A Writer's Tale

by Richard Laymon

  If your spouse has a good job and is willing to support you and the family while you try to be a writer, that’s great. And it may be a real solution if you’re a woman and a housekeeper.

  In spite of women’s liberation,” however, the man is still almost always expected (lip-service to the contrary) to be the bread winner of a family.

  No matter how “liberated” your wife might be, you’d better get ready for some big-time resentment if you stay home to write fiction but don’t quickly produce some decent money.

  Before you know it, your wife will almost certainly start to consider you a loser, a loafer, a freeloader. You’ll feel enormous pressure to succeed. And you don’t need that.

  What you need is a job of your own.

  As I realized from hard experiences, a job of your own gives you great freedom.

  Without it, you’re under horrible financial stress. Even if your books are selling okay, you have to wait and wait and wait for payments to arrive. You watch your bank account dwindle away. You watch your credit card balances grow till you hit your limits. You watch bills come in… bills you can’t pay. And you watch for the mailman, praying that today, at last, he’ll bring you the check you’ve been expecting and expecting…

  Maybe an on-publication payment that’s three months overdue. Maybe the check’ll arrive in time for you to pay your mortgage or your rent or your car insurance or your income tax. (It almost never does.)

  With a job that pays the way, all those troubles vanish.

  Don’t give it up until you’re absolutely sure you can get along just fine without it.

  A good job is a lifeboat. Though the temptation might be overwhelming, don’t jump off it and start swimming at the first sign of an island. The island is probably a lot farther away than it looks.

  While it is very difficult to make a living as a fiction writer, income derived from writing can be a great source of additional income. It’s like moonlighting as your own boss.

  You work your own hours. Whatever you’re able to make, no matter how little, is extra income, like a bonus. And you always have a chance of hitting the jackpot.

  You can’t exactly live on a $5,000 advance, but you can take a darn good vacation. Or re-roof your house. Or start saving for a rainy day or for the day you decide to go full-time as a writer. Five thousand bucks is pretty nice when it’s frosting on the cake instead of your annual income.

  When is it safe to quit?

  It’ll never be entirely safe. (But then, any job can go down the tubes for one reason or another.)

  There may come a day, however, when it no longer makes financial sense for you to hold down a nonwriting “real job.”

  Though I painted a dismal picture in the earlier portions of this piece, excellent money can be made by writing fiction.

  Writers of bestselling novels earn many millions of dollars every year.

  But you don’t need to write bestsellers to earn a good income. Even if your novels are being bought for $10,000 to $50,000 each, you can make a significant income.

  How?

  There are many ways to earn money as a fiction writer, but they only work if you produce.

  You have to write and sell novel after novel after novel. (And perhaps some short stories along the way.) By producing a lot of finished pieces, you can create an overlapping of payments.

  The secret is to write a lot of books.

  This is how it works.

  This is how you can be a successful, semiwealthy author without ever having a bestseller…

  Ready?

  Here is an example (but there are countless possible variations).

  During the course of a year, you might receive the on-publication payment for a hardbound edition of a novel that you wrote last year, on-publication money for the paperback edition of a novel you wrote two years ago, on-sign money for a new contract for books you haven’t written yet, on-acceptance money for a novel you finished a month or two ago, film option money for a novel that was published three years ago, royalty checks for several of your older books that have sold beyond their advances, payments for a short story or two that you knocked out during the year, money for three or four of your old novels that your agent has sold to a foreign publisher.

  And so on.

  You may be selling your novels, one per year, to a U.S. publisher for about $20,000 each.

  But due to what I’ll call the Pile-On Effect or (P.O.E.), you might very well earn an actual income of $50,000 -$100,000 (or more) over the course of a single year.

  The Pile-On Effect is how a normal, non-bestselling writer can earn a good income. The more you write, the better it works.

  However, it can’t be achieved easily or quickly. It has to be developed over a span of several years. The key to P.O.E. is the number of books you write and get published.

  It doesn’t work very well if you’ve only sold two or three books. But by the time you’ve sold ten or fifteen, it will almost surely be generating plenty of money.

  You need to keep a nonwriting source of income to sustain you until you’ve produced enough material for P.O.E. to kick in.

  When is it safe to quit the job and write full time?

  As soon as you see that the Pile-On Effect is producing a steady, large income. How large? That’s up to you and your spouse.

  Generally, by the time you see significant results from P.O.E., you should be able to earn more money from writing than from your “real job.” At that point, any job other than writing becomes a waste of time and money.

  It’s quitting time.

