Grumbles From the Grave by Robert A. Heinlein
June 23, 1967: Robert A. Heinlein to Lurton Blassingame
I am very anxious to get back to writing, including new copy for the proposed boy scout book—and I've just had a very pleasant, long letter from ---- telling me that ---- has again raised their rates . . . and that he would expect to pay me a still higher bonus rate if I'll ever come through with copy. But, Lurton, I've never worked any harder in my life than right now and it is utterly impossible for me to turn out fiction until I get this [Santa Cruz] house finished. Every time I turn my back something goes wrong. The cabinet and finish work is slowly (and very expensively) being finished. After that we still have the floors, ceilings, and fireplaces to do, plus the driveway, the front steps, and some exterior painting. It feels like an endless nightmare and the costs are utterly unbelievable. But there is no way to stop—short of being forced to stop by running out of money. Which is possible, despite the way you have been digging gold for us.
Sorry—I'm simply very tired tonight, up to midnight last night on the drawing board, on it again today under pressure so that the cabinetmakers could take a bunch of detail drawings home over the weekend . . . and now writing this under pressure so as not to miss the next mail dispatch. But we are getting a beautiful house just the way Ginny wants it.
(98)
Heinlein working at his desk, at "Bonny Doon," the Santa Cruz house.
September 16, 1973: Robert A. Heinlein to Lurton Blassingame
. . . In the meantime, I am hotter than a $2 pistol on three books. One is fiction and will be a long time in writing, as I must do much research on the history and culture and manners of speech of several periods I do not as yet know enough about. It will be an episodic time-travel fantasy (with a new gimmick for time travel), each episode independent and available for sale as a short story as it is written, but the whole thing linked together by an overall plot which will make it a novel of book length—somewhat the way [Paul] Gallico's "Adventures of Hiram Holiday" make one book—but nothing at all like Gallico's fine job save in its episodic structure. (I am going to reread his in order to stay as far away from his ideas as possible in all ways.) I have several episodes well worked out but each needs careful research—probably after a draft on each, then a final form after research; this will take lots of work. (I may turn out a juvenile sci fi adventure of the sort I used to do long before this episodic fantasy is completed.)
The second book is a memoirs-autobiography job to be published posthumously—and left uncopyrighted till then (hence of zero cash value in probate)—as a little bonus to Ginny for all the years she has put up with my cantankerous ways. If published about a year after my death it should bring her some return . . . if I am still writing and my works are still known at the time of my death. If I get it in fair shape, you may possibly see a draft of it later—depends on events. I have been gathering notes for such a book for many years and have recently started shaping them up . . . especially since 1969, which caused me to realize that I didn't have forever if it were to be a vendable property. Working title: Grumbles from the Grave by Robert A. Heinlein (deceased). (It's amazing how frank and how acidly funny one can be when one is certain it will never see print until the writer is safely out of reach. I'll name names—then Ginny will have to edit it with the advice of a good lawyer to insure that she is safe, too—then no doubt the publisher's lawyers will want some names deleted or changed, too. But I am going to write it as if with a Ouija board. It will be easy to write—lots of notes, lots of pack-rat-saved souvenirs, more than fifty years of letters, many things I have never discussed—e.g., the frontline seat I had in the crisis many years back with Japan, before World War II—a crisis involving a war ultimatum that never got into the news . . . plus a Secret Life of (Walter Mitty) Heinlein, etc. I'm working on it.
