DIY History | Transcribe | Hevelin Fanzines | Acolyte, v. 2, issue 3, whole no. 7, Summer 1944

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Acolyte, v. 2, issue 3, whole no. 7, Summer 1944

Page 19

shrug. They are fellows who think along lines which I from time to time consider intently. We share a common taste. They are customers. But for their interest in fantasy--they, the great group of fans and mere purchasers--there'd have been nearly 100 yarns I could never have sold.
I do not contribute fiction to fan mags, simply because writing a story is work, not merely splashing something off. And when I work, I expect to get paid. I can do only one grade of work: my best--that is, my best at that moment, and with respect to that theme or subject. My best brings an appreciable sum from a commercial publisher. Frankly I couldn't afford t hand a fan a MS. for which I can get, via return mail, $100 or $200 or $300. No fan mag editor would expect me to hand him even a $50 MS., though these days I don't warm up a typewriter for less than $100. As for dishing out a reject--no. If it were good, it would have sold for cash. If it's not worth selling, it's not worth anyone's acceptance as a gift.
True, I do write essays for fan mags. That is different. No problem of drama and structure is involved. It's relaxation, hobby writing, a bus-man's holiday! I enjoy it--in limited amounts.
A motor-racing fan mag--of all things, but why not?--once asked me if I had any motor-racing rejects. Oddly, I did have. I've followed racing, I've written articles on motoring, and fiction on racing. One bounced. But I turned the man down. If it wasn't good enough to sell, then it wasn't good enough to give away. Months later, a salvage editor bought it--cut rate, of course. But it was, after all, worth paying for. Fiction writing,while fun, is also work. Essays--well, that essay on rum in Diablerie: fun doing it, relaxation, done after dinner, when I was burned out and couldnIt write fiction. I did it instead of spending an hour in the darkroom tinkering with cameras. That very same kind of copy, not one bit better, not one bit worse, used to bring me $50 on the barrel head, in the days when I fooled around writing articles. For that ratter, I sold some technical photographic articles last year, lost money on them, but did it just for fun. Bill Watson kindly said my article on rum was good enough for Esquire. While I've never sold to Esquire, Bill was just about right. I have sold such copy to mags which had the Esquire approach-but-varied, and came close to Esquire rates.

DARK GARDEN (For Clark Ashton Smith)

There was an autumn garden once; strange flowers
Swooned by the paths, and yes archaic dreamed
Through endless twilights where no peacock screamed
His agony to mark the fading hours.
Here was my home; among these crumbling bowers
I lay by silent pools whose waters seemed
The timeless mirrors of a world that gleamed
In tarnished beauty, swayed by curious powers.

No other walked the garden, and no sound
Provoked the echoes of that brooding air
Where fruit hung heavy; knowing grief nor care
I dreamed until that bitter hour found
Beneath dark-rotting leaves a mouth which bled--
And I awoke and knew that I was dead.
---Richard Ely Morse
(Reprinted by permission from The Californian, Fall 1936.)
-- 19 --

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shrug. They are fellows who think along lines which I from time to time consider intently. We share a common taste. They are customers. But for their interest in fantasy--they, the great group of fans and mere purchasers--there'd have been nearly 100 yarns I could never have sold. I do not contribute fiction to fan mags, simply because writing a story is work, not merely splashing something off. And when I work, I expect to get paid. I can do only one grade of work: my best--that is, my best at that moment, and with respect to that theme or subject. My best brings an appreciable sum from a commercial publisher. Frankly I couldn't afford t hand a fan a MS. for which I can get, via return mail, $100 or $200 or $300. No fan mag editor would expect me to hand him even a $50 MS., though these days I don't warm up a typewriter for less than $100. As for dishing out a reject--no. If it were good, it would have sold for cash. If it's not worth selling, it's not worth anyone's acceptance as a gift. True, I do write essays for fan mags. That is different. No problem of drama and structure is involved. It's relaxation, hobby writing, a bus-man's holiday! I enjoy it--in limited amounts. A motor-racing fan mag--of all things, but why not?--once asked me if I had any motor-racing rejects. Oddly, I did have. I've followed racing, I've written articles on motoring, and fiction on racing. One bounced. But I turned the man down. If it wasn't good enough to sell, then it wasn't good enough to give away. Months later, a salvage editor bought it--cut rate, of course. But it was, after all, worth paying for. Fiction writing,while fun, is also work. Essays--well, that essay on rum in Diablerie: fun doing it, relaxation, done after dinner, when I was burned out and couldnIt write fiction. I did it instead of spending an hour in the darkroom tinkering with cameras. That very same kind of copy, not one bit better, not one bit worse, used to bring me $50 on the barrel head, in the days when I fooled around writing articles. For that ratter, I sold some technical photographic articles last year, lost money on them, but did it just for fun. Bill Watson kindly said my article on rum was good enough for Esquire. While I've never sold to Esquire, Bill was just about right. I have sold such copy to mags which had the Esquire approach-but-varied, and came close to Esquire rates. DARK GARDEN (For Clark Ashton Smith) There was an autumn garden once; strange flowers Swooned by the paths, and yes archaic dreamed Through endless twilights where no peacock screamed His agony to mark the fading hours. Here was my home; among these crumbling bowers I lay by silent pools whose waters seemed The timeless mirrors of a world that gleamed In tarnished beauty, swayed by curious powers. No other walked the garden, and no sound Provoked the echoes of that brooding air Where fruit hung heavy; knowing grief nor care I dreamed until that bitter hour found Beneath dark-rotting leaves a mouth which bled-- And I awoke and knew that I was dead. ---Richard Ely Morse (Reprinted by permission from The Californian, Fall 1936.) -- 19 --