Now, after beating my chest and showing my scars, we come to what I hope will not turn out to be a problem.
In the 1961 issue of Writer’s Yearbook, the Rogue blurb says you pay five cents a word for fiction and that your limit is 4,000 words. This, plus your editing work on the Big Sur article, evokes to me the possibility that you may at this very moment be condensing “Easy Come, Easy Go” to 5,000 words—or perhaps you have paid a decent price for a story that is abnormally long, but that you are going to use anyway.
I hope I am right on the second count, because I don’t think my story will be very effective with three-eighths of it chopped away. Granted, the story is a long one, but I don’t think it drags anywhere and it scares the hell out of me to think that it might be cut up to fit your space requirements.
I’m probably jumping the gun on you here, conjuring up demons that may not exist. I also understand your eternal hassle with space problems. On the other hand, I hope you understand that, long after Rogue’s space problems of any given month in 1961 are a thing of the past, a fellow named Hunter S. Thompson is going to have to live with the published version of a short story called “Easy Come, Easy Go.”
Let me stress here, that, at this stage of the game, I am perfectly happy to sell a story for $250. As a matter of fact I am damned happy to sell a story at all. But to have it cut up … well, Frank, you said in your letter of August 2 that you were “well aware … how authors feel about edited work,” so this shouldn’t surprise you.
Anyway, why don’t you give me the word so I can relax.
Sincerely,
Hunter S. Thompson
TO WILLIAM J. KENNEDY:
Kennedy quit the San Juan Star but had decided to stay in Puerto Rico to work on his novel.
August 20, 1961
Big Sur
Okay, so you were fired. It happens to the best of us. I’ll pass the word to Bone, who will probably write Dinhofer and tell him that Thompson is spreading rumors, etc.…
It’s kind of honorable to tilt with the Rotary Club, but piss-poor when they shoot you down … yeah. And they’ll do it, too, the bastards.
You might like Eugene, Oregon. It’s amazing how this woodsy business gets to a man. I spent all afternoon in the hills with my new Doberman, shooting and drinking wine out of a canteen and looking for a house site. I’ve already bought a pistol and am going in tomorrow to buy a rifle. And I buy the best. You bet. Anyway, I’m also thinking of heading up north to look for some property. Denne21 has some up there and says it’s great. I can’t say. If not the coast, maybe Montana. Plenty of bears there. Also elk and big cats. A man could shoot all day. And not be arrested.
They’re trying to arrest me here. Also trying to evict me. But I’m rolling in money now and they’re awed. After months of insane poverty I have made $630 in the past six weeks. I am so used to poverty that I can waste most of it and not know the difference. Hence the Doberman ($100), the pistol ($70) and the rifle ($110). Plenty of ammunition too. When it starts, I’ll be ready. You bet.
Last sale was my first fiction—a long short story to Rogue for $250. All these things I’ve sold were returned to me by my former agent as unsalable. Beware of agents.
I think—god, I hope—I have a good one now. Sent him part of the book and he wants the first half and an outline as soon as I can rustle it up. I could send it now, but I’m scared. It looked pretty good before I got this letter, but all of a sudden I think it needs more work. So I’m faced with a 150 page re-write at jack-rabbit speed. And I’ll probably still be scared when I finish it. Sooner or later I guess a man has to put his cards on the table and call. Or maybe he calls first—it’s been so long since I had money that I’ve forgotten.
I admire your plunge, if that it is, and hope you can muster the balls and the decent pages—or maybe just the salable ones—to make it over the hump. After that, of course, it’s downhill all the way—but downhill with money and a publisher, which makes a difference.
I imagine your stay in PR will help you to handle your money wisely—live modestly, my boy, “only poets and thieves can exercise free will, and most of them die young.” Right?
How about a man who’s both a poet and a thief—and a hellfire good shot as well. A man like that could hold out for a long time. With a cheque now and then. No matter how you look at it, if the mailman ain’t good to you, that’s it. Back to the job. Long hours, plenty of bullshit, steady pay—then die and make room for somebody else.
