I thought I might put this up as a post first, see how you follows respond and maybe attach it as a page next to my short stories.
This is a piece that might guide budding writers. Its by a certain E E Dec Smith and is an in depth piece about his inspirations and methods on how he wrote his stories. He'd had quite a prolific career, and he was one of the main inspirations for Star Wars.
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| EE 'Doc' Smith |
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| Cover for the seventies reprint of the First Lensman by EE Smith |
I will point out that it is specifically from his point of view in the early 1960s and from a sic-fi writer's point of view, but there are plenty of hints that are still relevant today, if you are willing to exchange the science fiction categories for your own genre.
Well, here it is, enjoy, and good health to you all.
How do I write a space story? The question is simple
and straightforward enough. The answer, however, is not; since it involves many
factors.
What do I, as a reader, like to read? Campbell, de
Camp, Heinlein, Leinster, Lovecraft, Merritt, Moore, Starzl, Taine, van Vogt,
Weinbaum, Williamson – all these rate high in my book. Each has written more
than one tremendous story. They cover the field of fantastic fiction, from pure
weird to pure science fiction. While very different, each from all the others,
they have many things in common, two of which are of interest here. First, they
all put themselves into their work. John Kenton is Abraham Merrit; Jirel
of Joiry is Catherine Moore. Second each writes – or wrote – between the
lines, so that one reading is not enough to discover what is really there. Two
are necessary – three or four are often times highly rewarding. Indeed, there
are certain stories which I still re-read, every year or so, with undiminished
pleasure.
Consider Merrit, for instance. He wrote four stories
– 'The Ship of Ishtar', 'The Moon Pool', 'The Snake Mother' and 'Dweller in the
Mirage' – which will be immortal. A ten year old child can read them and thrill
at the exciting adventurous surface stories. A poet can read them over and over
for their feeling and imagery. A philologist can study them for their
perfection of wording and phraseology. And yet, underlying each of them, there is
a bedrock foundation of philosophy, the magnificence of which simply cannot be
absorbed at one sitting.
In this connection, how many of you have read, word
by word, the ascent to the Bower of Bel, in 'The Ship of Ishtar'? Those who
have not, have missed one of the most sublime passages in literature. And yet a
friend of mine told me that he had skipped 'that stuff'', it was too dry!
These differences in reader attitude, however, bring
up the very important matter of treatment. It is a well known fact that many
readers, particularly those whose heads are of use only in keeping their ears
apart, want action, and only action. Slambang action; the slammier and bangier
the better. It is also a fact that some editors will either reject or rewrite
stories which do not conform to such standards. Since it is practically
impossible to read such a story twice, however, the type is mentioned only in
passing.
Something besides action, then, is necessary. What?
And how much? And should the characters grow, or not? Many writers – good ones,
at that – do not let their characters grow. It is easier. Also, it allows a
series of stories about the same characters to go on practically endlessly;
being limited only by the readers' patience. Personally, I like to have my characters
grow and develop; even though this growth limits sharply the number of stories
I am able to write about them.
It would seem as though anyone, after a few days or
weeks of study of any good book on 'How to Write the Great American Novel',
could emerge with a clear understanding of such basic things as plot, conflict,
situation, incident, suspense, interest, treatment and atmosphere; but,
unfortunately, I didn't. Authorities differ. I don't know yet whether there are
three basic plots, or eleven, or whether an author has a brand new plot when he
changes his hero from a bright young lawyer to a brilliant young physicist and
his heroine from a wise cracking brunette stenographer to a witty blonde
stewardess. I don't know yet whether the incomparable Weinbaum's 'Trweel',
which – or who? - rocked Fandom on its foundations was a new plot, a school of
thought, or an incident. So, while I will probably use some of those words, I
will use them in the ordinary, and not in the technical, sense.
Besides action, a good story must have background
material and atmosphere to give authority, authenticity and verisimilitude. It
must also have characterization – character drawing – to make its people real
people and not marionettes dancing at the end of the author's string. To
balance these factors is not easy, since they are mutually almost exclusive –
not entirely so, since much can be shown in action sequences – and since the
slower moving material must not detract too much from that intangible,
indefinable asset which writers and editors call 'story value'.
Nor does the choice lie entirely, or even mostly,
with the author; for the public cannot read stories which editors will not
publish. I wrote three stories (not scientific fiction) which were not slanted,
but which were written exactly as I wanted to write them. I liked them; but
editors did not. Hence they will remain unpublished.
Character drawing, however deftly or interestingly it
is done, does operate to slow down the action of a story. Background material
and atmosphere are usually slower still. Philosophy, even in small doses, is
slowest of all. Yet any story, if it is to live beyond the month of its
publication, must be balanced. Hence the often heard accusation of 'wordiness'
hurled at so many writers is almost never justified. I do not believe that any
author writes words merely to fill up space. He uses words just as a mechanic
uses tools or as an artist uses colours and brushes, and with just as definite
an aim in view. The casual reader may not know, or care, what that end is, but
in practically every case the author has known exactly what he was trying to do
with every one of those words. He may have been using them for atmosphere, for
character drawing, for a subtle imagery or philosophy perceptible only to the
reader able and willing to read between the lines, or for any one of a dozen
other purposes. Thus, the action fan begrudges every word which does not hurl
the story along; and does not like Lovecraft, saying that he is 'wordy'. To the
reader who likes and appreciates atmosphere, however, Lovecraft was the master
craftsman.
