, usually featuring an authoritative, mature white male, under headlines such as “We’re looking for people who want to write” and “I FIRE WRITERS…with enthusiasm!”

The 12 famous writers who lent their names to this enterprise did not prepare lessons or grade homework, though that was the promise. A bunch of second-string drudges did that. The true story was broken by Jessica Mitford, who has her own lengthy entry on Wikipedia.

(Among the Infamous 12 were three writers I respect: Bruce Catton, Max Shulman, and Rod Serling. Everyone has to eat. Oh, also Bennett Cerf, the co-founder of Random House and a long-running joke in my house because of the title of his book Try and Stop Me.)

The Famous Writers School was a hustle, and yet somebody learned something. I recently found one of their flyers inside a book I bought at a library sale. The flyer, from about 1969 or 1970, offered these testimonials:

  • Sells fourth book: “Your training has paid off! I’ve sold my fourth book to the New York publisher, Abelard-Schuman.” Eileen Panowski, Los Alamos, NM
  • Sells 11 stories in 6 months: “Just received a check from Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. That’s 11 stories in six months.” S. Novak, Wayne, NJ
  • Lands job as society editor: “Thanks to you, I was recently hired as society editor of our local newspaper.” Mary Neatherly, Hardin, Mont.
  • Cracks science fiction market: “After two years of trying, I sold to Fantasy & Science Fiction a few months after enrolling.” R. Lory, Richmond, VA
  • “I can see the good life now,” says a former police officer, William W. Blanks of LA. “Recently I sold three more articles, which means that so far I’ve sold everything I’ve written since enrolling in your School!”

Who were these folks?

Eileen Panowski (1920-2011) wrote six mystery novels for “teen or intermediate” readers. The Apache Gold Mystery (1965) was an Edgar Allan Poe Award nominee. (Source: Nebraskaauthors.org, where they misspelled Allan)

Mary Jean Neatherly (1920-1989) worked as a secretary for the Hardin Herald, now the Big Horn County News. There’s no mention in her obituary of being the Herald’s society editor, but that might be because of the era. The paper didn’t value her contributions because she was a woman writing for other women and she performed this function while also serving as a secretary. She was a member of the Poetry Writers Association of America. (Source: Findagrave.com)

S. Novak received a check from Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. I’m sure it wasn’t a subscription refund. Unfortunately, EQMM does not maintain a public database of its authors. There’s a Steve Novak writing today, but he is way too young to have received a check from anyone in 1970.

Robert Lory (1936-2020) graduated from the Famous Writers School in 1964. He wrote dozens of novels in the 1970s, including the nine installments of the “Return of Dracula” series. (The title that intrigues me is Dracula’s Brothers. I love an involving family saga.) But check this out: His story “The Star Party” was selected for World’s Best Science Fiction: 1965. His neighbors in that book included Fritz Leiber, Philip K. Dick, Thomas M. Disch, and John Brunner. “The Star Party” is the story Lory mentions in his testimonial. (Sources: Wikipedia, the Internet Speculative Fiction Database, Library Thing)

William Winfield Blanks (1928-1989), the former cop, wrote two episodes of the 1976 TV series The Blue Knight, based on the novel by Joseph Wambaugh, a former cop. (Source: A poorly written site called Prabook and the Internet Movie Database)

To judge from the Wikipedia write-up, the Famous Writers School failed almost everyone. But a few writers were able to say that they could see the good life. The people pinch-hitting for Bennett Cerf, Rod Serling, and the other authors of this authorial scam really did teach them how to write. Or did Eileen Panowski, Mary Neatherly, and their colleagues already possess that superpower? Maybe all they needed was some acknowledgement.

We will never know.

Don’t any of you send me your copy of Dracula’s Brothers.

Thank God It’s Monday 15

Stamping on modern cards with a plastic surface (referred to by deltiologists as “chromes”) is chancy. You might achieve a smart finish and you might achieve a smear. I did well with this one:

How did I stamp the space shuttle behind the red line? Analog fussing at its finest: First I used tracing paper and a pencil to get something the same width. I cut it out and placed it over the line. Sticking it down was simple: I used a Post-it at each end. I inked the stamp and hoped for the best. It worked!

I probably stamped this 20 years ago. The image eventually dried enough for me to scan it, but even today, if I touched it, the natural oil on my skin might ruin it.

This may be one of the few beach postcards ever published to feature a Dad in a bathing suit.

