IGMS Issue 18 (16 page)

Richard Lupoff has had a distinguished and varied career since the early 1960s, when he and his wife Pat co-edited the Hugo-winning fanzine
Xero
and he was an editor for Canaveral Press, overseeing the republication of much of the work of Edgar Rice Burroughs. His first book was a non-fiction study,
Edgar Rice Burroughs, Master of Adventure
(1965; revised 1975). His first fiction was the 1967 novel
One Million Centuries
(revised, 1981), after which he ranged from the satirical
The Sacred Locomotive Flies
(1971) to the experimental
Space War Blues
(1978) to a fantasy based on Japanese mythology,
Sword of the Demon
(1977). Other SF, fantasy, or related novels by Lupoff include
The Triune Man, The Crack in the Sky, Circumpolar!
and
Countersolar!
(both of which anticipate Steampunk by decades,
Sun's End,
Galaxy's End, Into the Aether
,
Lovecraft's Book
(unabridged reissue as
Marblehead
)
, The Forever City,
and
The Comic Book Killer.
He has also had a distinguished career in mystery fiction.

SCHWEITZER:
To the best of my knowledge, for all you've had a long and illustrious career in science fiction, you haven't gotten rich at it any more than I have. That must mean that either we are paragons of selfless virtue, or that ultimately, the SF writer has to be in it for something other than the money. Would you agree? Do you find that the same enthusiasm you must have felt as a young fan can still sustain you after all this time?

LUPOFF:
I'm not sure that we ever fully understand our own motives for life choices. My enthusiasm for science fiction has deep roots in my childhood. We'd experienced a number of family tragedies and my brother and I found ourselves shipped off to a truly dreadful military/boarding school. If you've ever seen one of those horror movies about this environment, let me tell you that they're essentially truthful depictions, except that conditions are far worse than you can imagine.

Talk about tyranny and oppression! This was during World War II and the early years of the Cold War, we were supposedly fighting for freedom and democracy and here was an environment that was based on the very opposite of those principles. Any parents out there contemplating educational "opportunities" for your offspring -- listen to me: do not
--
do not! --
do this to your children!

I'd always enjoyed fantastic fiction in all media -- children's books, comics, motion pictures, radio. Television wasn't a factor in those days. Trapped in those nasty surroundings, I found in the alternate realities of the far future, of distant planets, of alternate time lines important solace. This was escape reading of the highest order.

My heroes were the authors and editors who filled the pages of
Galaxy, F&SF, Thrilling Wonder Stories,
and the early inexpensive anthologies like Judith Merrill's
Shot in the Dark,
Groff Conklin's
The Science Fiction Galaxy
and the anonymously edited
Avon Ghost Reader.
It seemed the most natural course to want to emulate my idols, and I was submitting short stories to our school paper and to my favorite professional magazines by the time I was in my teens. The paper accepted my offerings, as I was the editor. The prozines turned me down, but I received wonderful, encouraging personal letters from Anthony Boucher and Mick McComas. God bless their beautiful souls!

Well, sixty years later I can't honestly say that I have the same degree ofenthusiasm that I had back when Harry Truman was President, but something of it survives, and I hope always will. Every time I open a jiffy bag and get my first look at a book of my own, or at a magazine or anthology in which I have a story, I do turn into a teenaged fan again, at least for a little while.

SCHWEITZER:
Would you describe the beginnings of your career, how you made the transition from fan to pro?

LUPOFF:
Those early unsuccessful attempts to sell short stories were pretty discouraging, but I never gave up the dream. I even started a novel while I was in high school, but only got a couple of pages written before I realized that I was in over my head.

Every few years after that I'd take another shot at selling, always with the same results.

