 
EGOMANIA

Essays & Other Writings

by

CHARLES NUETZEL

Published by Haldolen at Smashwords

Copyright 2013 by Charles Nuetzel

Discover other titles by Charles Nuetzel at

Smashwords.com or Haldolen.com

INTRODUCTION

What is this book all about? Well, I could say it is about promotion of my books, which wouldn't be totally false. On the other hand, it is about writing, as a profession, and reveals what goes into putting together books for publication. More than that, it offers some prime examples, of ques-tionable literary value of my own writing in essays, stories and articles. To top all that off – or bottom line it, I suppose – there's the "Introductions" written for a number of my books, now published in print and ebook form.

CHAPTER ONE

SOME WRITINGS BY THE AUTHOR

The following is a collection of writings which have appeared else-where, and were freely offered up, easily accessed by going to Haldolen.com. So they are being offered here "free" of restrictions, other than the ability to read them without going elsewhere. They all have their own messages. The first being about Narrative Hooks and the way writers go about grabbing the reader with the first words of their story. And this is followed by the story behind the writing of "A Queen of Blood" which was created from a script for the film of that name. Then comes an article telling how Philip Jose Farmer's "Love Song" came into existence as a pocket book. These are bits that offer a "behind the scenes" gander at how stories and books get written and published. I end this section with a trib-ute to my father, who was a commercial artist and did a number of magazine and pocket book covers in his retiring years, followed by "Dad and I" – excerpts from "Pocketbook Writer" which was edited and presented by Earl Kemp for his emag at: http://efanzines.com.

EDGAR RICE BURROUGHS: A REAL HOOKER

or,

"The Mystery of Missing Foreword"

by

Charles Nuetzel

"I had this story from one who had no business to tell it to me, or to any other."—Edgar Rice Burroughs, Tarzan of the Apes

This article exists because the Foreword to The Princess of Mars is missing! Well, that hopefully did the trick! Before I explain, let me offer the following: It all started, for me, back in the "Stone Age," sometime in the late 1940s.

What was it like, back then when Edgar Rice Burroughs was still alive—barely? The Second World War was still newly finished and the young people were beginning to rebuild their lives at the opening of the Atomic Age.

Well, there was Glenn Miller music. Even though he had died some-where over the English Channel during the war, his music had become the signature "tune" of the war years, and continued being popular even after the end of the Big Band Era. This was shortly before the Elvis rock 'n' roll years. This was the romantic period of Sinatra. And Tarzan still swung through the movies in black and white.

And it was a time when the Burroughs books were hard to get in any form. Just the last ten or so Tarzan novels and the Mars and Venus books were in print, via Edgar Rice Burroughs, Inc. A few more Tarzans existed, thanks to Grosset & Dunlap. But that was it. It was only a hint of what had once been and what was yet to come.

I was an innocent, and the Burroughs universe was going to be an ideal place into which to escape. His fantastic lands of Barsoom, Pellucidar, Amtor, were all in the near future. And the real Tarzan, English Lord, cul-tured jungle man, was yet to come. But only after I had discovered and ex-hausted John Carter's beloved Barsoom. It was A Princess of Mars that would thrust me right into the worlds of Edgar Rice Burroughs. The Fore-word to the book was designed to quickly suck the reader in. Burroughs used the "promise of a story" to catch use like a fish on a string. He baited the opening lines with a narrative hook. Once properly hooked the "fish" is helpless. W. Somerset Maugham offered the classic illustration of the prob-lem all authors face when he started one of his short stories with: "I wonder if I can do it."

The opening line of Tarzan of the Apes is an excellent example of this: "I had this story from one who had no business to tell it to me, or to any other."

In both cases it actually takes only two words to hook the reader into continuing. The promise of those first words is enough to catch any reader's attention long enough to finish the statement, whatever it might be. Without the ability to grab the reader long enough to hook him, the author will never get the "message" across—whatever that might be.

Burroughs, more importantly, was able to convince the reader that the people he wrote about actually existed. This had nothing to do with any ability to create deeply textured people, but rather the ability to make the reader want to believe. How could one doubt that John Carter actually ex-isted? Burroughs kept us hooked no matter how impossible the plot or the details of the adventure. In fact, the events that he related were, well, stranger than fiction. Even then you always wanted to believe that John Carter lived and that Tarzan was really an English Lord. The earth was hol-low and Pellucidar existed. What Burroughs told you about his own in-volvement with John Carter, David Innis, Tarzan, Carson Napier and all the other wonderful people of his personal universe (those wonderful Introduc-tions!) simply had to be true. They were all alive and well, and somehow surviving in their strange and frightening lands.

In A Princess of Mars, Burroughs took only the first pages to really slip the hook deep into the reader's craw.

The Foreword begins with:

"To the Reader of this Work: In submitting Captain Carter's strange manuscript to you in book form, I believe that a few words relative to this remarkable personality will be of interest."

Well, that teased me into continuing a little further. We are offered quick, direct "introduction" to John Carter and his relationship to ERB. And we are told that Carter had died and left a manuscript with special in-structions to not have it publish until twelve years after his death. Every-thing, until now, was straightforward. Obviously interesting enough to keep reader going. But the real hook came in the closing lines of the Foreword:

"A strange feature about the tomb, where his body still lies, is that the massive door is equipped with a single, huge, gold-plated spring lock which can be opened only from the inside."

That nailed me.

And this book cliff-hung all the way through The Gods of Mars and in-to The Warrior of Mars, which finished the opening trio of the Barsoom Saga.