Here’s an example of how not to do things:

This is another Oregon beach. Note the light on the driftwood. The sun is setting. The card’s surface took the ink well. But I should’ve left the sails alone or painted them a pale blue or gray to blend with the sea and sky. And I definitely should’ve masked the bow’s shadow. The stern’s shadow is correct for this coast and this time of day, but not the bow’s. Using this image taught me to follow the light. We should all follow the light.

What I did on my summer vacation

I go to a writing conference every 20 years. So when I go, I had better make the most of it. The Port Townsend Writers’ Conference at Fort Worden, Wash., was the most.

It’s going to take me awhile to digest this experience. All I’ll say this evening is that my week at the conference was inspiring and surprising. I wrote something I never thought I’d write and made connections with people I never thought I’d meet. Fort Worden is a state park, and I walked six miles a day, over a hill, along a beach, out to a lighthouse, through a cemetery, and many laps around the former parade ground.

I spent so much time with the deer that they stopped running from me. In another week, they would’ve invited me to dinner. Fiber. They know.

Fort Worden was once part of a series of forts that guarded the United States against seaborne invasion. This was a good idea when Capt. Horatio Hornblower was trading broadsides with Napoleon. It wasn’t so good after the invention of the aeroplane. But the Coast Artillery Corps built Fort Worden anyway, along with its friends, Forts Casey and Flagler, a “Triangle of Fire” that would destroy any fleet that menaced Seattle.

The only thing that ever menaced Seattle was Tacoma. The Coast Artillery Corps disbanded all three forts by 1953 and then itself. All that’s left today of the mighty CAC are the empty gun emplacements overlooking Puget Sound and the Coast Artillery Museum at Fort Worden. The museum is closing in September. Budget cuts.

I bought this shirt for half price:

Below is one example of what they built in the 1900s to hold off unnamed enemies. The rooms beneath the fortifications are open to the public. How many teenagers have been deflowered in there?

It’s about a mile around the parade ground. In the next photo, the barracks I stayed in is on the right. The cloud in the gap between the trees, to the right of center, is actually Mount Baker, far to the north of Fort Worden and just east of my hometown of Bellingham.

My barracks at night:

The cemetery, established with the fort, is still in use, for veterans and civilians:

I wrote a lot, learned to refrain from snacking because the cafeteria was closed between meals, talked poetry with the professionals, bantered with best-selling novelists, rocked the room on open mic night, and won the hand of a proud, aloof beauty named Willow. OK, the paw. Willow is a King Charles spaniel, though she might be part Pomeranian. There appears to be some disagreement on this point. I accept her as she is.

I’m happy to be home and ready again to dispense more half-baked wisdom!

And you may ask yourself, “Where is that large birthday cake?”

My birthday season is in full swing and I couldn’t be happier. We ate dinner in our favorite Italian restaurant, where the food was fab and the waitress was stoned. “May I have a knife?” I asked her, because she had neglected to bring one. She replied, “Yes, for your chicken,” as if congratulating me for understanding utensils. Deborah, as if foreseeing this difficulty, had ordered something vegetarian.

We have a picnic with excellent old friends lined up for the Fourth. I have a writing conference lined up for mid-month, a sort of fantasy baseball camp where I won’t have to depend on my eye-hand coordination. Our main activities will be a) talking about writing, and b) complaining about money.

Meanwhile, look who else is having a birthday: The United States of America! Good work, everyone!

In honor of our nation’s birthday, and because I immigrated to this country from the People’s Republic of Massachusetts, I want to spotlight my favorite boat, the Constitution, as seen in this 1960s postcard from the Charlestown Navy Yard:

Like most things that were built in another century, it’s a miracle that Old Ironsides still exists. It is the oldest active-duty warship still afloat, in our navy or anyone else’s. (HMS Victory, Nelson’s flagship at Trafalgar, is still a commissioned warship, but the British moved her ashore after she was damaged during the Blitz.) For this miracle we can thank Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr. and a poem he wrote in 1830 when he heard that the Navy planned to decommission and scrap the Constitution:

Oh, better that her shattered hulk
Should sink beneath the wave;
Her thunders shook the mighty deep,
And there should be her grave;
Nail to the mast her holy flag,
Set every threadbare sail,
And give her to the god of storms,
The lightning and the gale!

In 1830, this was incendiary stuff, and the public rallied to save what was quickly becoming a sacred relic.

