Resnick on the Loose. Mike Resnick
Moral: if the story is dumb, an actor, no matter how good he is, can’t make it any smarter.
Then we tried Suspense, also from 1949. Another nice batch of actors: kids like Newman and Charlton Heston, established stars like Lili Palmer and Boris Karloff.
Not just bad, but embarrassingly snicker-out-loud bad. Even those brilliant actors couldn’t save it.
Finally, for her birthday, I got Carol a complete set of bootleg DVDs of the fondly-remembered but never-released 2-year 78-episode run of Science Fiction Theater from 1955 and 1956, a time when most purported science fiction movies were actually anti-science and usually ended with lines such as “There are some things man was not meant to know.” Science Fiction Theater was life a breath of fresh air, because it was clearly of the opinion that there is nothing man wasn’t meant to know or learn. Each of these shows was introduced by Truman Bradley, in a state-of-the-art lab (circa 1955) that I would kill to play in. He’d show a couple of related cutting-edge experiments, and then explain that the episode you were about to see extrapolated from the experiments he’d just demonstrated. No stars at all. Probably the biggest names were Warren Stevens and John Howard, a couple of journeyman B-movie actors.
And the shows were pretty damned good. Hell, for the time, they were remarkably good.
And they were good for a simple reason: the producer understood that without a good script, all the stars in the world can’t turn a sow’s ear into a silk purse.
The principle still holds true today. Take a look at the latest Indiana Jones film. Got a huge superstar—Harrison Ford. Got the most powerful director in history—Stephen Spielberg. Got the most successful producer in history—George Lucas. Got a laughably bad script. End result: a laughably bad film.
It was true in 1949, and in 1955, and it’s true today: every play and every movie starts with The Word. You ignore the words and you’d better be making a silent film or a ballet, or else you’re in deep trouble from the get-go. Writers know that; television and movie executives still haven’t figured it out.
Let me close with a wonderful (and true) story:
The great director Frank Capra was giving an interview to a few members of the press back in the 1940s, talking about how he put the famed “Capra Touch” on this scene and that…and finally his screenwriter could stand it no more. He walked over with a ream of blank paper, tossed it on the startled director’s desk, and snapped: “Here! Put this Capra touch on this!”
A lesson worth remembering.
Joe Smith
There’s a secret author I want to tell you about. You don’t know him, but you’ve bought some of his books. You probably didn’t think much of them, but it didn’t stop you from going out and buying more.
Editors don’t like to talk about him much, because sooner or later they’re forced to deal with him, and they don’t dare reject him. Writers know about him, but he’s got a lot of friends and a lot of clout, so they only talk about him to each other, in private. Critics know all about him, but they’re not being paid to review his books—exactly.
So it’s up to me to tell you about him.
A little background first: if a writer becomes successful enough, the day will come when he is, in the parlance of the field, “editor-proof.”
What does it mean?
Simply this: no editor will dare risk losing that writer by performing his editorial duty thoroughly and properly.
You can write the scene yourself. “Stephen baby, it’s a wonderful book, but it drags at the end, so could you tighten it a bit, please—maybe cut 20,000 words? Oh—and lose the brother, who doesn’t contribute anything to the story anyway.”
And the second scene, which follows immediately, is just as easy to write: “Screw you, fella. I’m taking the book down the street to Editor B, and he’s going to take it (and, of course, me) without changing a word, and it’ll my usual million hardcovers and three million paperbacks, and he’s going to get rich, and my new publisher’s going to get rich, and of course I’m going to get richer—and you, you poor son of a bitch, when your publisher finds out you let me get away, regardless of the reason, you’re going to be on the unemployment line next week.”
That’s what it means when we say that a particular writer is editor-proof. Every field has a few of them, including science fiction.
Now, writers have as much pride in their work as anyone else, and very, very few of them turn in a piece of hackwork that they know is hackwork. They do their best, and everyone in the field will grant them that.
But try as they will, they don’t always produce their best work first (or third, or fifth) time out of the typewriter or computer, and that is what editors are for. But as I pointed out, some editors are unable to fulfill their function when dealing with an editor-proof writer. They accept the manuscript, whatever the length, whatever the market, without question, or they lose the writer and probably their jobs.
So now and then, probably a little more often than we’d like, a very improvable book hits the stands, and it sells like crazy, based on the author’s name, reputation, and past performances—but it’s a turkey. The emperor has no clothes, and sooner or later most of the readers realize they’ve bought another book by Joe Smith.
Yeah—Joe Smith, Whenever one of these books (or stories) hits the stands, the writers and editors will admit, very softly, when almost no one is listening, that it didn’t pass what has come to be known as the Joe Smith Test.
Which is to say, if the very same manuscript showed up on the editor’s desk, and the author’s name was Joe Smith, instead of Stephen or Dean or Danielle, could it have sold? And the answer is invariably: No. It sells based on the author’s reputation and readership, rather than on its minimal quality.
How many books by Joe Smith have you bought lately?
Last Impressions
I met a young man at a recent convention. He had submitted a story he thought was wonderful to Jim Baen’s Universe, and it had been turned down. Never got as far as Eric or me.
Okay, these things happen. Lots. For every would-be writer who can sell a story, there are dozens who never will.
But let me give you a little hint: if you don’t have faith in your story, why should anyone else—like, for example, an editor? First impressions are important…but it’s last impressions that count. I’m not saying that every rejected story is a misunderstood gem, but a story that remains in a desk drawer or a computer file never has a chance of being understood or misunderstood.
Ever hear of a novel called Up the Down Staircase? It spent a year on the New York Times bestseller list, and was a major motion picture starring Sandy Dennis, back in the bygone days when she was a major motion picture actress.
That was a last impression. You know how many times the book was turned down?
88.
You know how it finally sold? The author, Bel Kaufman, showed it to her minister’s wife, whose brother happened to be peripherally connected to the publishing industry, and one thing led to another, and suddenly the 88-times-rejected manuscript was the Number One seller in the country. I guess it’s lucky that the author didn’t burn the damned thing after the 50th or 75th turndown after all.
You think that just happens in other fields?
Every publisher, major and minor, in the science fiction field turned down Frank Herbert’s Dune. Every one, without exception. You know how it finally sold? Sterling Lanier, who had written some science fiction in the 1950s, was editing at Chilton, a book company that specialized in, so help me, books on motorcycle maintenance. He had hardly any budget to spend on such a flyer, but Herbert had reached the point where he was happy to take hardly any money for it. And the rest is history: a perennial bestseller, with something like 40 million copies sold worldwide, five bestselling sequels by Herbert and a batch more by