Chapter One of A Princess of Mars opens with a full dose of narrative tricks that reel us into the book like a helpless fish tossed into a bucket of water:

I am a very old man; how old I do not know. Possibly I am a hundred, possibly more; but I cannot tell because I have never aged as other men, nor do I remember any childhood. So far as I can recollect I have always been a man, a man of about thirty. I appear today as I did forty years and more ago, and yet I feel that I cannot go on living forever; that some day I shall die the real death from which there is

no resurrection. I do not know why I should fear death, I who have died twice and am still alive; but yet I have the same horror of it as you who have never died, and it is because of this terror of death, I believe, that I am so convinced of my mortality.

The author not only captures the reader with the content of his words, but also by the rhythmic way he "speaks" to us. This is not only inviting—it is hypnotic. While there might be some question as to ERB's "literary" style [as many a "registered" critic or college professor might suggest] there is no doubt about the power of his verbal impact. Here he quickly grabs the reader and keeps 'em hooked all the way to the last page—and beyond.

Burroughs was masterful at holding the reader by hook or crook from Chapter to Chapter, from book to book. In his very first, A Princess of Mars, readers were given a sampling of what would soon become an ERB trademark. He ends the first John Carter adventure in the following man-ner:

Did the Martian reach the pump room? Did the vitalizing air reach the people of that distant planet in time to save them? Was my Dejah Thoris alive, or did her beautiful body lie cold in death beside the tiny golden in-cubator in the sunken garden of the inner courtyard of the palace of Tardos Mors, the jeddak of Helium? For ten years I have waited and prayed to be taken back to the world of my lost love. I would rather lie dead beside her there than live on Earth all those millions of terrible miles from her.

The old mine, which I found untouched, has made me

fabulously wealthy; but what care I for wealth!

As I sit here tonight in my little study overlooking the

Hudson, just twenty years have elapsed since I first opened my eyes upon Mars. I can see her shining in the sky through the little window by my desk, and tonight she seems calling to me again as she has not called before since that long dead night, and I

think I can see, across that awful abyss of space, a beautiful black-haired woman standing in the garden of a palace, and at her side is a little boy who puts his arm around her as she points into the sky toward the planet Earth, while at their feet is a huge and hideous creature with a heart of gold. I believe that they are waiting there for me, and something tells me that I shall soon know.

When those words were first published, the public had to wait several years for the next book in the series: The Gods of Mars. The author imme-diately uses the same hook in the Foreword's opening lines:

Twelve years had passed since I had laid the body of my great-uncle, Captain John Carter, of Virginia, away from the sight of men in that strange mausoleum in the old cemetery at Richmond. Often had I pondered on the odd instructions he had left me governing the construction of his mighty tomb, and especially those parts which directed that he be laid in an OPEN casket and that the ponderous mechanism which controlled the bolts of the vault's huge door be accessible ONLY FROM THE INSIDE.

From Chapter to Chapter we are strung from cliff-hanger to cliff-hanger until the very end of the book. [Burroughs used the cliff-hanger at the ends of his Chapters, much like a movie serials would do for years, leaving someone in a terrible life-threatening situation. ERB would many times open the next Chapter with a totally different set of characters, until he had cliff-hung them in a frighteningly dangerous situation. Then he jumps back to the first group. This is a delightfully cheery way to keep the reader going madly through a book. But Burroughs took this a giant step further with the opening and closings of his books.] Here is a classic Burroughs trick. He has placed John Carter's woman in a cell with two other females. The door is closing [and will remain closed a full Martian year—about two of ours]. The last thing John Carter sees is revealed in the final paragraphs of the book:

And as she finished speaking I saw her raise a dagger on high, and then I saw another figure. It was Thuvia's. As the dagger fell toward the unpro-tected breast of my love, Thuvia was almost between them. A blinding gust of smoke blotted out the tragedy within that fearsome cell—a shriek rang out, a single shriek, as the dagger fell. The smoke cleared away, but we stood gazing upon a blank wall. The last crevice had closed, and for a long year that hideous chamber would retain its secret from the eyes of men. [And a few paragraphs later he ends the book.]

Ah! If I could but know one thing, what a burden of suspense would be lifted from my shoulders! But whether the assassin's dagger reached one fair bosom or another, only time will divulge.

These words thrust the reader at the speed of light into the next book: The Warlord of Mars.

This ability to tease, please and tease the reader on and on from book to book was a skillful trick that Burroughs used again and again. The unsus-pecting public had been seduced even before Tarzan of the Apes was pub-lished in All-Story Magazine. The literary world, though, was little affected until 1914, when A.C. McClurg & Co. offered up this third Burroughs nov-el in a hard cover edition. [The Outlaw of Torn having been his second, though at that point, unpublished manuscript.]

The very opening line to Tarzan of the Apes is quotable as a hook in it-self. The first two words force you to read on to the first period. And who can refuse to discover what follows? Who can escape the implications of the opening statement?

I had this story from one who had no business to tell it to me, or to any other. I may credit the seductive influence of an old vintage upon the narra-tor for the beginning of it, and my own skeptical incredulity during the days that followed for the balance of the strange tale.

Right to the very ending of the book:

Tarzan took the envelope and tore it open. The message was from D'Arnot. It read:

Fingerprints prove you Greystoke. Congratulations. D'ARNOT. As Tarzan finished reading, Clayton entered and came toward him with ex-tended hand. Here was the man who had Tarzan's title, and Tarzan's es-tates, and was going to marry the woman whom Tarzan loved—the woman who loved Tarzan. A single word from Tarzan would make a great differ-ence in this man's life.

