Behind the Scenes: Pulp Writer Speeds

PETERMBALL GenrePunk Ninja

Trying to get back into the habit of writing some behind the scenes stuff to tide us over until I’m back on deck.

I’ve you’ve been following the intros and non-fiction entries in Eclectic Projects, it probably comes as no surprise that I’m interested in the pulp era of fiction writing. One of my favourite books is The Fiction Factory by John Milton Edwards, charting his career, output, and income as a writer from 1893 through to 1910. His output frequently topped one million words a year, including long stretches where he would write one or two full-fledged novellas or short novels a week, and he’s not alone in that. That kind of output reappears in countless books and biographies about pulp writers, including Erle Stanley Gardner, Robert Block, and more.

As I argue in the non-fiction article in the first eclectic projects issue, it’s easy to focus on the prodigious output of these pulp authors without putting their work in context. They were working in eras where hundreds of markets demanded work, where the publications where woodpulp that degraded quickly and backlists were hard to access. They were also being paid by the word.

In such an environment, the ability to produce a steady flow of fiction took precedence over producing something great.

On the other hand, writing 1,000,000 words a year sounds implausible and very difficult to achieve, but it largely works out at 2800 words per day done consistently for an entire year. Which is hard, yes, but not impossibly hard.

I re-read The Fiction Factory last week–it’s one of my go-to reads when I’m feeling down about writing–and I started thinking more about the logistics of writing a million words per year.  Edwards advice fro the early 1900s got me back to work on a languishing novella, which I finished earlier today.

And rather than close my laptop and celebrate, I started a new document and wrote the first chapter and a half of the next novella in the series. 2800 words, in what felt like a rather horrible writing day, and it’s a pace I’ve held six days out of the last seven (where I fell short with a paltry 1500 or so).

The interesting thing about writing at this pace in the modern era is the prevalence of tools like RescueTime which allows for relative accurate tracking of how much time the actual hands on keyboard part of writing takes.

It’s faster than it feels. Looking at the stats over the past week, it’s rarely taken me more than three hours of writing to hit that number, although it’s often spread out across the day because I had a lot of resistance around the project (it’s a novella for the up-in-the-air PhD that’s at the hard bit, AKA the ending).

Part of me is noodling with the idea of trying to do a million word year in 2024 if I don’t end up finding another job. One way or another, the PhD will be cleared and finding three hours a day to hit the 2800 word quota is definitely feasible with my freelance and publishing commitments. Plus, I’ve got a few months to get the writing muscles used to working at that speed.

It’s not the most logical approach in the 21st century, for all the reasons I’ve argued elsewhere, but I can’t deny my heart sings every time I read a new pulp author biography and see the history of prodigious output laid bare. If even a quarter of what gets written is even vaguely readable, it would be one of the most productive years I’ve had as a writer in over a decade 🙂

And I’ve just sourced a copy of Frank Gruber’s The Pulp Jungle, which I’ve been aching to read for years, so I’ve got a whole new take on the pulp era to dive into. 

40 Stories

PETERMBALL News & Upcoming Events

I recently posted my 40th weekly Saturday Morning Story to Patreon, which is a patently absurd sentence to write given I started this project under the belief I could no longer finish anything. I honestly believed I’d have a burst of enthusiasm, produce stories for six weeks, then I’d curl up in a ball and whimper for mercy. Maybe pack this whole writing thing in for a lark and start a new career in a fromagerie (not that I’m qualified to do that, but knee-jerk reactions to hard things are never entirely rational).

Today’s a considerable milestone, though. See, I’ve actually posted 41stories to Patreon—one story in Eclectic Projects 001 went straight to the magazine, so patrons had to download it instead. Today is the point where there’s original short fiction on my Patreon than in all three of my short story collections combined.