Some authors are better than others, of course. There
are poor mechanics, too; and poor artists. For that matter, I wonder if any
artists ever painted a picture that was as good as he wanted and intended it to
be?
Great stories must be logical and soundly motivated;
and it is in these respects that most 'space operas' – as well as more
conventional stories – fail. A story must have action, conflict, and suspense.
An author must get his hero into a jam; and, whether or not he really must
marry him off, he usually does so, either actually or by implication. Now it is
(or at least it should be) apparent that if the hero has even half of the brain
with which the author has so carefully endowed him, he is not going to land his
spaceship and, without examination or precaution, gallop heedlessly away from
it, specifically to be captured by ferocious natives. Yet how often that
precise episode has occurred, for exactly that reason! Similarly, if anyone
connected with the take off of a rocket ship – especially an experimental model
– had any fraction of a brain, there would be just about as much chance of a
beautiful female stowing away aboard it as there would be in the case of a 500
mile racer at Indianapolis. Yet that atrocity has been used sickeningly often,
to introduce effortlessly an interference with the hero's plans and to drag in
by the heels a love interest that does not belong there.
Now sound, solid motivation is far from easy – a fact
which accounts for the rather widespread use of coincidence. This dodge, while
not as bad as some other crimes, reveals mental laziness – excepting, of
course, when it is and element in mass production methods of operation.
I have found motivation the hardest part of writing;
and several good men have told me that I am not alone. It takes work – plenty
of work – to arrange things so that even a really smart man will be forced by
circumstances to get into situations that make the stories possible. It takes
time and thought; and many times it requires extra words and background
material whose purpose is not immediately apparent.
To refer to an example with which I am thoroughly
familiar, what possible motive force would make Kimball Kinnison, an adult,
brilliant, and highly valued officer of the Galactic Patrol, go willingly into
a hyper-spatial tube which bore all the ear marks of a trap set specifically
for him? I could not throw this particular episode into the circular file, as I
have done with so many easier ones, because it is the basis of the grand climax
of the final Lensman story. ' Children of the Lens'. Nor could I duck the issue
or slide around it, since any weakness at that point would have made waste
paper of the whole book. Kinnison had to go in. his going in had to be
inevitable, with an inevitability apparent to his wife, his children, and – I
hope and believe – even the casual reader. That problem had me stumped for
longer than I care to admit; and its solution necessitated the introduction of
seemingly unimportant background material into 'Galactic Patrol', which was
published in 1937, and into the two other Lensman novels which have appeared
since.
Now to go into the way in which I write a space story
– specifically, the 'Lensmen' series, since it is in reality one story. Early
in 1927, shortly after the 'Skylark in Space' was accepted by the old Amazing,
I began to think seriously of writing a space police novel. It had to be
galactic, and eventually inter-galactic, in scope; which would necessitate
velocities vastly greater than that of light. How could I do it? The mechanism
of the 'Skylark', even though employing atomic energy, would not do. There
simply wasn't enough of it, as several mathematicians pointed out to me later
in personal correspondence – and as both Dr Garby and I knew at the time. Also,
the acceleration employed would have flattened out steel springs, to say
nothing of human bodies, into practically monomolecular layers. Mrs Garby and I
knew that, too – but since the 'Skylark' was pseudo-science, and since it was
written long before the advent of scientific fiction, we could and did use
those two mathematically indefensible mechanisms. This space-police yarn,
however, would have to be scientific fiction.
I would not use mathematically impossible mechanics,
such as that too-often-revived monstrosity of a second satellite hiding
eternally from Earth behind the moon. Since the inertia of matter made it
impossible for even atomic energy to accelerate a space ship to the velocity I
hd to have, I would have to do away with inertia. Was there any mathematical or
philosophical possibility, however slight, that matter could exist without
inertia? There was – I finally found it in no less an authority than Bigelow
(Theoretical Chemistry – Fundamentals). Einstein's Theory of course denies that
matter can attain such velocities, but that did not bother me at all. It is
still a theory – velocities greater than that of light are not absolutely
mathematically impossible. That is enough for me. In fact, the more highly
improbable a concept is – short of being contrary to mathematics whose
fundamental operations involve no neglect of infinitesimals – the better I like
it.
Other great drawbacks, philosophical or logical
rather than mathematical, were the difficulties of communicating with strange
races and the apparent impossibility of having my policemen invent or develop
an identifying symbol which all good citizens would recognize but which
malefactors could not counterfeit. The only emblems which I could devise led,
one and all, to the old 'deus ex machina' plot, which therefore was the one I
adopted; with, of course, details tailored to fit the broad scheme I had in
mind and to put in a new twist or two.