And, of course, Tarzan, a true gentleman, says nothing. Instead he re-turns to Africa and his beloved jungle, alone, without the woman he loves. It will, naturally, take another book to unite them. Thus The Return of Tar-zan become, in reality, the second part of what could have been published as a one volume saga, "The Romance of Tarzan." Instead, these books were followed by scores of others.

Many of them give an illusion of reality, a sense that these events, though quite impossible, must have happened. Burroughs made us want to believe.

This habit of designing his books in such a way as to cause the reader to believe in the reality of his people and worlds, is a vital element of his style and charm. And to miss the Forewords and Introductions was much the same as missing the openings or closings of the books themselves. They were, in the case of Burroughs, a necessary element of the magic; without these touches his characters missed out on the vital connection of being in some way a part of Edgar Rice Burroughs' real existence. He knew John Carter; he knew Carson Napier; he knew Davis Innis. If Burroughs existed, so did they. Thus, we come to the centering point of this article, the begin-ning gambit, the reason for its existence.

I began in the following manner:

This article exists because the Foreword to The Princess of Mars is missing!

I suggested that the mystery would be resolved as a result of reading the article. Well, Resolution Time has arrived!

On the Internet it is possible to download quite a few of the public do-main ERB books. One of these is, of course, The Princess of Mars. And much to my horror, I learned that the vital Foreword was missing.

How could they have done such a stupid thing? Didn't they know these were the very first words ERB ever wrote? (Well, at least the opening lines to his first novel.)

As a result of trying to discover the reasons for this terrible crime, I contacted several Burroughs experts, via the TARZAN, Edgar Rice Bur-roughs Website.

It was some time before I discovered at least enough of the truth to sat-isfy me. By then George McWhorter had suggested that I write an article dealing with this matter and ERB Hookers and Cliffhangers.

Steve Armstrong came up with what is the real reason. He did a bit of investigating on his own and wrote the following to me: "I would say on the Princess of Mars, they were lazy. The Ballantine edition has it in there, and that is what they used."

So the mystery of the missing Foreword is, sad to say, a matter of very little importance; though the trip I took to discover this truth has turned into a kind of interesting adventure which has lead all of us to this final point.

SOME SIDEBARS

CONCERNING THE ABOVE ARTICLE:

EDGAR RICE BURROUGHS'

INFLUENCE ON MY WRITING

Charles Nuetzel is the author of nearly 100 books, most of which, he writes, "are probably better forgotten." Some others, it turns out, were Ed-gar Rice Burroughs type novels [Warriors of Noomas, Raiders of Noomas, Swordmen of Vistar, The Slaves of Lomooro, published by Powell Sci-Fi. He has offered the following as examples of how he used the ERB touch.

The following examples illustrate how I used some of Burroughs' tricks in my own writing. [Not until now did I realize how closely I had done so. It is embarrassingly obvious when one compares the following examples with those of ERB's first two Mars books quoted in this article.]

I began the Introduction to Warriors of Noomas with: "As a writer I come across many people with stories to tell, most of which are useless. In the case of two men I shall call Dr. Spencer and Dr. Donaldson, quite the opposite was true."

Then I opened Chapter One with: "I, Torlo Hannis, was born at the age of twenty-eight, without memory of my past life, without knowledge of the world in which I found myself."

Apparently I liked that line so much I used it again in the opening para-graph to the book's sequel: Raiders of Noomas: "For me the story began some eight months ago with the words: 'I, Torlo Hannis, was born..."

In the Swordmen of Vistar's Introduction, I opened with:

"I would like to warn the reader that there are very few of you who will believe the following story of Thoris of Haldolen and his encounter with the Wizard of Zorkada."

In each case, hopefully, I had used the conversational style coupled with the "immediate" hooking opening words. I always felt that the first words were very important, because without that being effective, then there was no used bothering with the rest. You have to grab the reader and not let go until the final page. Otherwise you never get a chance to make your point.

THE TRUTH CONCERNING THE

PEOPLE BURROUGHS WROTE ABOUT

I have always had a problem with people who look down at the "quali-ty" of a writer's so-called literary style. The only style that ever really counts to the reader is if it hooks and holds 'em to the last page; while the author's vital points, get made—or at least getting the required money. What few of us realize is that the publishing world in the business of selling "paper" at a profit—which also helps the lumber business. When you think about it, authors are actually in the business of making paper useless for anything other than recycling. After all, in olden time they took a blank bit of paper, add scribbles of ink to it, then send stacks of this stuff to a publisher. More trees will be sawed down so more paper is made to serve as the means of dishing up the author's vital words to the unsuspecting public—and thus create more inked paper for the recycle bin. Everybody profits: the inking business, the book binding business, and even the read-ing public. If the author's words hold the reader, then he has successfully helped to keep the lumber and paper business healthy, wealthy and the pub-lic wise to his smarts. Writing is the business of grabbing and holding the reader until the author's point is made—and, hopefully, his bank account fattened. All else, such as literary quality, are extras.

THE "TRUTH" CONCERNING BARSOOM?

Burroughs convinced me, right from the beginning, that people like John Carter, actually existed. After all, how could one question the truth of John Carter's reality? He had to exist! When NASA discovered that Mars had no resemblance to Barsoom, I knew that someone must be lying! Or could there be some unknown facts that would someday surface to explain the truth? In other words proof that John Carter lives. And thus I came up with a theory, which has satisfied me.

If John Carter existed then Barsoom simply wasn't our Mars. He might have actually gone back in time, as well as moved through space, and his Mars was what ours had been perhaps millions of years ago. That's an at-tractive idea, but didn't really appeal to me.