I’ll admit that I haven’t put a lot of thought into this project—again, I expected it to fail, and the whole point was pushing myself to get back into the habit of finishing stories and putting them out into the world. There’s been some iterative movement with the launch of the Eclectic Projects magazine in January, but 41 stories I’m pondering whether there’s smarter ways to handle things. Speculative fiction magazines these days, after all, tend to rely on the Freemium model of posting stories online for free and trusting a small percentage of readers will either chip in to keep the magazine alive or pay money to see the stories in a more convenient form. Membership conveys rewards, but ultimately it’s about keeping the magazine alive for everyone to enjoy.

I dig that model, if I’m honest. Half the reason I started a Patreon in the first place was to give myself the freedom to create stuff without worrying about how to make it commercial, and the first wave of patrons backed it under that assumption. The main reason I didn’t make the stories free from the outset was one of confidence: I’d been outside of writing so long, and was so sure that I failed, that I wanted a sympathetic audience instead of throwing my work out to deal with the vicissitudes of the crowd.

40 stories in, I’m hungrier than I was. More confident of my ability to do this without falling flat on my face. Eager to see if I can push this model further, rather than trying it for a year and setting it aside. And, after seeing the readership making last week’s story free to read brought in, I’m tentatively making the next few stories free and tracking the data.

This week’s story, The Cars, features a future where automobiles have become humanity’s apex predator and one surviving human pisses off the chief of the local Chevrolet tribe. There’s a taste test of the story below.

The Cars

Saturday Morning Story #40

1.

My friend Tess fought an Escalade in the early days of the uprising, and I still believe her to be the bravest woman I’ve met, given the lack of weapons and customized tools at the time. The midnight-black SUV tailed her down Warwick Avenue, prowling between the streetlights like an oversized jungle cat. Tess believed there to be a driver who meant her harp, responded with instincts honed by self-defense classes and a lifetime of scanning the world around her for potential threats. She kept herself visible and made a beeline for the Halcyon intersection, hoping to find safety in the observing eyes of the crowd.

Sensible choices in the world she knew, but she quickly learned how things had changed. The Escalade fired its engine and followed her into Halcyon Street, carving a path through the foot traffic, screams filling the air. Tess had the common sense to go up, climbing onto the concrete newsstand on the far side of the intersection. When the Escalade rammed the structure, bumper crumpling under the impact, Tess had the nous to hold on. The car rammed the structure three times, damaging its motor, and only then did Tess climb down and lay claim to the baseball bat the newsstand owner tucked behind the counter.

Tess wailed on the Escalade for five straight minutes, smashing windows, denting doors. Still believing she’d find a predator inside, someone to beat on if they didn’t flee, and hold accountable when the police arrived.

By the time she realized there was no driver, Tess had a different plan in mind. One that didn’t rely on brute force.

2.

I could say I preferred it when cars were inanimate, immobile without keys in the ignition and a foot on the accelerator. Easily trapped in place by a park brake or the careful siphoning of a fuel tank. They moved with caution then, slaking their thirst for blood intermittently, content to winnow our numbers with the slow application of carbon dioxide and the occasional hit-and-run.

I could claim I miss the good old days when we pretended—by mutual agreement—that sidewalks were safe to walk. Only a madman bore down on pedestrians, leaping the gutter to squish our delicate bodies beneath the snarling weight of a fast-moving chassis.

I could profess a desire to return to those days, to the version of myself who worked in an office and ordered home delivery three nights a week. The version of myself who drove cars without thinking, believing they were tame. That I daydream of escaping to Denmark, or Sweden, or Bangladesh, countries where the widespread embrace of bikes—motorized and pedal powered—diminished the impact of the cars shucking their disguise and laying claim to the streets.

I could tell these lies, and they would be comforting. So many of us hate the new world, the sheer challenge of survival. So many of us believe things were better when we didn’t have a common enemy.

3.

Lacey pissed off the High Chief of the local Chevrolet clan, and our household became targets by association. We realized the scale of the problem last Thursday, when a sky-blue ’76 Malibu leapt out of an alleyway and mauled Theo just two blocks from our squat. The older cars are vicious pricks, still angry about the years spent hiding in plain sight, restraining their baser impulses in the name of a long-term plan.