Well, what else can I say? Not much, I guess. I don’t talk much anymore, anyway. Semonin is coming up in two or three weeks and I guess I’ll talk a while then.22 Or maybe I’ll shoot him for his own good—and everybody else’s good. A man like that could disturb people—running around loose and yelling about freedom. Might as well be a nigger, some kind of goddamn red. That Semonin is a bad apple all right—a hell of an example for the kids, too.
I haven’t read To Kill a Mockingbird. Is it worth $2½ million? Somehow, the title don’t move me. I like something like “The Rum Diary.” Now there’s a title, by god. Book-of-the-Month Club? Hell yes. Movie? No doubt. A book like that could make a man rich.
Well it had better, by christ. I’m not about to wait much longer. If a typewriter won’t do it … well, maybe a .44 Magnum will. Big noise, big money, eh? I guess that’s the way it goes.
Well, in closing, I guess all I can say is shit. What else?
When you write, send $2½ million. I need a few acres and some dogs and some guns and some whiskey and a few cars and a boat and a donation to CORE and god knows what else. It’s hell to be needy.
Okay,
Hunter
TO MRS. CHAPMAN:
Having been evicted by Mrs. Murphy, Thompson tried to rent a secluded nearby cabin to finish “The Rum Diary.”
September 29, 1961
Big Sur, California
Dear Mrs. Chapman:
Last week Jo Hudson23 and I came up to your place to see about hunting some pigs. You weren’t there, and after a short talk with Frank Trotter,24 we left. I’m sorry to have missed you, because this letter would be a lot easier to write if you had some idea who I am. And vice-versa.
Anyway, from the little Jo has told me about you I thought it might not be a complete waste of time to send you a letter and hope for the best.
Briefly, I am a writer—not the beatnik or barroom variety, but a beast who actually puts words on paper with the idea of selling them. I am also—as of October 27—an evicted writer. At the moment I am living in the big Murphy house at Slate Springs. As it happens, the current issue of Rogue magazine carries an article by me, and the article includes a fairly mild description of the Murphy property and its varied inhabitants.* Apparently the description was not mild enough for Mrs. Murphy, who read the article yesterday and served me an eviction notice at one o’clock today. Fast work for an 89-year-old woman, I’d say—but as much as I admire the efficiency, it puts me in something of a bind.
I’ve been living here since January and for most of that time I’ve been working on a novel, half of which is finished and currently in the hands of an agent. I need at least two months and possibly three to finish the book, and, unfortunately, October 27 is barely a month away. Since I’m just a few notches above being broke, I can’t afford to move any distance with a fiancée, a big Doberman and a houseful of gear.
So that leaves me to find a nearby place where I can sleep, eat and write for the month of November, and maybe the first two weeks of December. I have to be in Louisville, Kentucky (my home) for Christmas, so that gives me a definite deadline. Jo mentioned that you had several unoccupied cabins on your place, and it occurred to me that I might rent one of them for that length of time.
This doesn’t mean that I want to descend on you with a family, a dog and a mountain of personal belongings. I will probably put my fiancée to work in San Francisco, so all I would bring to your place would be a dog, a typewriter, a rifle and a sleeping bag. I wouldn’t ment
ion the rifle except that Jo tells me you could use a little help in getting rid of the pigs. I would like nothing better than 4 or 6 weeks of hunting pigs in the afternoon and writing at night.
As a matter of fact, I write only at night, so I’d be happy to do just about any kind of work for you during the day—from hunting pigs, to chopping wood, to … whatever needs to be done. I’d refer you to Mrs. Murphy, who—until recently—would have told you what a model tenant I am. But, according to Dennis, the very mention of my name causes her to break into a high-pitched chattering whine. I could refer you to Ed Culver, whose tremendous decency (and credit) has kept me going for almost a year—or Dick Hartford—or Dennis Murphy—or Jo Hudson—or Judge Crater—or Winnie Ruth Judd—or …
Anyway, I’m in pretty grim need of a place to finish the book, and if you think there’s any chance that we could work something out with one of your cabins I’d like to come by and talk about it. Let me assure you again that I’d definitely be gone by Christmas, and maybe sooner. Or if it happened that you needed the place for your own guests on the weekends—or if anything came up that would make my presence a problem—I’d move out with a few hours’ notice. When it comes to quick movement I’m pretty flexible—hell, I have to be, living the way I do—but I’m not flexible enough to write half a good novel, then quit and roam around the coast for a few months, looking for a place to settle and start again. That ain’t the way books get written.