So if he existed, and he reappeared on Earth, once again looking for his grand-nephew's family, JC would discover what we now know concerning Mars.

"But," he might point out, "Barsoom exists. I exist."

The logical response would be admitting this obvious fact and then ask-ing for an explanation.

Perhaps, someone might suggest John Carter had actually not gone to our Mars but to another place, somewhere across the universe, that looked very much like our solar system. Remember he had "teleported" in some unexplained almost "magical" manner.

Where does it say he had actually went to Mars? Sure, that's where he thought he had gone. But if he actually existed—and I find it difficult to believe differently—then there has to be some logical explanation.

What I came to believe is that John Carter, upon learning about our Mars, had his scientists start an investigation. Thus upon returning home, armed with the facts concerning our Mars he is able to present them to the Barsoomian scientists. It would be a simple matter for them to learn the truth.

Barsoom is across the universe, perhaps many galaxies from our galaxy. His mysterious method of travel might have taken him through a worm hole, or through some dimensional warp, or...who knows? Such theories might be presented to him. But regardless of the seeming truth, the fact would remain that Barsoom is the fourth planet circling a star much like our Sun. Barsoom's solar system is very much like ours. Without highly advanced science and star charts it would be quite impossible to know the truth. A lot of advances have been made since John Carter contacted Burroughs. Thus such obvious misunderstandings were unavoidable. After all John Carter was basically a warrior, not a scientist. And now we know the truth: he exists, Barsoom exists. And the universe is at peace with the Worlds of Edgar Rice Burroughs.

* * * * * * *

Author's note: An ERB authority has informed me that the above could not have taken place for a number of "logical" reasons. Well, I'll not debate that issue with an expert, but merely point out my idea is more fun than letting JC rot in literary limbo. I'd rather believe he truly existed as ERB suggested in A Princess of Mars so many decades ago.

We all have our fantasies. That's one of my personal out-of-this-world ideas to save our beloved Barsoom from newly discovered modern-day sci-entific realities. Sometimes truth, even in fiction, can be painful to take.

—Charles Nuetzel, 2007

NIGHTMARE WITH A QUEEN...OF BLOOD

Oh, the Queen of Blood, the Planet of Blood, call it what you want, but the Queen herself came to me via my agent Forrest J Ackerman (no period, thank you!). She came, probably, in the darkness of night like a very hateful vamp, teeth dripping in the blood of her victims (soon to add me to that list)! She was a vile, perverse, hungry creature from a hellish universe—dimension if you will—all her own: Hollywoodland! And it was shaped as a script of a somewhat inexpensively produced horror/sf flick written and directed by Curtis Harrington, Jr.

Well, as it turned out, it was my duty to convert these pages into a nov-el. And as I remember, it was one of those quickie assignments.

I approached this whole thing with mixed emotions! Looking at the script was going to be hard enough, reading its contents might even be somewhat yucky. Converting it to a novel might be okay, since I'd been working in that area for some time—not conversions, but novels for paper-back publication.

I had never been very interested in scripts. I mean in writing them. I had decided many years ago that possessing a mimeographed copy of some masterpiece I'd skillfully designed in a flush of creative madness was not very impressive. I mean: who the hell can't simply type something up and have it mimeographed? Not every impressive, that. And early on all my doubts concerning such projects were proven totally valid when I learned how many a script typist prided themselves in adding minor revisions, to say nothing about directors, actors, and who knows what other members of the production team, including producer and even his secretary with the REVISING compulsion! After all, the original author is considered less than a lowly flunky of first-draft concepts.

Hell, these Hollywood types figure that the jerk writer was already overpaid for his outline in dialogue form! What does he know? Less than nothing. And even if he does, so what? He's cashed his check and is now out of the picture—for good!

So. I figured. To hell with scripts. I wanted hard evidence of my crea-tive genius printed on paper, bound solidly in place with an attractive full color cover. Plus, of course, a boldly obvious byline announcing my name in large letters under the title would be hard evidence of my importance. Even better: over the title. But, heck, and golly gee, I'd settle for even a small mention on the lower left or right—just so they spelled my name right: Charles Nuetzel!

That was what had driven me through a normally difficult teenage of hiding behind books and practicing behind a portable typewriter until I fi-nally learned enough to think of myself as an author.

Oh, to be an author! To have my name in print. The glory of it all!

Well, reality was soon to flush some of those ideas down the drain.

Interestingly enough, once you are skilled enough, getting your name in print isn't all that difficult, expect for a minor little factor:

Does ya really wanna have ya name linked to that manuscript?

Well, maybe. But, just think, I could invent a pen name just for the hell of it! Why not? Hide behind that fake identity while you are learning your craft. And, geeze, now you've invented a "real" person that people will tru-ly believe exists! A byline proves the existence of an author! Alive and breathing!

And I can save my real name for what I consider "quality" stuff. Ha! One wonders about the importance of that word! Quality! Yet a much de-sired concept!

My agent, nice man that he has always been, sweetly informed me that "quality comes with quantity" and like a devout devotee of a true godman's words, I listened and believed.

This drove whatever talents I had into turning blank pages into useless paper!

I mean, the writer splatters ink across the white surface of cheap paper, marring it forever more! If lucky he finds some editor foolish enough to believe that these pages should be magically converted into a printed form. I mean, WOW, they actually pay for this kind of used-up paper!

Well, I was soon in the paper selling business, though I didn't really think of it in quite that manner.

I was being paid while learning! And getting all those credits. Inventing not only fictional characters but "real life" authors!

I ended up with a number of pen names and a larger number of short novels scattering the local and national newsstands. Oh, the wonderful life of an author.