The attack broke sixteen bones in Theo, would have killed him if I hadn’t been there to haul him into a nearby townhouse and up to the second floor. I spent the next hour playing cat-and-mouse, laying road spikes and luring the chevy into them, taking pot-shots at the ancient Chevy’s tires. The old bastard was canny, knew all the tricks. Not so reckless as some of the younger cars, fresh off the assembly line. Smart enough to charging through a wall and surprise me while I felt safe.

In a lifetime of close calls with cars, he came the closest to taking me out.

But I got him, in the end, and I hauled Theo’s broken ass back to the squat where the doc could check him out. We all gathered, and I laid out what happened, talked through how it would change things for a while.

That’s when Lacey raised her hand and confessed it might be her fault.

4.

The cars rarely hunt solo these days, although they proved to be territorial and tribal once freed from the great façade. There are sixteen great tribes in our city, nominally controlled by the Audis, who lay claim to the highways and arterial roads. Our squat—like many surviving patches of humanity—sticks to the upper levels of buildings where few cars can reach us. We fortify roads with spikes and ditches, makeshift landmines, armed guards. We band together for mutual survival, surviving on scavenged foods and rooftop gardens, jury-rigged generators and a careful network of information shared with the other outposts like ours. The cars nest in underground parking lots, prowl the streets in search of prey.

There are worst things than being hunted by the Chevys. Their numbers are small, compared to the Fords and the Holdens. The Hondas, the BMWs and the Volvos who claim the beachside suburbs where humans once holidayed. When debate breaks out in our small squat, arguing about how we should handle Lacey’s breach of trust and the anger of the Chevrolet, there is some discussion about going to war. A general belief we can take the Chevys out, given the size of their tribe.

We’ve heard variations of this argument before, always spawned of a common belief: Cars do not replicate themselves. Humans crafted them, built them in factories, and rolled them off an assembly line. Yes, they revealed themselves with the advantage of prodigious, terrifying numbers, but thin the herds enough and they cannot reproduce to reclaim their dominant position.

“You’ve never seen a baby car!” proponents of this plan cry out. “It would take effort, but we can reclaim the planet. We can make it ours once more.”

These passionate, glorious fools fail to consider two things. First, how our own depleted numbers, however fecund we are as a species. Second, the first car appeared in 1886; we considered them docile, inanimate things for one-hundred and thirty-eight years. Any predator species capable of such restraint, for such a period, has a plan to replenish their numbers in the event humanity fights back. They have, after all, sidestepped our assumptions they’d fade away once the fuel ran out.

Better to placate and avoid, playing to our strengths.

5.

My friend Tess defeated the damaged Escalade by luring it towards the river, provoking a charge and deftly avoiding the attack, letting momentum carry the black SUV through the guardrail and into the water. Tires spun as it fought to escape the water, and the petrochemical stink of its death lingered long after the police, the paramedics, and the firefighters arrived. They treated the wounded and the dying, cleaned up the parts of Halcyon Street damaged by the Escalade’s murderous rampage. Two officers questioned Tess about what happened, why she thought she’d been targeted.

They didn’t believe her when she claimed there was nobody at the wheel. A team of divers went down to investigate the Escalade and recover the driver’s body.

Three police divers went down, and only two returned. They could find no sign of the Escalade, nor their missing partner.

I share this story with the war enthusiasts in our squat. They fail to learn the lesson; argue we can use the river to defeat the Chevys and lay claim to more of the city we once called home.

We vote, as a collective. The collective choice is not a good one…

READ THE REST ON PATREON

Don’t Write What You Love

PETERMBALL Writing Advice - Craft & Process

My birthday is the 18th of March. The anniversary of my father’s death is the 19th of March. This one-two punch often catches me off-guard, a double-whammy of anxiety and guilt that throws me off my game despite my belief that I’m feeling fine. As mentioned in the authors note for this week’s Saturday Morning Story, I honestly figured this would be the first time in thirty-eight weeks where I could not produce and post a story for my patrons.