On July 4, 2024, the Constitution appeared in the WordPress blog wwiiafterwwii. You may wonder why a sailboat launched in 1797 would appear in a blog devoted to 20th-century war junk. OK, it’s a stretch, but the blog’s creator, the anonymous jwh1975, used his post that day to celebrate our nation’s birthday by profiling the Coast Guard cutter Eagle and the Constitution. The Eagle was formerly a Nazi ship, so that’s her connection to the war. As for the Constitution:

On paper USS Constitution was the flagship of Rear Admiral Felix Gygax, commander of the 1st Naval District which had its GHQ relocated to Boston during WWII. Quite obviously it was not a suitable flagship for commanding the high-intensity, long-range conflict against Germany’s u-boats and was not used as such.

During WWII, the Constitution served as a brig and a storehouse for foreign flags and ceremonial swords. We all have a part to play in this life.

Today, the Eagle is used to train sailors in teamwork. The Constitution, however, simply exists:

USS Constitution is a fully commissioned, active-duty warship. The 83-persons crew are active-duty officers and enlisted sailors. Unlike USCGC Eagle which retains a utilitarian training function, USS Constitution has no mission of any sort. Congress funds its continued active service simply because American voters want this.

Happy birthday, everyone, whether it’s your birthday or not, and remember that telling your stoned waitress it’s your birthday usually results in a free dessert. Smooth sailing to you in the coming year. I’ll be back on Sunday, July 26, somewhat older but hopefully wiser. But I’ll still complain about money.

Thank God It’s Monday 14

Some postcards are bizarre. There is no point in altering them. They are perfect:

This card preceded the Mary Poppins movie by approximately 60 years. I call him Marty Poppins. I considered stamping springs under his shoes or adding fireworks, but why? The publisher said it all.

At the time this card was mailed, it was illegal to write anything on the blank side except for the name and address of the recipient. People did it anyway, so the law was changed. Jack, the man who mailed Marty, was a law-abiding citizen.

Other cards cry out for alterations…except for this next one, because whoever mailed it, all those decades ago, added a message that will live forever:

I bought each card because I loved them as they are, not because I thought I could improve them. I can’t improve them.

Things that go clack in the night

The last time I took a typing test was in 1985. I was seated at an IBM Selectric and given a sheet of text to reproduce. I rolled a sheet of blank paper into that humming power plant and started typing. After the timer went off and my errors were deducted, I had hit 120 words per minute.

I may be off a bit in the year and the score, but you get my point. I was fast, even on the incredible hulks I grew up with. When I was inspired, I could produce a rolling thunder that drove my family to exile me to the basement. I tried a typewriter here in adulthood. I was already in a basement. My wife suggested the garage.

Computers make us all fast (the internet makes us furious). Here are the top three word-processing time-savers:

“Don’t think. Type.” I’m paraphrasing Ray Bradbury, who said “dream.” On a computer, you can type forever without stopping. On a typewriter, when you reach the end of a line, a bell sounds and it’s up to you to whack a lever so you can start the next line. We worry that computers train us, but look what a typewriter did with one little bell!

The magic of the backspace key. Changes cost nothing. “I can’t write five words but that I change seven,” Dorothy Parker lamented. If you could’ve given her a laptop, she would’ve given you the chair next to her at the Algonquin Round Table.

Global search and replace. With a computer, if you decide some paragraphs are in the wrong place, you highlight ’em, cut ’em, and drop ’em somewhere else. Easy. With a typewritten manuscript, you cut up the pages, throw away the extraneous parts, do some rearranging, and tape the thing back together. Want to get fancy? Run your taped-together monster through a copier to make everything cleaner so you can start cutting and taping all over again.

Does all this sound like I am dancing on the grave of the typewriter? I’m not dancing on anything unless you’re playing Duran Duran. And anyone who has ever corresponded with me knows that I love typewriters. The monthly Typewriter Afternoon at our library leaves me quivering with antici…pation. I am in awe of the intrepid woman who lets the public use her machines.

Typewriters: Letters, yes. My novel, no. Writing fiction is slow enough.

Historical note 1: The science fiction writer Frederik Pohl claimed that he wrote a story in 1936, sold it in 1937, saw it published in 1938, and was paid in 1939. This is not too far off from the experience of writers today, except for the getting paid part.

Historical note 2: In 1990, I took my typewriter to my regular office-supply store in Seattle. It was the last place in Seattle that serviced typewriters. They turned me away. They were done with typewriters. The improbable typewriter renaissance was still years in the future. I sold my typewriter at one of our yard sales, to a college student who wanted to live in a garret and starve and all that other writer stuff. The black plastic carrying case had some of my best stickers on it.

I sometimes think of my Smith-Corona. If I had kept it, by now it would’ve racked up decades of hibernating in a closet. As much as I love typewriters, I would consider it a life-changing inconvenience if I had to return to one. But I can’t deny the joy of hopping from one typewriter to another, from an armor-plated behemoth that has survived the journey from the 1940s to a svelte greyhound from the 1970s.