But it was some time before I considered offering up my own name to a book. And the first one was, what else?—Whodunit? Hollywood Style. Hor-rors: a book on Hollywood; about the film industry. Was I mad or some-thing?

Or something.

Then came this script to pervert my lingering doubts about the movie industry at large.

Now it isn't that I don't like Hollywood, hell I grew up in the busi-ness—indirectly. My father had been a commercial artist for Pacific Title and Arts for many years (they did the special effects and screen credit titles for some of the biggest movie industry's films). I'd been exposed to movies since a mere babe in San Francisco, where my Dad worked for Fox West Coast Theaters, doing huge paintings for the theater lobbies (this was pre-vious to the printed posters later used to announce the currently running movies). Remember, this was way back in the 1930s and beginning '40s. He got us into any picture we wanted to see for free! And that was some-thing we enjoyed to the fullest on a weekly basis.

Anyway, I've gotten far from the dern track of the naughty, nasty Queen of Blood!

Ah, yes. That bloody screenplay!

The script had to be turned into a novel in quick time (and this was be-fore computers, mind ya all!). I had a faithful electric typewriter with in-stant return carriage and all that, but any revisions meant a retyping! YUCK to that, thank you. And no thanks!

Anyway, I soon discovered that the Queen was somewhat missing in much of her details. I mean, the "lady" was stripped all but naked of any-thing but a big mouth that screamed endless dialogue. Well, okay, the Queen herself wasn't the only voice chattering madly away on these mime-ographed pages!

But truth be known, the script, beyond mention of Mars and some sandstorms and a couple of rocket ships and a lotta eggs of questionable design, was on the short side of visual verbiage and/or background details. The only information offered concerned the vampin' Queen herself and a number of characters to serve as delicious meals for our hungry female alien monster from God knows where! Of course there was the "plot" of the thing—your standard science fiction storyline of people in distress and the normal run of the mill implication of what would devour Earth by the time the film ended. There really wasn't much to it other than the dialogue that filled around 100 pages or so—if that! I had to convert this into about 55,000 words, more or less.

Well, I did a bit of instant calculations. After deleting all the FADE INS & OUTS and character names above lines of dialogue and the now and then camera instructions or scene setting paragraphs, I learned I'd have to turn each script page into three pages of manuscript!

Well, it was typin' time! And no time to look back.

Nor be very inventive.

Nor take much time to breathe between work sessions.

Expanding dialogue was easy enough. But I had plenty of that as a cen-tral core. What I needed to do was write details that were missing! Land-scapes. Rocket ship. Travel through space to Mars in days....

HEY, WAIT A MINUTE!

That ain't possible! 'Tain't gonna take a few days to leap across the vast distance between Earth and the Red Planet (being turned ever redder by the vampy Queen of Blood herself!).

Well, I had to be somewhat inventive there, creating what was, if memory serves me right, the Harrington drive to explain away the swift trip from Earth to Mars (a polite bow to the script writer-director!).

Little matters like that were necessary add-ons.

Then there was a small walk-on part that Forry Ackerman had in the film—courtesy of Mr. Harrington himself! I figured, heck, why not be a little more generous with this man who is so responsible for my nightmare with a queen.

So I literally invented an expanded role for my agent to play out. Even some actual dialogue! SUPER! But what are we gonna call this fella? Well, all authors and editors and agents and even would-be and real actors have an ego! Don't we all, man! Super-egos deluxe.

So what can I call him. Oh. Gee, let's see. Give him some importance. Ah. Yes. Make him a doctor. Sure fits in a sf flick. Now don't it? Sure does!

But Doctor who? Certainly not Who, that was already taken, natch, of course.

Dr. Ackerman? Well, that was too close to reality. After all Mr. Forrest J Ackerman has some kind of degree—even if it is simply a third one! Yes, I do believe he does hold a doctor of some sort that kept hangin' round the Ackermansion in all its modern variations.

So. That's out. Like flout! So to speak.

He was already famous as Dr. Acula in his Famous Monsters of Filmland, which he had edited and almost totally written over a twenty-year period.

So maybe I should go Hollywoodish and in like Flynn!

Ah, ha. FORREST is the man's name.

Doctor is the first degree.

DR. FORRESTER became his name in actual fictional fact, Hollywood Style!

Enough of this foolishness.

Back to the Queen, once more. The blood-sucking vamp of somewhat greenish tint!

Well, first of all, let's get something straight right from the start: okay, from this point, anyway:

This was a somewhat young person's tale of a trip to Mars where our heroes come in bloody contact with a seductive lady from deep space! An alien creature that couldn't get enough of the living blood of these delight-fully delicious Earthmen's bods. And don't forget the female scientists! After all you gotta have some implied romantic interest, even if it has to remain squeaky clean!

Oh, I'll admit it could have gone in either direction: slanted to a teenage market or liberally speckled with erotic scenes for an all-adult audience.

Well, I always figured that sf and sex simply didn't mix: not the same audience. Minors wanted adventure on a grand scale! Battling to the death against BEMs (bug eyed monsters) with super rays and screaming boy-like ladies who had to be rescued by daring deeds for, perhaps, a light embrace and maybe even a shocking kiss on the lips—closed mouth, of course, natch! While the adult market demanded super male studs and voluptuous-ly vamping tarts hungrily seeking one another out like desperate wantons from Orgyland.

Not, mind you, would those sexually overcharged teenagers be more than willing to share a bit of stimulating adventures between the covers of a paperback book (or bed sheets for that matter!).

This was a matter of a serious consideration of the law itself.