But in the early 1960s I was lucky enough to land a job as an editor at the fondly remembered Canaveral Press. With that job as my credential, I found myself hobnobbing with other editors and writers -- lunching with Larry Shaw of Lancer Books one day, with Don Wollheim and Terry Carr of Ace Books another. Talking about problem authors and artists like the great Roy Krenkel. Roy was delightful person as well as a brilliant artist, but he refused to install a telephone in his home and he lived out in the suburbs. There was no email in those days, of course, so if you wanted to talk with Roy, procedure was to send him a dime via snail mail. Then if the weather was nice he would walk to a phone booth and call you up!

Around this time I remember James Blish sitting in my living room one afternoon, listening to me bitch about not being able to sell a short story. "You should write a novel, then," he told me. "Novels are easier than short stories."

I found that hard to believe, but I decided to give it a try -- writing a novel, that is -- and turned out three chapters and an outline of a book called
One Million Centuries
-- and it sold! Thank you, Mr. Blish!

SCHWEITZER:
It
was
a very different time, wasn't it? It was a time when any science fiction paperback sold a safe amount of copies, almost regardless of what was in it. There was a stable short-story market. Wasn't it an easier time to get started and get noticed in science fiction than today?

LUPOFF:
Oh, yes, it was a very different time in the publishing world. Anthony Boucher had written an essay about publishing science fiction, in which he compared this to publishing mystery fiction. At that time -- early 1950s -- science fiction was still predominantly a magazine field, while mystery fiction had switched over in large part to books several decades earlier.

Boucher said that any genre book, clearly labeled with the right icons -- smoking gat, tough guy in fedora, sexy babe in slit skirt for mysteries; spaceship, tentacled alien for science fiction -- if attractively packaged and distributed, was virtually guaranteed a successful sale. But there was also a ceiling above which it would not go.

Omit the icons, Boucher said, publish the book as just "a novel," and you forfeit the guaranteed loyal reader base -- the fans. But you also remove the ceiling and the sky's the limit. You could blow to the top of the best-seller list, or you could flop disastrously.

Time has proved Boucher 100% right.

Incidentally, just a few years after Boucher wrote his essay, Don Wollheim told me that every Ace Book sold 25,000 copies. Didn't matter who the author was. Some might sell faster and others slower, but Ace printed 25,000 copies of every title and every title sold out. Isn't that amazing!

I don't know whether it was actually an easier time to get started, though. Of course there were many more science fiction magazines, something like thirty of them at the peak of the early '50s boom, so there was a huge market for science fiction, especially for short stories and novelettes. The market for novels was much smaller, although the leading magazines often ran short novels "complete in one issue" or longer ones as two, three, or four-part serials.

There aren't many science fiction magazines left today, but there are plenty of science fiction book publishers. In fact, more than ever if you include the low-end independents that rely on computerized, print-on-demand production. They don't pay very well but they make it easier than ever, I think, to get your foot in the door.

SCHWEITZER:
So, did you get noticed?

LUPOFF:
I guess I did. The fan-turned-pro phenomenon was quite prevalent in those days. The whole science fiction community was pretty small, and when a fan's byline started appearing on magazine contents pages or on the spines of books, there was often a "welcome to the club" type of response. Marion Zimmer Bradley told me that when she sold her first novel a lot of her fellow aficionados took the attitude that she was "just a fan who got lucky," while the established professionals accepted her without reservation.

As for my personal experience, I think it was fairly atypical. As a fan I'd been in a very active circle of New Yorkers who included a thoroughly mixed group of fans, pros, and fans-turned-pros. Larry Shaw, Don Wollhein, Terry Carr, Ted White, Dave van Arnam, James Blish, Algis Budrys, Lee Hoffman, Lin Carter -- the wall of separation between fan and pro was very thin and permeable. I had one foot in each camp for several years before I felt the need to choose, and I chose to be a professional.

SCHWEITZER:
Where does Edgar Rice Burroughs figure into all this? You were working for Canaveral Press, a publisher of both reprints and previously unpublished ERB material. You wrote a book about him,
Edgar Rice Burroughs: Master of Adventure
. May we safely assume that ERB was a major enthusiasm and influence for you at this time?

