Dean Koontz - The Lost Energumen Article

This is an online historical documentation of an article written by a young (and then struggling) Dean Koontz, specifically for the fanzine it was published in. The fanzine was handmade and published out of the home of Mike and Susan Glicksohn, who went under the name of Suami Press (this issue, Energumen #8, June 1971, was Suami Press Publicaton #10). At that time, they lived in Ontario Canada. The publication was put out quarterly, and won a Hugo award for best science fiction fanzine two years after the publication of this issue. The publication was a total of 52 pages in length, and looks to be hand stapled and collated, photocopied (or more likely printed page by page) on a nice, relatively heavy-stock paper. The entire contents are typewritten, and the border lines are hand drawn with a straight edge; most likely a cut and paste layout. I have noted the particular pages that each text appears on, and in the title, when I write "(A) another", this is an attempt to show that in the zine itself, the letter "A" was marked out, with the word "another" written above it. I have also duplicated every capitalization, spelling, and spacing as it was published (with the exception of capitalizing "another" in the title of the article, which was written in careful lower case script, and the fact that the lines don't end where the originally did on the original pages, due to a difference in the number of characters per line, fanzine vs computer).

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(page 9, Energumen #8, June 1971)

DEAN'S DRIVE or SOME DAYS IN THE LIFE OF (A) ANOTHER WRITER

By DEAN KOONTZ

SEVERAL SCENES FROM THE LIFE OF ONE AUTHOR WHO--SEEING STARVATION LURKING IN THE BREADBOX AND THE SPECTRE OF INSOLVENCY GNAWING AT HIS HEELS--FOUND SALVATION AND HAPPINESS WITHOUT ANY AID WHATSOEVER FROM JESUS CHRIST OR EVEN THE ROSICRUCIANS.

Having received two ENERGUMENs with staples protruding wickedly, having twice punctured myself and bled upon the tinted pages, I decided that Mike was resorting to a sly sort of violence against my person in retaliation for my having (several times) broken my promise to write an article for this magazine. Terrified at the sight of my blood, I decided that further procrastination was not worth the constant anticipation of the next sharp-stapled issue. Too, I was inspired by Avram Davidson's article in No. 4 which dealt with the trials and tribulations of a writer's life. And here we are.

There was a time, an innocent time, when I would have been amazed to learn that Avram Davidson (one of the best we have and the sort of writer most of us would like to be if we had a little more on the ball than we do) suffered financial troubles. I imagined successful sf writers lead a life of jet-setting, hob-nobbing and cocktail partying. I soon discovered that I would be lucky to afford bus-riding, knee-knocking and coca cola-drinking. The first six months of fulltime freelancing brought me the magnificent reward of $500.00 before taxes--along with a bad case of terror. In that time, I had three sf books knocking around, plus a mainstream novel which eighteen publishers had voiced intense approval of, though none of them had yet purchased it. Fortunately, Bob Hoskins at Lancer took my energies in hand and forced me to re-write a book until I had learned plotting backwards and forwards. Thereafter, I rescued the floundering works and sold several new ones and made a little over six thousand dollars in the next six months, which averaged out to exactly what I had been earning for a year of teaching before I quit. It certainly didn't permit hob-nobbing, but I found I could live without that if I had to. When you've hobbed one nob, you have hobbed them all. Or, perhaps: when you've nobbed one hob, you've nobbed them all.

This brings us to December 1969. My agency, having received inquiries about my work