But the third book will be written and finished for publication as soon as I am free of taking care of Ginny through this long, long siege of oral surgery. I have it in shape to start writing this very minute but will have many, many more card notes by that time—shortly after the first of the year. Working title: Writing for a Living (and How to Live Through It)—Being the Ungarnished Facts about the Writing Racket for People Too Lazy to Dig Ditches. The first part—Writing for a Living—is for the cover and the half-title page, the entire title being for the full-title page—although the book jacket might read Writing for a Living in large letters, plus The Ungarnished Facts in much smaller letters, plus my name in quite large letters—same size as the short title, or even larger, if publisher's judgment in dust jackets of my last several books is a guide. Besides that, for use on the inner flap and on the back of the dust jacket, and as title of the preface Ginny has suggested and is preparing a Latin fake quotation: "De Natura Scribendi etc.," a free translation being "Concerning the Nature of the Writing Business and How Not to Get Screwed in It." Ginny's command of Latin grammar is good and she knows many Latin bawdy idioms . . . but she will write it, then enlist the help of a professor of Latin here at the campus to insure perfect grammar and exact idiom—and a choice of words as nearly self-translating as possible by selection of proper cognates of English. I'm probably attribute it to Juvenal or Ovid, as interpreted by Lazarus Long.
(It could have a How to Write for Money title—but I think that "How to—" has been overworked of late years.)
A somewhat-laundered translation could be used in the dust jacket blurb (and possibly an exact translation supplied to reviewers), but the Latin itself must be idiomatically perfect. In truth it will be a most practical guide for inexperienced aspirants who are wild to do the—comparatively mild—and rather fun work that writing entails. I am going to make it extremely practical—more practical than Jack Woodford's How to Write and Sell (his only good book, his only bestseller, and the basis for 90%+ of his reputation)—but I intend to make it lively, hard to put down as a good novel by any of the millions of aspirant-writers-who-never-will-actually-write, plus the thousands who do write and could make a living at it if they knew certain rules of the game—rules that are not taught in so-called creative writing classes, nor in any book on how to write that I have ever seen.
I intend to lace it with illustrative true anecdotes, changing names and dates and places only when necessary to avoid being sued—and will say so. It will have many a chuckle in it, plus a few belly laughs. I know I can do it. This will be a timeless book and should make money for many years. It just might be a smash hit, like Helen Gurley's Sex and the Single Girl—as everyone wants to know how to make money with least effort and almost as many have at least a secret hope of seeing their names in print as "Authors"—much like the great curiosity that most respectable women have about prostitution . . . and a secret wonder as to whether or not they could have made the grade in the Oldest Profession—only of course they never actually would, perish the thought! Almost as many feel that way about the Second Oldest Profession, the Teller of Tales—I know, from endless direct experience, that a person who actually writes for a living . . . and clearly does well financially at it . . . is an object of curiosity to many—an exotic creature, not quite respectable, but very interesting. I'm buttonholed about it every time I appear in public—which used to be fun but has grown to be a nuisance. So I might as well turn this nuisance into cash.
Editor's Note: None of the three hooks outlined here were ever written; some notes were collected, but nothing ever went on paper.
Lurton telephoned one day, saying that Robert had been asked to give one of the Forrestal Lectures at the Naval Academy. Normally, Lurton would have regretted the invitation, but this was from Robert's alma mater. So it was accepted, and many months went into preparation for the talk.
Then along came a request from the Britannica editors for Robert to do an article on Paul Dirac and antimatter for the Compton Yearbook. Robert viewed that as an opportunity to review the entire field of modern physics, and sciences in general. So, doing that article took one year. And it was followed by a request for another article on
Then came the invitation to be Guest of Honor at MidAmeriCon, which took up most of the year of 1976, what with all the arrangements to be made.
The year 1977 was passed in getting blood drives going among science fiction fans—and I must heartily recommend them for their cooperation in this project. Donors still send me copies of their ten-gallon certificates . . .
Thus did time pass, and those books Robert was so hot to do were never written.
Robert never did tell me just what the crisis with Japan was, when his ship steamed full speed toward the Orient.