Adult meant adult in years—not necessarily in maturity, of course!

So, this was totally out of the question for teenagers—well commercial-ly, anyway! Remember we're talking about the never-never land of the mid-twentieth century where people saved such "trash" for adult consump-tion only!

Natch. Of course! That's the law, babe!

So gotta keep it clean as glass for the pure, untouched kiddies. Well, as they say in the cartoons: That's all folks!

Not so. Believe it or not!

And I ain't playin' dat game! Mind ya manners!

Well, I whacked out the manuscript in due time, and deadline time, too, to boot (and I did tell ya this was previous to the PC where ya can get the boot at the twist of a perverted mouse! And you always have to boot up just to get started. To boot!).

Again, I've perverted the sticky trail to the publication of the very Queen we've been chattin' about! But ain't sorry about that, thank you! I think I'm avoiding the obvious (to me, anyway!).

Back to the subject at hand, which could, under other circumstances be, perhaps, a delicious detour to land of passions unknown. But, alas, things never work out as you expect them to.

The very colorful Queen herself was something else, indeed! To say the least. And the least said about her the safer we all are. I mean, who wants a veggie suckin' a bod dry?

Veggie? Did I say Veggie? Sure did. With, perhaps, good reason. [And maybe pure madness!]

Thus it is that we come to the very color of her skin: Green as any proud celery stalk. And this, surprisingly enough, matched the name of the publisher! GREEN. Turn the leaf of a book and what do you get?

GREENLEAF.

[See how I manage to go quickly to the point?]

And since this was such a major production, both in the quickie produc-tion of the film and the rapid delivery of the manuscript, why not just give it a suitable label? After all it is truly a classic example of fast creative en-ergy doled out to the public at large for a quick buck!

Greenleaf Classics.

For sure that's impressive, don't ya think?

Sure was. As far as that goes.

And it actually went quite a distance.

The publishing complex which would deliver the Queen to the news-stands of America was owned by a master publisher with a magnificent background in the science fiction field!

William L. Hamling had been a publisher of sf magazines like Stardust, Imagination, Imaginative Tales, and Space Travel in the early fifties. Before that, he worked as an editor on Amazing Stories and Fantastic Adventures for Ziff-Davis. Chicago. He was sure to respect the teenage sf market which had started in the mid-'20s when Amazing Stories first hit the news-stands. This magazine literally invented, just about single handedly, a total-ly new kind of pulp fiction called scientifiction that ended up being more classically labeled science fiction, which was changed by Mr. Science Fic-tion himself, Forry Ackerman, to sci-fi! BIG BILL H would certainly honor the memory of that grand literary standard of which he'd been such a fa-mous supplier during his grand editing/publishing career.

Okay, I know. That was somewhat of a complicated footnote slapped into the above paragraph. Maybe implying far more innocence to those in-volved, but, well, never you mind that. The point is made.

Yes, I know that Big Bill was heavily involved in the adult fiction field!

Hamling was Greenleaf Classics, and well-known science fiction fan Earl Kemp was his editorial director. Before that, Kemp had been a co-founder of Advent:Publishers in Chicago.

This certainly was the quality line of Hamling's many multiple lines that ground up endless adult titles from its San Diego central.

So this "classic" factor certainly must promise the best possible packag-ing for such a fine and deserving teenage novel of sf adventure in outer space with a vampire alien lady thirsty for an endless supply of blood that only Earth could, in the end, so generously offer.

Another of my magically complex statements. But it makes the point. I think. Maybe. I hope.

This was super clean, teenage packaging to match the squeaky pure sto-ry contents, based on the quickie sf horror flick slanted for the twentieth century movie audience.

Gulp!

Keep it Hays Office perfect!

How'd Mr. Hays get into the act? Again? And again. And again! I mean, he was always stickin' his prudish nose into the imaginary bedrooms of the All American Public. Okay. More clearly put: his famed office was the mighty voice of Censorship Deluxe! These blue nosey folk monitored the film Industry like super hawks to ax anything suggestive that might pervert the public morals. I mean, oh, heck! As Bette Davis might say: "What a dump!"

The Hays Office dictated that no couple could be seen together on a bed! If it so happened that a cozy bed was being used by a, say, lady much desired by all concerned, her male companion (married to her or not) had to keep one foot planted safely on the floor!

Heaven's to Betsy were they inventing a new, interesting sexual posi-tion to foster onto the nation's public at large.

Hell no! [Though I'm certain that some creatively talented adult author could come up with something quite stimulating to teach his (or her) audi-ence about a new and joyfully stimulating adult position to ecstasy. The One-Foot Passion Dance?]

Okay, bad idea.

Anyway, I've delayed long enough with coming to the most sinful ele-ment of this story of woe concerning the Queen of Blood.

On the cover they literally offered up: MOVIE NOW SHOWING against a classic cover painting by the great Robert Bonfils of the Martian landscape featuring a threatening sandstorm with a couple of space-suited men in the distance approaching the green Queen who was blatantly pre-sented totally stark naked for all to see! Can you believe? Believe! On your knees and believe you sinners all!

For shame! Perverting countless teenage boys to snap her up and devour that sensuously stimulating image until they turned as green as she appeared—but with envy that she wasn't real! How they must have wanted this lovely creature desperately clutched in their arms in a passionate em-brace destined to drain them of all their throbbing hot blood!

Okay. I made that up. Darn if I ain't ashamed of myself.

But, another point has been hammered home!

If I had retained any doubts about the book, a very delightful man named Bill Trotter told me that the Queen had been literally published as an Adult Novel. He was a part of this publishing giant in San Diego long before branching out on his own with Powell Publications. I packaged a number of books for his various lines, including "inventing" and developing Powell Sci-Fi during its first year of existence.

