DIY History | Transcribe | Hevelin Fanzines | Fanomena, March 1948

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Fanomena, March 1948

Page 6

and carrots, she sat down on the other side of the wobbly table and started to write a tale of adventure in space.
In his wild infatuation, his fantastic day dreams, Kelly had forgotten the Doctor's advice, "Never, never marry!" His bride had contracted the disease. Now the two sat on rickety chairs on opposite sides of the old table; there were two typewriters clicking instead of one; two baskets filled with cabbages and carrots. Nancy no longer worried about the leaking roof, ceased to plan nutritious meals, became oblivious of the dusty and broken down furniture. All she was interested in was the writing of wonderful stories!
Her disease progressed rapidly. Soon she was producing more stories than her husband. Food was unimportant, sleep an irritating necessity. Daily Kelly carried a dozen stories down to the RFD mail box and daily he brought back a dozen rejected stories. Time passed rapidly. For hours the loving couple remained in a silence broken only by the sounds of the clicking typewriters and the gnawing of raw cabbages and carrots. Neither read the other's stories and thus there was no time lost in the discussion of plots or criticism of style or sentence construction.
Again and again John and Nancy tried to reform; but, like the confirmed alcoholic, the incurable opium eater, they returned to their typewriters. Realizing the deteriorating effect of the disease, they were unable to break the chains holding them to their obcession.
At last a child was born. Kelly remembered the warning of the Doctor, but kept his fears a secret. Perhaps the child would be normal.
The house was now beginning to overflow with thousands of Science Fiction magazines and enough unprinted stories to fill other thousands of magazines. Lacking money to buy a cradle, the parents built one out of old copies of Science Magazine. Diapers being financially unobtainable, the little innocent was clad in pages torn from old numbers of Space Magazine. Sunlight filtered through curtains made of flour sack showing the words.
"Eventually, why not now?"
This became their inspirational battlecry. Someday they would sell a story!
At two years of age, little Warpage, for so the child had been christened, began eating Science Stories. When she was four her father found her telling fantasy stories while she was supposed to be sleeping. At six she wrote her first story. When she reached her eighth birthday, there were three rickety chairs around the unsteady table, three typewriters on the table, three baskets of cabbages and carrots on the floor near the chairs.
The barn had now become a storehouse for magazines and manuscripts. There was less money for clothing and none for food. Almost all their little income was spent for paper and stamps. But neither hunger, cold nor more leaks in the roof could stay the continuous flow of new tales.
The little family of three lived in a world of dreams; dreams which came slithering from dust packed corners of dingy rooms, from drops of rain on the umbrella beating a tattoo of semantics; legions of weirdly shaped creatures trooped from the depths of the subconscious and placed themselves in colorful of ulcerous plots, doing ill contrived things in incredible ways, speaking in unknown tongues. On rare occasions a sturdy sunbeam, forcing its way through begrimed windows brought a change in the story composition, and filled them with songs and flowers, beautiful thoughts of kindly people who performed deeds of valor. This did not happen often.
One ambition, and one only, dominated these three as their fingers flew over the keyboards of the three machines; to imprison these dreams on sheets of clean white paper. At times their inspiration was so forceful, their perception so keen that they could not sleep till the tale was finished. Kelly wrote a fifty thousand and word short novel, in thirty hours, and then completely exhausted, slept six hours, at the end of which time he was again back at work.
The three baskets were continually refilled with cabbages and carrots. Occasionally, for dessert they each ate a head of wilted lettuce. Their excited breathing, the crunching of raw vegetables and the clicking of the typewriters mingled with the dripping of water on the umbrellato form a symphony of literary grandeur.
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and carrots, she sat down on the other side of the wobbly table and started to write a tale of adventure in space. In his wild infatuation, his fantastic day dreams, Kelly had forgotten the Doctor's advice, "Never, never marry!" His bride had contracted the disease. Now the two sat on rickety chairs on opposite sides of the old table; there were two typewriters clicking instead of one; two baskets filled with cabbages and carrots. Nancy no longer worried about the leaking roof, ceased to plan nutritious meals, became oblivious of the dusty and broken down furniture. All she was interested in was the writing of wonderful stories! Her disease progressed rapidly. Soon she was producing more stories than her husband. Food was unimportant, sleep an irritating necessity. Daily Kelly carried a dozen stories down to the RFD mail box and daily he brought back a dozen rejected stories. Time passed rapidly. For hours the loving couple remained in a silence broken only by the sounds of the clicking typewriters and the gnawing of raw cabbages and carrots. Neither read the other's stories and thus there was no time lost in the discussion of plots or criticism of style or sentence construction. Again and again John and Nancy tried to reform; but, like the confirmed alcoholic, the incurable opium eater, they returned to their typewriters. Realizing the deteriorating effect of the disease, they were unable to break the chains holding them to their obcession. At last a child was born. Kelly remembered the warning of the Doctor, but kept his fears a secret. Perhaps the child would be normal. The house was now beginning to overflow with thousands of Science Fiction magazines and enough unprinted stories to fill other thousands of magazines. Lacking money to buy a cradle, the parents built one out of old copies of Science Magazine. Diapers being financially unobtainable, the little innocent was clad in pages torn from old numbers of Space Magazine. Sunlight filtered through curtains made of flour sack showing the words. "Eventually, why not now?" This became their inspirational battlecry. Someday they would sell a story! At two years of age, little Warpage, for so the child had been christened, began eating Science Stories. When she was four her father found her telling fantasy stories while she was supposed to be sleeping. At six she wrote her first story. When she reached her eighth birthday, there were three rickety chairs around the unsteady table, three typewriters on the table, three baskets of cabbages and carrots on the floor near the chairs. The barn had now become a storehouse for magazines and manuscripts. There was less money for clothing and none for food. Almost all their little income was spent for paper and stamps. But neither hunger, cold nor more leaks in the roof could stay the continuous flow of new tales. The little family of three lived in a world of dreams; dreams which came slithering from dust packed corners of dingy rooms, from drops of rain on the umbrella beating a tattoo of semantics; legions of weirdly shaped creatures trooped from the depths of the subconscious and placed themselves in colorful of ulcerous plots, doing ill contrived things in incredible ways, speaking in unknown tongues. On rare occasions a sturdy sunbeam, forcing its way through begrimed windows brought a change in the story composition, and filled them with songs and flowers, beautiful thoughts of kindly people who performed deeds of valor. This did not happen often. One ambition, and one only, dominated these three as their fingers flew over the keyboards of the three machines; to imprison these dreams on sheets of clean white paper. At times their inspiration was so forceful, their perception so keen that they could not sleep till the tale was finished. Kelly wrote a fifty thousand and word short novel, in thirty hours, and then completely exhausted, slept six hours, at the end of which time he was again back at work. The three baskets were continually refilled with cabbages and carrots. Occasionally, for dessert they each ate a head of wilted lettuce. Their excited breathing, the crunching of raw vegetables and the clicking of the typewriters mingled with the dripping of water on the umbrellato form a symphony of literary grandeur. 7