Having the Lensmen's universe fairly well set up, I
went through my collection, studying and analysing every 'cops-and-robbers'
story on my shelves: from Canstantinescu's 'War of the Universe', which I did
not consider a masterpiece, up to the stories of Starzl and Williamson, who wrote
literature worthy of the masters they are. I then wrote to the editor of Astounding,
describing my idea briefly and asking whether or not he considered it advisable
to go ahead with it, in view of the good work already done in the field.
He wrote back one of the most cheering letters I have
ever received. I will not quote it exactly, but its gist was that it was not
the pioneers in any field who did the best work, but some fellow who, coming
along later, could take advantage of their strengths and avoid their weaknesses
– and he thought that I could deliver the goods.
Thus encouraged to go ahead (I always did do better
work while being patted on the back than while kicked in the seat of my pants)
I drew up the preliminary, very broad outline. As fundamentals, I had
inertialessness and the Lens. I had the Arisians and their ultimate opponents,
the Eddorians. I had a sound psychological reason why the real nature of the
fundamental conflict should never be made known to any member of Homo Sapiens;
since that knowledge would have set up an ineradicable inferiority complex
throughout the Patrol.
It soon became evident that the story could not be
told in a hundred thousand words. There would have to be at least three
stories; and when the outline was done, it called for four. The point then
arose: how could each book be ended without leaving loose ends dangling all
over the place? I have never liked unfinished novels – I fairly gritted my
teeth when Edgar Rice Burroughs left Dejah Thoris locked up in a door-less cell
while he wrote the next book!
By taking the Boskonians one echelon at a time, the
first two yarns could be ended satisfactorily enough. The third, however, was
getting so close to the ultimate conflict that I had to do one of two things,
neither of which I liked: either leave loose ends or apparently use the ancient
and whiskery device of the 'mad scientist'. After some experimental writing, I
adopted the latter course. Please note, however, that neither I as an author
nor mentor of Arisia ever said anywhere that Fossten was either mad or an
Arisian; although I have had, time and again, to go over the whole episode word
by word to convince certain critics of the truth of this statement.
From the first quarter of the broad, general outline,
only a few pages long, I made a more detailed outline of 'Galactic Patrol';
laying out at the same time a graph of the structure, the progression of
events, the alterations of characters, the peaks of emotional intensity and the
valleys of characterization and background material. Each peak was a bit higher
than the one before, as was each valley floor, until the climax was reached;
after which the graph descended abruptly. My graphs are beautiful things.
Unfortunately, however, while I can't seem to work without something of the
kind, I have never yet been able to follow one at all closely. My characters
get away from me and do exactly as they damn please, which accounts for my
laborious method of writing.
I write the first draft with a soft pencil, upon
whatever kind of scratch paper is handiest. This draft is a mess; so full of
erasure, interlineations, marginal notes, and crossovers to the other side of
the paper that I can't read myself after it gets cold. The second draft is
written, a day or so later, from the first – with variations. It is also in
pencil, but isn't so messy; except when radical changes are necessitated by
departures from the outline a few chapters later. My wife can read most of it,
and she types what we call the 'typescript'; in reality the third rough draft.
This draft, in various stages of completion, is read and heatedly discussed by
the Galactic Roamers; a fan club in Michigan – and Los Angeles. Comments and
suggestions are written on the margins; on some hotly contested points they cover
the entire backs of the pages. I accept and use the ideas which I think are
better than my own original ones; I reject the others. By rights, these friends
of mine should have names on the title pages and a share of the loot, but to
date I have been able to resist the compulsion to give them their due.
From the typescript, after the last 'final' revision,
my wife types the 'original', which goes to Cambell. And as soon as it has been
shipped I always wish that I had it back, to spend a few more weeks on the
rough spots.
I have already mentioned the Galactic Roamers as a
group. E. E. Evans pointed out the fact the 'Triplanetary', having been laid in
the Lensmen universe, should be, was, and MUST BE the first story of the
Lensmen series, instead of 'Galactic Patrol'. Ed Counts found flaws and
suggested corrections in my handling of the Red Lensmen in the grand climax.
The planet Trenco was designed and computed, practically in toto, by an
aeronautical engineer who was in part responsible for the Lightening, the
Constellation, and the Shooting Star. Dr James Enright, of Hawai,
psychologist and psychiatrist, solved some of my knottiest problems. Dr Richard
W Dodson, nuclear physicist, helped a lot. So did Heinlein. So did many others,
not only in the United States, but also in such widely separated places as
Australia, Sweden, China, South Africa, Egypt, and the Philippines. It is
bromidic, but true, to say that two heads are better than one. It has been my
experience that fifty are still better.
In conclusion, if you want to write a space epic, go
to it. This is the way I do it. The re-numeration per hour does not compare
with what a bricklayer earns, and it's harder work – I have done them both, and
know. However, I get a terrific kick out of writing; especially out of the fact
that quite a good many people really like my stuff.
Besides, you may find a way that is easier or better
than mine: maybe one that is both easier and better.