Well Trotter's words had stripped naked any doubts I might have re-tained in my mind.

The BIG BILL PUBLISHING HOUSE had lived up to its true rep and released just another grand sampling of Adult Packaging that has stayed with the book forever more!

Cheesy Adult fiction it has been called.

Imagine that. How insulting can "they" get (whom ever "they" may be!)?

I don't mind the Cheesy part for a quickie flickie turned into a quickie bookie of questionable quality—to boot.

But this was pushing things beyond bearable torment!

Can you imagine having your second book under your own name com-ing out as a cheesy adult novel of questionable design? And, on top of that, it was my very first sf novel ever published!

Of course there are some rewards hidden in what was to be the Queen's future, and now her present status in the world of collectable items. Today the price tag, which was originally a mere seventy-five cents, has elevated to well, blushing at the thought, $360 if you can get it!

[Just checked that out on the Internet and you can have it! Every bloody word and even that delicious, delectable Bonfils cover painting of the Queen lounging there in all her naked glory, stripped bare for all to feast upon before she catches you under her alien spell and drains the red blood out of your veins forever more!]

Well, Earl Kemp asked for it and he sure as hell has gotten it: a pure verbal nightmare designed to reveal an author's memory of his involvement with a Queen of Blood.

Now, just to confess something: I am fully aware that Mr. Kemp was intimately involved with Big Bill and all the many houses that were so fu-riously publishing at least fifty books a month—so it has been reported, real or imagined, myth or magic. Earl may have even been involved with the Queen, too, for all I know. And he probably knows far more about her than I have herein offered the reader.

Quite frankly, I guess I shouldn't be too pushed out of shape about how it all came out in the end. Taking everything into account, that is.

The hard facts (excuse the "H" word, please) is that all too many of those science fiction pulps of the '40s were known for offering cover art that presented horrid, terrifying BEMs (remember those Bug Eyed Mon-sters?) threatening nearly naked ladies screaming in desperate horror! And all those Damsels needed to be rescued! What red—blooded American boy would not eagerly leap across a thousand magazine stands to win their fa-vor?

Certainly the fantasies held by these young male would-be studs ranged from more innocent motivations to rather raw dreams of ravishing their lush bods! Natch.

Those semi-naked ladies certainly served the same purpose, I suppose, as the fully naked green Queen of Blood.

Perhaps those guys in San Diego knew what they were doing.

I suppose she's kinda okay, after all. And maybe that inflated price tag now being demanded to totally possess her isn't out of line!

After all she is a bloody Queen?

THE REAL STRAIGHT DOPE

CONCERNING A FAMOUS LOVE SONG!

How did Love Song by Phil Farmer come about? Not quite as most people might think.

And right up front, I have to say: I'm as responsible for its existence as any other person living or dead.

That's what you call a narrative hook! And now that I have you by the line, I'll reel you in with the following confession.

The other day I happened, through a series of events on-line, to discover Phil Farmer's website http://www.pjfarmer.com/. There I skimmed and scanned. Saw his listings of books and came across the Love Song title, which I'd forgotten all about. That brought memories swiftly back.

One of them was the fact that one of Dad's Amazing Stories covers was used for Phil's e-book Green Odyssey at:

http://www.fictionwise.com/eBooks/PhilipJoseFarmereBooks

I have no objections to this, of course. I've done much the same thing with a lot of Dad's cover art for my own e-books to be found on http://www.fictionwise.com/eBooks/CharlesNuetzeleBooks.htm, too.

And in fact used the original covers of other books I'd written which didn't contain Dad's art. I suppose we all do this.

Seems a common reality that all artists and writers face on the Internet.

In any case, that's merely a side issue.

In the 1960s on I was fairly active not only in writing, but also in pack-aging pocket books for local publishers in the Los Angles area. It all started out with Bob Pike who bought an original manuscript from my Lost City of the Damned, for which I convinced him to us my father as the cover artist. Dad, Al Nuetzell, had made a reputation for himself as an s-f cover artist during the 1950s, selling to Fantasy & Science Fiction, Amazing Stories, Fantastic Stories, and Famous Monsters of Filmland. So this was the first cover he did for one of my books and the led to finally our teaming togeth-er to do a number of packaging jobs. [Earl has asked me to do an article on that period of my professional life, and I plan on doing so in the near fu-ture. But enough to say there were a number of projects that came into be-ing after that first round with Pike Books.]

As a result of all this I had ended up working with a very good artists, after Dad had died in 1969. Bill Hughes by name.

Well, now. I was sitting one day by the phone and I got a call from Bill who was doing covers for Rubicon Classics, a line of adult novels. I'd been packaging books for Powell Publications, using Bill as the cover artist after my father had become too ill to continue doing them for me. Bill was an outstanding cover artist and graphics man. I was lucky to meet and know him.

Well, anyway, he told me about this new line of sex novels, and would I be interested in taking over the packaging of it? The man packaging them for the publisher wanted out of the deal. So a new guy was being recom-mend: me, if I was interested.

Well, I was never the one to turn down a good deal. And this one looked excellent. They were paying a very good price for original novels. All they wanted was a lot of graphic sex. The publisher told me: The ideal story would have been a literary classic. Natch. And he'd love it to be noth-ing more than one prolonged seductive scene offering all the graphic details of two lovers sharing a magic moment of mutual passion. That kinda set a rather obvious editorial policy. WOW! And in a manuscript running some 200 pages or more! Give me a break! But advances were half on signing the contract, the rest on delivery of the final book, if I remember right. And solid delivery to the authors!