SLUMP
March 31, 1959: Robert A. Heinlein to Lurton Blassingame
If the market is in this bad shape, I had better do one of two things; either quit writing for the pulp SF magazines and concentrate on television and possible slick sales, or simply retire and do what I want to do with my time. I could retire very easily now, and Ginny and I could live very comfortably, simply by dispensing with foreign travel, emeralds, and similar unnecessary luxuries—and I certainly do not fancy knocking myself out, breeding insomnia, etc., for the privilege of receiving word rates that are actually less, after taxes, than those I got twenty years ago—and are effectively less than half that when I spend the money. It doesn't make sense.
July 28, 1959: Robert A. Heinlein to Lurton Blassingame
I am returning your clipping about the sad state of fiction. It is enough to drive a man back to engineering. However, I have always worked on the theory that there is always a market somewhere for a good story—a notion that Will Jenkins [the real name of science-fiction writer Murray Leinster] pounded into my head many years ago. When I started writing there were lots of pulp magazines, many slick fiction magazines—no pocketbooks and no television. I think I'll just go on writing stories that I would like to read and assume that they can be sold somewhere to some medium.
MOTION PICTURE CONTRACT
November 8, 1968: Robert A. Heinlein to Lurton Blassingame
We have just finished a hard three days with the literary appraiser—hard but very pleasant; he turns out to be muy simpatico. Today I am trying to turn my notes into a long letter to Ned [Brown] re the Glory Road [fantasy novel, see Chapter XI, "Adult Novels"] contract. Darn it, I opened that contract determined to sign it unchanged if at all possible to live with it. Ginny says they let a second cousin write this contract when they should have used at least a first cousin.
TELEVISION SERIES
October 12, 1963: Robert A. Heinlein to Lurton Blassingame
Ned told me by phone that the contract is all set for the TV series and for me to do the pilot film shooting script. He gave me a lot of details, none of which I wrote down, as I don't believe a durn thing out of Hollywood until I see a signed contract and a check . . . Ned seems to have gotten from them simply everything he asked for . . . I simply told him to go ahead and get the best deal he could and I would sign it as long as it did not commit me to work in Hollywood.
But Ned said that I really must come out to Hollywood for at least one day's conference with Dozier, the boss. This I flatly refused to do until I have a signed contract in hand. I was not just being stubborn.
Editor's Note: Robert was quite accustomed to receiving telephone calls from Hollywood producers; they would want him to do a script. Each time, the suggestion would be made, "Why don't you hop on a plane and come out here and discuss it?"
So, when in 1963, Robert received a telephone call from a Hollywood producer, Howie Horwitz, Robert was ready with an answer. Howie wanted Robert to do a pilot script for a science fiction TV series for Screen Gems. Then came the inevitable line: "Why don't you hop a plane and come out and discuss it?"
Robert replied, "Why don't you hop a plane to Colorado and we can discuss it here?"
To our amazement, Howie did just that.
Robert had sworn a mighty oath not to get involved in such an enterprise again. But Howie's presence disarmed him. Robert set to work after Howie left and produced a script. Then he found that trying to work between Colorado and Hollywood just wasn't possible. So in early 1964 we went out there for Robert to do rewrites under Howie's direction.
When the work was finished, we returned home. It was at just this point that the bankers went out to Hollywood from New York, and fired Howie and his boss. The script was shelved at Screen Gems, and Howie and his boss went across the street, and produced "Batman."
For all practical purposes, the pilot script was dead, along with the series, "Century XXII." There is a faint hope that it may be produced someday. As this is being written, someone recalled the script and is setting about the difficult task of undertaking to produce the film.
January 20, 1964: Robert A. Heinlein to Lurton Blassingame
Will you get me off the hook on several things? There has been a death in my family—no close emotional involvement for me, but some duty matters—so I am unexpectedly catching a plane in about an hour (Ginny remains here), then on my return Thursday will be leaving immediately to drive to Hollywood (Ginny accompanying me) and arriving there possibly late for Screen Gems story conference Monday 27 January. . . . The [TV] thing is sourer than ever and I see no hopes of saving it, but I must go out and try my best.