“To this day I think my best work came from the Selectric. Like others, I would plan an article in my mind or even outline it on paper. Then I would type it in one fell swoop with almost no changes. Today I stare at a screen and then start typing, go back, and edit and edit. I am more apt to try to proofread on the screen rather than the printed page as I used to. I know I caught more problems the old way. The new way may be flashy and modern, but the old way was better.”

This quote is from the essay “Requiem for a Typewriter” by Frank Romano. It appeared in Electronic Publishing in September 1995. I can’t find the essay online (Requiem for a Typewriter is a 2024 album by Bad News), there are many Frank Romanos who write (the Wikipedia listing is for a bass player), and Electronic Publishing is no longer publishing. Robert J. Samuelson wrote a similar essay with a similar title in Newsweek in the same year. It was an inevitable topic back then.

I understand Mr. Romano, but if we could ask him today, would he still claim “the old way was better”?

It wasn’t better. It was just different. And, at least once a month, incredibly fun.

But if you really want to talk Old School: There’s nothing like pencils.

Thank God It’s Monday 13

In 1935, e.e. cummings self-published a book of poetry. Because 14 publishers had said no thanks, he called the book No Thanks and dedicated it to the 14 of them:

cummings, who was very concerned about how his poems were displayed on the page,  produced this image on a typewriter. I know how to do that. You count the letters and spaces in a line, divide by two, and backspace backspace backspace from the center of the paper. It helps to only use lines that contain an odd number of letters.

There’s a lingering bitterness in what cummings did. Bitterness is useless. I get aggravated but I try not to be bitter. The 47 editors who rejected the story I wrote about in yesterday’s post might have done so because it wasn’t the sort of thing they publish. It was too long. It was too short. It was too Jewish. It was not enough Baptist. They had already read three similar stories. They were dealing that day with an audit, a toothache, or a bad love deal. Maybe they just didn’t like it. Whatever the reason, there’s nothing I can do about it…except copy e.e. cummings!

If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again. Then give up.

I just published a story called “Waiting for Mishy” in a magazine called Uncharted. I mention this for two reasons. First, I’m thrilled! Second, I want to briefly tell you the story of this story.

I started writing it in 2022. I finished it in 2023. I sold it in January of 2026. Uncharted posted it last week. By literary standards, that is faster than a speeding bullet.

And in the three years I spent trying to find a home for “Waiting for Mishy,” it was rejected 47 times.

Obviously, there are three things you need as a writer:

  1. A place and time to write.
  2. Persistence.
  3. An armor-plated psyche.
  4. When I first started writing, this list included typewriter ribbons.

You can do your life’s work in 30 minutes a day. You can do it in 15. You can write in a room of your own, at your kitchen table, at a coffee shop, in a library, or, like one writer I knew, in the back of a car.

You can write for a few years and then give up because everything is moving at about the same speed as a cat sleeping in a sunbeam. You can give up because you fear the rejection the way you fear the Reaper. Or you could follow Robert A. Heinlein’s fifth rule of writing: You must keep what you write on the market until it is sold.

[Note to the ghost of Heinlein: In 2021, I sold a story called “Schmitt Takes the Night Off” to The Buckman Journal (it’s behind a paywall) (not a problem for you, since you’re a ghost) that was rejected 69 times over 11 years.]

Rejection, I must remind you, is the river in which we swim. “You will write many more failures than successes,” Richard Bausch said. “You never ask yourself anything beyond, ‘Did I work today?’ ”

Or, as Jeff Lieber put it, “Write every day about something you give a shit about.”

Be patient.

Thank God It’s Monday 12

Here’s a useful rubber stamp. What’s up, Office Man?

It’s been a long time since I went to work in a suit and spent the day writing things on paper. But Office Man’s expression, that of a man who can’t believe his boss just threw another stack of invoices at him, is universal. We’ve all been that tired. We’ve all stood on the edge of the despair. Like Talking Heads, I’d rather stand on the edge of the stage.

Office Man is a team player:

Falling Woman, by the way, is welcome everywhere:

I am thinking of Office Man because I’m revising the first draft of my novel, and I feel a bit beleaguered with all the feedback I’m working with. Beleaguered as in this photo from the May 11/18 New Yorker:

This photo is by Eli Durst, from an article about high school debate clubs and debate club prep (“Resolved”). If you’ve ever tried to revise a book, this scene will make you feel right at home!