LUPOFF:
As I was growing up, I associated Burroughs with low-budget Tarzan movies featuring an overweight, over-the-hill Johnny Weissmuller, and crudely drawn comic books. When I started reading science fiction pulps, I kept coming across letters from fans mourning the lack of new Burroughs stories. That was my first inkling that he'd even written science fiction. But Burroughs had died in 1950, so that question was moot. Or so it seemed to be.

Then when I became a new husband in 1958, my bride happened to read
Tarzan of the Apes
and told me that there was more to Burroughs than I'd realized. I started reading his books and realized that she was right. This led to the whole Canaveral Press experience, which I dearly loved. It was the best job I've had in my life. And I even got to read -- and publish! -- some previously unpublished Burroughs manuscripts.

My first novel,
One Million Centuries,
was a sort of Tarzan story turned inside out. Instead of a white man plunged into a world of blacks, my hero was a black man who had grown up in a white-dominated world, plunged into -- a world of blacks. As an author I realized that I was much more interested in the psychology and the sociology of my characters and their relationships, than I was in describing physical adventures.

Without being over-analytical, I think that's been true of my work throughout my career. I'm not an ideologue; I'm a story-teller. But I think my stories are driven by characters and relationships far more often than by events. I've worked in many fields: science fiction, fantasy, horror, mystery, and mainstream fiction. I've even written a couple of westerns. But as Ed Gorman said in a recent essay, whatever genre I'm working in, what I really write are "Lupoffs." Other commentators have said very much the same thing, and I find it a highly flattering evaluation.

On the other hand, my onetime agent resigned -- maybe I should say, "fired me," but I won't -- over this issue. He insisted that I did action scenes well and wanted me to play to that strength. He wanted me to write what I call "helicopters strafing the White House" books. Stories packed with action, set on a large stage and for heavy stakes. I wanted to write smaller, more intimate stories. Stories about ordinary people living more-or-less ordinary lives. Yes, even if they led those lives on other planets or in the year 600,000 CE. The kind of thing that Philip K. Dick used to do so well.

As you can see, there wasn't much future in that relationship, although my "ex" and I are still good friends and even get together on a project now and then.

SCHWEITZER:
Might it be that the problem with SF publishing today is that we've lost the protection of genre? You and I can remember when such things as R. A. Lafferty novels or collections of Avram Davidson stories, or a book as odd as David Bunch's
Moderan
could be routinely published in mass-market paperback -- a fantastic notion today. It must have been that any science fiction book sold an adequate number of copies then, regardless of content. This no longer seems to be true, and all too much is as a result no longer publishable, except in very small presses. Have you any idea why this is so?

LUPOFF:
I think we can look at that problem in both a "narrow-band" and a "broad-band" view. In the former case, I refer you back to Anthony Boucher. When science fiction was a cottage industry with its own limited but fanatically loyal following, virtually any science fiction book had both a floor beneath it and a ceiling above it. With any kind of decent packaging and distribution, it was almost impossible for a genre book to fail, but its success was also limited.

Editors could publish quirky books -- you mention Lafferty and Davidson, two wonderfully talented, very distinctive writers -- and get away with it. Both Don Bensen and David Hartwell told me at different times that they published populist adventure novels -- they specifically mentioned the works of Lin Carter -- in order to subsidize a book like
A Double Shadow
. That was several decades ago, the author was Fred Turner.

It was a very odd novel. I believe it was the author's only published science fiction. The idea was that a terraformed Mars a thousand years or so in the future would support a culture in which a science fiction writer would produce a novel set in that future's future. You see how daring this was. I thought the book was a brilliant success, its publication was one of the few times that the term
tour de force
is really justified, but it made hardly a ripple at the time.

Do you think it could be published today? I doubt it -- unless one of those miniature publishers you refer to took it on as a labor of love.