But today I'm badly strapped for time and ask help on some unfinished business (this damned screenplay has put me behind on everything)— and this funeral puts the topper on it—despite the fact that I answered sixty-three letters in the last three days, trying to catch up.
April 8, 1964: Robert A. Heinlein to Lurton Blassingame
I have many other things to acknowledge. We have been home three weeks now, two of them eaten by illness, the rest of the time used futilely in attempting to cope with an avalanche of accumulated low-priority paperwork, several hundred periodicals, etc., piled up not only while we were away, but left undone clear back from last August when (TV producer) first entered my life. This last Hollywood experience has simply confirmed my earlier opinion that, while Hollywood rates are high, what a writer goes through to earn those rates makes it a losing game in the long run. I hope that you and I and Ned [Brown] make some money out of this—but if the series is never produced, I hope to have sense enough to stay home and write books in the future and leave the movie never-never land to those who enjoy that rat race.
CHAPTER VI
ABOUT WRITING METHODS AND CUTTING
(107)
Heinlein working at his desk, at "Bonny Doon," the Santa Cruz house.
October 25, 1946: Robert A. Heinlein to Lurton Blassingame
. . . then write another short. This one is tentatively titled "Homesickness" ["It's Great to Be Back"] and is another Luna City and so forth yarn. If possible, I want to build up a background, as I did in Astounding, for a series of interplanetary shorts, laid in the near future (the coming century, to about a.d. 2050). The series will follow the formula, somewhat modified, of the SEP [Saturday Evening Post] series such as Earthworm Tractor, Tugboat Annie, Gunsmith Pyne, Blue Chip Haggerty, etc.—stories laid against a particular occupation or industry. My series will be laid against the background of commercial (not exploration nor adventure) interplanetary travel. Continuity will be maintained by names of places—Luna City, Drywater, Venusburg, New Brisbane, New Chicago, How-Far?, Leyburg, Marsopolis, Supra-New York, etc., and by consistent use of techniques, cultural changes, and speech changes. Characters will shift for each story, but a major character in one story may show up in a bit part in another.
The science and engineering will be held to a minimum but will be authentic. An editor may be sure that I will respect facts of astronomy, atomics, ballistics, rocketry, etc. For example, the piloting in the story you are about to receive is as authentic as it can be at this date—if it is not as it will be, then it is at least as it could be; it is practical, with respect to time intervals, speeds, accelerations, and instruments used. When, in that st
May 16, 1947: Robert A. Heinlein to Lurton Blassingame
. . . As for formal coaching from Uzzell [a well-known "story doctor" and coach of the time] or anyone, I'm getting just the coaching I want from you . . . I'm afraid of coaching, of writers' classes, of writers' magazines, of books on how to write. They give me centipede trouble—you know the yarn about the centipede who was asked how he managed all his feet? He tried to answer, stopped to think about it, and was never able to walk another step. Articles and books on how to write have that effect on me. The author seems so persuasive, so sure that he knows what he is talking about, that I start having doubts about my own technique. It usually turns out that the author is urging the reader to do something quite unsuited to me—fine for him probably, but not my pidgin. If I try to imitate him, follow his directions, I usually fail to accomplish his methods and lose my own in the process . . .
I do get a great deal of help from studying other writers' stories, particularly in the respects in which I see that they have accomplished an effect that I do not as yet know how to accomplish. I find such study of what they have done more use to me than their discussions of how they do it.
Winslow says I don't understand plotting and probably I don't—I have been congratulated many times on the skill shown in my plotting when I knew damn well that the story in question had not been plotted in advance at all. My notion of a story is an interesting situation in which a human being has to cope with a problem, does so, and thereby changes his personality, character, or evaluations in some measure because the coping has forced him to revise his thinking. How he copes with it I can't plot in advance because that depends on his character, and I don't know what his character is until I get acquainted with him. When I can "hear the character talk" then I'm all right—he works out his own salvation.