So that’s my pitch. I want to use one of your cabins for a month or so; I’m willing to work a few hours a day, pay a reasonable rent, and keep out of your way while I’m there. If the idea doesn’t unnerve you—coming, as it does, from someone you’ve never seen—please drop me a line and tell me what you think.
Thanks,
Hunter S. Thompson
Big Sur
* copy of offending article is enclosed. Keep it if you want; if not, send it on back. If nothing else, it will give you an idea of what I look like.
TO VIRGINIA THOMPSON:
Deemed persona non grata by Big Sur’s artistic community, Thompson contemplated returning to Louisville to finish “The Rum Diary.”
October 13, 1961
Big Sur
Dear Mom:
Got your letter yesterday and have spent 24 hours pondering whether or not to chance a trip to L.A. If I were sure Davison would be there I’d give it a try, but I couldn’t stand going all the way down there for nothing. I’d have to hitchhike down and back and this road is a hitchhiker’s graveyard. That $125 you sent was gone in no time at all. I live almost entirely on credit and whenever I get a lump sum most of it is already spent.
Mrs. Murphy sent me an eviction notice the day she saw the Rogue article. We have to be out on October 27 and so far it looks like no other house is available. Not to me, anyway. Everyone mentioned in that article is agitating for my immediate departure. I am dealing with two groups; one, composed mainly of beatniks, queers and pacifists, wants me run clear out of the state—the other, more diverse, wants me to stay but they can’t think where.
A good many people have offered me places to stay, but in every case they would be too cramped or uncomfortable for me to write much of anything except letters. Some of the places have no electricity, others have no plumbing, others are tents and barns and garages. Unless something better comes up before October 27 I am seriously considering a trip to Louisville; it’s the only place I can think of where I could have enough privacy to get the book done. Even before the eviction notice I was thinking about coming home for Christmas, so I would have to spend the transportation money anyway. I can probably pawn my rifle for the price of a train ticket. Sandy would either stay here, or go to New York until after Christmas. Maybe she could come down to Louisville if I were still there for Christmas week.
As usual, my plans are contingent on whatever money comes in the mail. I have a story out and the novel is still with the agent—no word yet—so I can make no definite plans until I’m certain whether or not I’ll be broke when it comes time to be evicted. If I get any money, I’ll go into Carmel or Monterey and rent a small apt. until the book is finished.
I know the idea of my coming home for six weeks or two months will set your hair on end, but you’ll just have to take my word that if I come home to work, I’ll work. I’m too close to completing a good novel to let it go by the boards with a lot of stupid socializing.
Anyway, let’s leave that subject until I find out what’s going to happen here. We are definitely out of this place on the 27th, but something else may turn up between now and then. If not, I’ll start for Louisville around November 1 and stay until I finish the book. Barring a collapse of the imagination, it should be done by Christmas and possibly before, depending on how much I can concentrate on what I’m doing. I’ll know more in a week or ten days and I’ll write again as soon as I decide.
Thanks tremendously for the $125. It was like a gift from God.
Love,
Hunter
TO ALFRED KAZIN:
Thompson regarded Kazin’s controversial “Alfred Kazin in Puerto Rico,” which first appeared in the February 1960 Commentary, as the best writing ever on Puerto Rico. Thus he sought his former instructor’s help in getting the Great Puerto Rican Novel published. Kazin obliged.
October 14, 1961
Dear Mr. Kazin:
I hate to badger people for favors when I’m not sure what I have to offer in return, but at this point I’m ready to badger just about anybody who can do me any good.