(page 10)

from a quite lovely young woman editor at Dell, arranged a dinner conference between yours truly and said lovely young editor for the 1969 Philcon. I attended that dinner and spoke of glorious things, work at hand, stars to be reached, valiant peaks of creativity within my grasp. Lovely Young Editor agreed that one of the ideas, BEASTCHILD, sounded excellent and urged me to send sample chapters and outlines for consideration. This I did early in December of 1969, less than three weeks after our conversation. BEASTCHILD so enthralled me that I proceeded to work on the book while awaiting a decision. Soon, I began to see it was the best piece of long work I had ever done and that it represented the new perimeters I had been trying to reach for some time. After a month, I called to inquire what she thought of the work. She had not read it yet. I continued working. Another month passed, and the book was done, and it contained everything I had hoped for it. I structured a shorter version, which seemed even more concise and polished than the slightly longer novel, and mailed that to the agency for Ed Ferman's inspection. Six weeks later, Ed had purchased the magazine rights for VENTURE and expressed great approval of the book. Still: silence from Lovely Young Editor. Phonecalls received the answer: "I will be making a decision soon." But this goes on for another month, as if a recording was answering the phone. Finally, when asked if she would like to see the final script, she said yes and that she would then be able to make a quicker decision. She is sent full manuscript. A month passes. More calls. At last,more than six months after the initial sample chapters had been sent, I call the agency and demand the book be returned from Dell, and agency agrees. Lovely Young Editor can't find it. First, denies even having more than sample chapters. Agency presses until, after a tense search of office, Lovely turns up the manuscript from the bottom of a desk drawer where it had been buried under papers also demanding attention (like her light bill from 1958 and a subscription bill from Liberty Magazine).

(Pause: See Dean. See him tearing his hair. See him awful mad. See him quietly telling Gerda how he will torture and finally murder Lovely. See, look, behold!)

Agency recovers script, sends to Lancer. Lancer purchases in two weeks, pays two weeks later. Everyone sighs with relief. Book is published after magazine novella and both receive uniformly good reviews--something unique to this author, since he has been accustomed to wading through the brickbats to pick up the roses. Eventually, the novella receives a Hugo nomination, which pleases writer almost as much as the advance money. But if writer had been relying on this book for one half or one third of his yearly income as, say, Avram might have been, you can see how disastrous one Lovely Editor's procrastination and incompetance could have been. I, too, would have been selling my author's copies for money to eat.

You noticed, surely, how the personal pronoun degenerated to the third person in several points in the last paragraph. This is only because, looking back on the incident, I believe--sincerely want to believe--that it happened to someone else.

Next, I became involved in writing porn. Gerda and I collaborated--since my love has such a true sense of the obscene--to produce 30 porn titles ranging from such peaks of erudition as THIRTEEN AND READY and ORAL ORACLE to SWAPPER'S CONVENTION and LAY ME DOWN, BUT NOT TO DIE. (yes.) Six months of this provided us with an overwhelmingly healthy bank account. Each book required three days to write and brought an average of $650 reward. Since my own time was often only a day in the construction of each epic, I was provided with plenty of time to write sf that I wanted to write. But after 30 titles, we had neither the inclination or the stomach to continue, and we dropped out of the porn market. Aside from providing us with the resource to pay off old debts and to buy a piece of land for, some day, the construction of a lodge, we got nothing from the ordeal. It gave us the opportunity to write the non-fiction PIG SOCIETY which fit into the porn publisher's legit line, and we are proud of that book. But was it worth writing the other thirty while we were making contacts? I don't know. Was it worth Avram's time, and emotional expense, to have to sell his author's copies?

Anyway, back on the straight and narrow path of serious work, I launched into the

(page 11)

writing of an sf avant-guard novel called THE FLESH IN THE FURNACE, which I suspected no one would buy. My mainstream novel, meanwhile, had ended up at...Dell. Well, every agent makes a mistake sometime or other.

Six months later, after we were told: A. "We never heard of the book, we don't have it."; B. "A decision is imminent."; C. "We're going to take it, it's tremendous."(This leaked to Vaughn Bode by a Dell editor whom he knows) we managed to get the book returned, short of threatening to beat heads. One editor there, three weeks after the book had been returned, told Vaughn he expected Dell to buy it! Arrgghhh!

Meanwhile, I have finished THE FLESH IN THE FURNACE and am making some finishing touches. Alan Ravage, editor at Bantam, calls and says he is interested in my work, do I have anything he can see? I tell him about FLESH IN THE FURNACE. He asks to see it. It is sent him. In the almost unheard of time (outside of Bob Hoskins who is usually so efficient it makes your head swim) of seven weeks, Alan bought the book. For all the right reasons. The contracts were signed. Check sent. Wonderful!