Then Vulture did an article on Kelly Link, and I decided to spend Friday hustling to get a new story done.

My biggest influences have always been short fiction writers, and Kelly Link rates up there as one of the biggest. Stranger Things Happen and Magic For Beginners are two of my favourite collections ever, and half the reason I attended Clarion South in 2007 was the chance to get taught by Kelly.

In a lot of ways, her work and mentorship gave me a way into speculative fiction—2007 Peter had spent years in university writing programs, deeply immersed in poetics and post-modern narrative experimentation, and the fact I loved Conan the Barbarian and the critical work of Roland Barthes frequently left me feeling at odds with fans who argued “just turn your brain off and enjoy it” as a short-hand for “don’t critique or deconstruct the stories we love, lest we have to tackle the implications of such examination.”

(As if deconstruction and experimentation didn’t hold enjoyment of their own—I find it infinitely more fun than passive reception of a story)

There’s a really interesting aside in the heart of the Vulture article, which resonated with me heavily and got me back to the keyboard:

She said she doesn’t enjoy writing and only does it because she finds it “interesting.”

Vulture Profile: The Fabulist in the Woods

Rhetoric aimed at writers often makes a big deal of loving what you do. We’re encouraged to write for love, because there’s no real money in the craft of writing. We produce the books of our heart, because to write towards the demands of the market is to be labelled ‘crass’ or ‘a hack’. The subconscious message every writer hears is that you must love what you do, that you are not a ‘real writer’ unless you’re consumed by the writing process 24/7 (possibly to the point of self-destruction).

I’d spent two weeks feeling very grumpy with my short fiction and the Saturday Morning Story project prior to reading the Vulture article, vaguely dissatisfied because I didn’t enjoy what I was doing very much. The lock of enjoyment, thirty-eight weeks in, seemed to indicate a failure on my part. A good reason to think about winding things up and shifting my focus to something more fun.

Thing is, I undertook the Saturday Morning Story and the related Eclectic Projects releases to satisfy my curiosity: around whether it was still possible to create at the pace akin to the pulp short fiction writers of old; how doing so might change the shape of my career; what the impact would be on my process. I wanted to reset my relationship to finishing stories after several years of producing very little and thought pushing myself to hit a weekly target might yield some benefits.

Here’s an interesting thing about writing: it’s very easy to fight against your own instincts in the name of doing things “better” or “properly”. Writers who produce perfectly serviceable stories by pantings their way through the process feel the lingering need to plan and ‘doing things right’. Authors with a talent for fast-paced, commercial stories feel the need to write something fancy in order to achieve critical acclaim. Folks whose natural pace is 500 words a day, produced consistently and without a break, pick up a book like Stephen King’s On Writing and burn themselves out trying to match his 2,500 words a day.

Or, if you’re anything like me, you’ll fight against your natural interest in exprimenting with forms and voice in an effort to finally master the art of writing a chronologically consistent, vaguely realist story in third person, past tense (although every successful story I’ve written is anything but).

Not long after finishing the Vulture article I dug out Kelly Link’s collections, the Fabulist edition of Conjunctions magazine (issue 39) which introduced me to so many writers working in a similar vein, and a host of similar short story collections. I flicked through several stories which eschewed a clean, straightforward approach to voice and structure and embraced the stylised, discontinuous approach to narrative I’ve gone back to again and again since I began writing fiction. I found myself re-reading Link’s story The Hortlak three times, soaking in the voice.

Then, after weeks of working on a relatively straightforward story that played with a style I enjoyed when other people used it, I went back to a toolkit that interested me and started playing with a new idea. Twenty-four hours later—and ninety minutes before I was scheduled to post my weekly story—I had The Birthday Party finished and ready to upload.

None of this is an argument against pushing yourself or trying to master a new skill set as a writer, but it’s useful to remember that when you’re stuck and fighting against a piece, there’s something to be said for leaning into your comfort zone.