In brief, I’d like you to tell me who would be likely to publish my novel, The Rum Diary.
You got the nod for several reasons, primarily because I was free-lancing in Puerto Rico last year when your rancid bombshell was reprinted in the San Juan Star. In it, you said “an American Somerset Maugham” could do a colorful novel on present-day P.R. Although I hesitate to bill myself as an American Maugham, I’m about nine-tenths through a novel that was just getting underway when your article appeared. Ever since then I’ve been using it as a morale-booster; whenever I think I’m being a little rough on the Puerto Ricans I read the article again and I know I still have leeway. At any rate, the thing was a classic and, in the vicious days that followed its publication, I made a mental note to get hold of you if I ever needed anyone to run interference for my novel.
That’s overstating it a bit, because all I really need is a few names—say, three decent editors at publishing houses not dedicated to cookbooks, boozy memoirs, or the rib-tickling humors of children and animals. As you probably know, I could waste a year submitting this book to people who would brush it off like dandruff. This is what I want to avoid. You might tell me to get an agent, but my experience with agents has been unbelievably bad. I’ve managed to sell enough on my own to keep from getting a job, but agents treat me like the son of Judas.
I’m enclosing some excerpts from The Rum Diary. I hope you like them at least well enough to steer me to a likely publisher. God knows it’s difficult enough to write a book without having to face, in total ignorance, those vultures on Madison Avenue. I don’t care who publishes the book, as long as they put it between covers and give me enough money to pay the rent. As it is, my rent is $15 a month, but I’m being evicted on October 27, so it will probably go up considerably.
For the record, the manuscript of The Rum Diary is half-finished in the final draft. I have submitted it once, to an agent who found the characters “uninteresting.” Maybe they are; maybe the book is hopeless, but I’d like to try a few editors before I give up. If you could send me a few names, I’d certainly appreciate it.
Thanks,
Hunter S. Thompson
Manor House
Big Sur, California
TO EUGENE W. MCGARR:
October 19, 1961
Big Sur
Well, McGarr, I know you want to hear about the high life in Big Sur, so I want you to sit back with whatever mass of meat and pulp you must have in your hands at the moment an
d hear about things as they are. First, I have been evicted—and, second, I have rejected the eviction in toto. I know this will give you pleasure.
The article came out in Rogue and Mrs. Murphy saw it as a vicious exposé of her property—hence, an eviction notice some 20 hours later. I have pondered this notice for some three weeks and now see that my only course is to sit on my ass and type until they can muster enough sheriffs to carry me off. I only wish this letter could find you as it might have before the days of your Mental Fatness, so I could invite you out for the fun. I have good reason to expect that the next month or two will not be devoid of entertainment.
My eviction date is October 27, six days from now, and tomorrow I will make a new batch of beer that will not be bottled for ten days, nor drinkable for fifteen. I intend to drink that batch in this room, and perhaps even swill the next batch before they do me in. Because they will do me in, McGarr, just as they’ll do you in—or perhaps I should say, “they would have done you in”—and finish us all off in a blaze of shit and oppression. In the words of Mr. Mailer, “the shits are killing us,” but I think Mailer has lost faith in the battle—the dirty fun of losing, as it were, the loose clean feeling of not giving a roaring fuck about winning or losing or anything else. Mailer has learned to take himself seriously, and any man who does that is fair game for the shits.
You’ve done it yourself, McGarr, and it’s made you duller, more posed and all too obvious. Somewhere behind that, I think, lurks the half-wild shadow of an original man. I hope so, anyway. Because when you lose that, you’re through.
Your theories about my life here are just about what I expected, so I won’t waste much time on them. Suffice it to say that you’re right about my sadism having free rein in Big Sur. So much so, in fact, that I can get it out of my system with no trouble at all. Now, instead of dissipating my energy in a stupid search for excitement, I can flash it off with two hours in the hills and approach the rest of my day in a rested frame of mind. If this makes me “sick,” so be it. Terms like that one have just about lost their meaning anyway, except for people who think a word is a fact.
Proud Highway Page 37