Now the recession. The writer has $11,900 due him from a wide variety of publishers, all of whom are feeling the pinch. Books are selling better than ever, one of the few commodities not to be affected by the recession. But, unfortunately, most publishing companies are now owned by conglomerates. Conglomerates, in economic trouble on all other fronts, are using the money from their publishing concerns to bolster their sagging industries. We writers, in the meantime, gnaw on chair legs and seriously consider cannabalism. In one case, where the publisher was not owned by a conglomerate, his distributor was. Same suit, you see, just different characters. By begging, pleading, using agency muscle, author gets his money. He pities publishers, understands their woes, but was going down for the count at that time. He has spent a nice piece of change on some land (after Alexei Panshin had suggested that as a good way to get rid of money and the writer, at that time, was worried about being spoiled by largess) and has that for collateral, but can't get much against it at this time and would find it difficult to sell in such a tight money market.

Writer is now investigating suspense-mystery-gothic fields in which he is also working. He is especially fond of the suspense form where he feels he is actually doing something unique and creative. Now, too, he turns to another experimental sf novel HOUSE OF NIGHT, which--at this writing--he has just finished and is hunting a market for. Times have gotten rough again. He would turn to porno, but porno is dead and he can't stand writing it anymore. Besides, Ted White from his Olympus has once publicly criticized the writer for writing porn and may return with even more insidious attacks. A movie deal comes through and writer is momentarily saved by option money.

Meanwhile: Writer's father's girlfriend (an ex-nurse), whenever she sees writer or talks to him on telephone, asks: "Are you still just writing, or are you working now?"

(page 12)

Meanwhile: Writer is accosted in grocery store and referred to by local blue collar worker as "Fucking hippie creep". This hurts author's self-image. In same store, two minutes later, author is asked, by another stranger, "Why don't you cut your hair?" Going out of store, author is accosted by local middle-aged hooligans who want to fight and is forced to kick one said hooligan in the balls to stave off being dismembered until the traffic cop half a block away can arrive to dispel the would-be gladiators.

Meanwhile: Author hears, from editor of large publishing company, that the reason no decision has been made on author's two sample chapters and outlines is that editor cannot decide which book he likes the most and wants to buy. Author, numbed by this excuse, hangs up phone without thinking, until later, that he should have suggested the editor buy both.

Meanwhile: Author receives letter from fan editor on East Coast informing author that, since author has still not written article he promised six weeks ago, fan editor will no longer send him his fanzine unless author pays for it. Furthermore, he threatens to expose author as the real creep he is.

Meanwhile: Writer is accosted at Philcon by slovenly looking creature posing as fan (no fan can really be like this) who demands--"Why have you been writing pure crap for the last year?" and when asked to what he is referring, admits he only read one story, in Worlds Of Tomorrow (*K's note: the title of this publication is underlined in the article*), which the editor there butchered. Turns out he is drunk. Delivers a uniquely illogical defense of his position in which he states clearly that he doesn't have to read something to know it's crap, because word of mouth informs him well enough.

Meanwhile: Author's father disowns author and author's wife for their book on American right-wing political factions and says he will not "Speak to you until you write only good things like I want you to."

Meanwhile: Post Office confiscates batch of free books from Ballantine and notifies author they are holding them until he signs for them. Author has received pornography in the past, of the hardcore stripe, but these books are harmless. Author ends up signing acceptance form which all but incriminates him for receiving three books by Frederik Pohl and Jack Williamson, a novel by Clark Ashton Smith, and a book of ecological short stories.

Meanwhile: The federal government wants another seven hundred dollars on top of what the writer has paid quarterly, and local county tax people tell author, when he asks if royalties come under county tax laws (he has read laws and believe they don't), that he best pay up because, "We keep a special eye on people of your sort."

Ah, how wonderful it is to get Michael's Marvellous Energumen now and then, like balm upon wounds.

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