  My 22 Favorite Poets

  1. William Ashbless

  2. Rupert Brooke

  3. Robert Burns

  4. Samuel Taylor Coleridge

  5. e.e. cummings

  6. Allan Edward DePrey

  7. Emily Dickinson

  8. Lawrence Ferlinghetti

  9. Robert Frost

  10. A.E. Houseman

  11. Randall Jarrell

  12. John Masefield

  13. Rod McKuen

  14. Kenneth Patchen

  15. Edgar Allan Poe

  16. Carl Sandberg

  17. Robert Service

  18. William Shakespeare

  19. Robert Lewis Stevenson

  20. R.S. Stewart

  21. Dylan Thomas

  22. William Butler Yeats

  My 10 Favorite Playwrights

  1. Agatha Christie

  2. Sean O’Casey 3. Ira Levin

  4. Arthur Miller

  5. William Shakespeare

  6. George Bernard Shaw

  7. Neil Simon

  8. John Synge

  9. Tennessee Williams

  10. William Butler Yeats

  Garbage Language

  HAVE YOU EVER NOTICED THAT LITERALLY EVERYWHERE YOU LOOK, people are abusing the language?

  I just did.

  Since when did “literally” come to mean “figuratively”?

  That is almost the only way you find it used, these days.

  “Literally” has stopped meaning literally altogether. It has become a term of exaggeration.

  And it has, thereby, become literally useless.

  It has been turned into a garbage word.

  The funny thing about “literally” is that, even when used properly, it is almost always a garbage word. What does it mean, anyway?

  It literally means nothing.

  Which is a wordy way to express, “It means nothing.”

  Wordy, but oh so impressive. A person sounds so very intelligent when it’s “literally” this and “literally” that and “literally” everything under the sun “literally” including the kitchen sink.

  And there we have the secret behind the current use and abuse of the poor word.

  Saying it makes you sound smart.

  At least if your audience isn’t.

  Writers use and abuse the poor word, but the worst offenders are public speakers: attorneys, politicians, educa
tors, news commentators and reporters, “community leaders” and activists promoting their questionable causes. Such people are often on the air, molding minds, influencing the public’s perception of our language.

  These same impressive, supposedly highly educated folks (after all, most of them have passed the “bar” examination), not only toss around “literally” as if they’re being paid ten bucks every time it pops out of their mouths, but they seem to linger under the impression that the “t” in often is not supposed to be silent. It should be pronounced “off-‘n,” not “off-ton.” And they labor under the impression that “irregardless” is a word. It isn’t.

  The word is “regardless.” No ir. The ir appears to be borrowed from the real word, “irrespective.” Apparently, the two words have similar meanings and get tangled in the heads of these highly intelligent people.

  On the subject of the errant ir how often do you hear supposedly well-educated people say, “To err is human”? Only it sounds like, “To air is human.” As if they’re talking about farts. Properly pronounced, err rhymes with “fur,” not “fair.” I happen to know that because my old college roommate, Fred Castro, lost a public speaking contest when he erred in the pronunciation of err. (Plus, the dictionary provides corroborating evidence.) Bad enough that we are constantly being battered by poor language coming from people who ought to know better, but the mistakes are pretentious. Showoffy.

  At the very moment that a person is trying to impress us with his erudition by flourishing his “literally,” his “often” and his “irregardless,” he’s erring in front of everyone who knows better.

  The person is arguably a pretentious moron.

  Arguably?

  What’s that?

  Another precious garbage word. Literally, it means that a person might conceivably argue in favor of the point that is being made.

  But basically it means nothing.

  I’ve just hit you with two more garbage words.

  Conceivably. Basically.

  They are most often used in such a way that they have little or no meaning at all. They are “smart-sounding” filler.

  Garbage.

  Arguably, conceivably, basically.

  Such words mean virtually nothing.

  Virtually!

  More garbage. In current usage, it seems to be a synonym of literally.

  But is there a viable alternative to the use of such language?

  Viable? If any alternative is not viable, should it be considered an alternative at all? No.

  Of course not. If it’s inviable, why bother to mention it at all?

  But people do.

  Frequently.

  Just read, just listen.

  People are constantly using such garbage, stuffing their sentences with meaningless junk, making themselves sound really smart and in many cases cluttering the works so that the audience isn’t exactly sure what the hell they’re getting at.

  Maybe obfuscation, as it were, is their intent.

  As it were? More garbage, if you will. Dumb filler thrown into sentences for no good reason. Like if you will.

  In many cases, people are obviously using such language in order to side-step the truth.

  The same good folks will clutter their language with other junk such as “to be perfectly honest,” and “frankly,” and “in point of fact.”

  Such words and phrases always precede an evasion.

  A lie.

  “In fact” comes before a falsehood.

  As does, “Trust me.”

  As does “absolutely.”

  As in, “I’m absolutely, 100 percent not guilty.”

  If you read or hear such language being used, you may be sure that its source is either: a. an innocent who has picked up his language skills by watching television, or b. a charlatan who is hoping to hoodwink you. More often the latter.

  I now see that I’ve been too harsh in my condemnation of garbage language.

  Three cheers for it!

  God bless it!

  Because without such language, we would have a much more difficult time identifying those who are trying to put something over on us.

  Instead of being marked with an A like Hester Prynne, these people are branded by their use of the ABC’s.

  A is for arrogant.

  B is for bullshit.

  C is for con.

  They are not to be trusted.

  ON CRITICS (AND FANGORIA)

  BACK IN APRIL, 1993, AN ARTICLE THAT I WROTE ABOUT CRITICS appeared in Afraid: The Newsletter for the Horror Professional. Here it is.

  THE LIZZIE BORDEN SYNDROME OR VICIOUS HACKS WITH A LUST FOR CHOPPING OTHER PEOPLE’S WOOD, FICTION, AND NECKS

  Here is a little secret for you reviewers out there who get your jollies by applying forty whacks to our books.

  We know who you are.

  We know what you’re doing.

  We’re pissed.

  Usually, you hear nothing about it. The main reason is, we don’t want to waste our time.

  You see, we understand.

  We know that you’re taking your shots at us for any of countless petty reasons, not the least of which is envy. We know that you have your little axes to grind. We know that you get a lot of attention from your peers for penning your opinions about other people’s creations. Hey, and you get paid, too! On top of that, you look so grand when you dump on us, because it presupposes that you are our superiors. You see? We do understand. We also understand that you would probably be writing fiction, the same as us, if only you had what it takes.

  You’re really just the same as us, you see.

  Sort of like a tick is the same as a dog.

  Say now, that’s quite an analogy! Not only do you subsist by crawling all over us and sucking our blood, but you’re also a fundamentally useless pest. You hide in our fur, bite us, get bloated, but do little real damage (unless you’re diseased, which I wouldn’t consider unlikely). You’re difficult to get rid of. But the folk remedy is lighter fluid on your butt.

  Curtain.

  Lights come up.

  Applause from the writers among the readers of AFRAID, smirks from the subjects of this little piece. Oh, I can see them now. Sneering, muttering, thinking “I’m really gonna get that damn moronic pervert, Laymon, next time I get a chance to review one of his pitiful pieces of crap.”

  To which I proudly exclaim, “Yawk yawk yawk, do your worst, you idjits.”

  Now, before the more reasonable of you people out there decide I’ve gone off the beam, I want to explain something. I’ve kept quiet for YEARS while a small tribe of brainless assassins have been throwing hatchets at me. Their aim is bad and their hatchets are dull, but for just how long is someone supposed to ignore the attacks?

  Also, these ambushers are disguised as book reviewers. At first glance, they appear to be performing a fairly legitimate task: writing book criticism.

  I have no problem with the real book reviewers of our world.

  Such people are doing writers and readers a service. They usually know good writing from bad, and they try to be objective and fair. Whether or not such reviewers may like my books, I can respect their opinions.

  I asked Mike Baker (the publisher of Afraid), to print this article because Afraid has always seemed to print honest, unbiased reviews. Mystery Scene is also a fine magazine with a high standard of reviewing books.

  I’m dealing here with others.

  The tribe of ambushers. The hacks with their axes to grind and the gleam in their eyes.

  People like David Kuehls, Linda Marotta, Ellen Datlow, and Stefan Dziemianowicz.

  Uh-oh, I just named names.

  And boy, I bet these four little pundits are mighty surprised to find themselves the object of a review by a writer they’ve been so cheerfully smearing in public for so long.

  These four are at the top of my list. But not just mine.

  Some or all of these same assailants are roundly despised by other writers who have been targ
ets of their snide, mindless bombast.

  Here are a few reasons why my four made the list.

  1. David Kuehls. In 1989, I received a letter from Kuehls inviting me to contribute a story to an anthology he had in the works. In his request, he was careful to point out that he is “a book reviewer for Fangoria.” I, for one, caught a whiff of threat from this invitation.

  Nevertheless, I wrote to Kuehls and politely declined to contribute a story.

  No doubt it’s a simple coincidence, but Kuehls subsequently wrote vicious diatribes against my novels for Fangoria. (Hey, if he thought my stuff was so lame, why did he ask me to contribute to his anthology?) I smell foul play.

  A friend of mine, who shall go unnamed, received similar treatment at Kuehl’s hands. He had also declined to contribute a story to the reviewer’s anthology I must wonder do the publishers of Fangoria know that Kuehls is using their magazine to clobber writers who didn’t cough up stories for his book?

  2. Linda Marotta. In Fangoria #104, this person whom I shall gently refer to as “a piece of work,” wrote about The Stake, “Just how many times can one use the word ‘retarded’ in one review? Reading a Richard Laymon novel is like watching a really dumb splatter flick.” And so on, in the same vein.

  A few of my fellow writers happened onto the Marotta review during a signing, and started laughing. They asked me what I’d done to this gal to make her hate me. “Did you murder her children or something?”

  The truth is, I don’t know her. I never even knew she existed until she started pulling her Lizzie Borden number on me.

  Furthermore, I don’t want to know her.

  Whatever else she might be a subject I don’t even wish to contemplate she is obviously a nasty and bitter… woops, never mind!

  By the way, if you think The Stake was retarded, you ought to read Marotta’s latest novel, entitled…

  Woops, again!

  Far as I know, there ain’t no such thing. My mistake, Linda. But what can you expect from a retard?