I remember that I was fairly busy with a number or writing and packag-ing deals at the time and was delighted that a cover artist (Bill Hughes) and a built in editor was part of this packaging deal. All I'd have to do was get the manuscripts from writers and write the cover lines. I didn't even have to read the bloody stories. The editor would call me up and tell me what the book was all about and I'd use that information to do the required flyleaf and cover copy. This would be handed over to Bill who would have it all set up in type and then would lay the cover graphics all nicely together with his artwork.

A sweet deal with a bit of money in my pocket for very little effort on my part.

And for the writers it was a sure sale. Well, okay, that depended on the writers. I, being somewhat interested in an easy, fast buck, decided to go for some fairly well established writers who would deliver—and on dead-line.

I decided I could tease some good writers into considering doing busi-ness with me. I contacted my own agent Forrest J Ackerman and got the phone numbers and addresses of some serious top grade writers. Okay. Writers who were not your standard sex book novelist, but rather into other more literary fields, like s-f. Or to put it another way: established profes-sionals. [Or even put another way: Phil Farmer, who was famous for his The Lovers, a short novel that had broken all literary boundaries when it appeared in an s-f pulp magazine back in the 1950s, would be an ideal choice. Back then, when this story originally appeared in print, the idea of sex in s-f was like oil and water. Bad mix. You couldn't have one with the other. One or the other, but not mated. Well, not until Farmer exploded on-to the publishing field with this story.]

Well, who could be better than a Mr. Philip José Farmer? Forry seemed to think this nice fellow would be more than willing to consider such a pro-ject as I was offering up.

So, along with a number of other writers I contacted him and what a delightful experience that turned out to be. He was very professional about it, and able to bring it all together on deadline and deliver the final manuscript without any problems. A total professional, of course. Natch.

Well, as it turned out Rubicon Classics didn't last long. This was around 1969-70 and things came crashing down on the country, one of those depressive recessions. It wasn't the only local publisher to feel the crunch. In fact Powell Publications was squeezed by the months on end strike where even truck drivers were pulling back and not doing their best to deliver pocketbooks to local distributors. When the books don't get from the printer to the local newsstand something has to give! And that's the publisher, unless they have enough money behind them to survive the pro-longed crunch. Some didn't make it by choice. The publisher of Rubicon Classics decided to pull up stakes and take his losses.

Thus, there was the Phil Farmer manuscript, all paid for (that was one of the prime features of the deal: full advance on delivery of the manuscript). So what was he to do?

Well, I lost track of it all at that time and was into other things—surviving.

The next thing I learn is that Brandon House, the local BIG PUBLISHING HOUSE for hard-core sex books and magazines, had re-leased Love Song by Philip José Farmer. This was, in fact, one of the bigger publishers in and around Los Angeles area. [As an interesting point, they were out with Fanny Hill before any New York publisher could get their editions on the stands.]

So. I just wanted to put the record straight. Brandon House may have ended up with Love Song, but it would never have existed if Bill Hughes hadn't called me and suggested I take over that packaging job for Rubicon Classics.

DREAMER OF TOMORROW

This is based on an article published in Vertex Magazine of Science Fiction.

Albert Augustus Nuetzel(l) (the extra "l" was used to balance the "N" when signing a painting for covers) was a full-time commercial artist. Un-like many sci-fi artists, who start as fans, breaking into illustrating and cov-er art in order to work their way into higher paying markets, Dad entered the field later in life, more as a side-line to please me.

The surprising fact is that Dad wasn't a sci-fi buff. He considered the idea of space travel to be the stuff of dreams, fantasy—it would never hap-pen in his life-time, or in a hundred years—if ever! Yet he lived to see man reaching into space.

Art was a serious business to Dad. He believed a person should use his creative abilities to express beauty, offering something to others—not just to artists and a few select "experts"—and make money doing so!

But even though committed completely to this concept, he enjoyed painting pictures which people could hang on their walls. To quote him:

"The highest compliment which can be given a true artist is when a per-son is willing to pay hard cash in order to own a painting—a creative prod-uct—which was formed from colors, brush and canvas out of the feeling and emotions in his own being—mind."

In the beginning years he developed his fine art abilities, while making a living doing commercial art; and only after retirement did most of his ef-forts go to painting for galleries.

Dad was born in 1901, Jan. 18, and died some sixty-eight years later, mere weeks before Man landed on the Moon. At an early age his family brought him to California, where he spent the rest of his life. While working for his father, as a teenager, Dad went to art school at night, learning the fundamentals of his craft. In Los Angeles, on June 27, 1931, he married Betty Jane Stockberger, daughter of a newspaper editor.

In San Francisco he worked for Fox West Coast Theaters, making oil paintings to be hung in the lobbies as "ads" for the current film playing at the theater—now they use printed posters for the same purpose. During his free time he painted gallery art, and had showings in San Francisco, did movie ads for newspapers and designed a series of small pamphlets for the California Missions. But beyond that and a few "faked" hardcover jackets done late for motion picture title backgrounds (screen credits) he had little to prepare himself for magazine covers. In the early '40s he moved back to Los Angeles and worked for Pacific Title, where he did a lot of work for the movie industry.

In the early fifties Dad did some experimenting in sci-fi cover art, and the four black and white reproductions shown here [taken from the maga-zine layout for the Vertex article], are prime examples of the kind of work he did in those years for magazines.

In the last months of his life we were involved inputting together pock-et books for publishers. There would have been at least twelve Nuetzell co-vers—the line was dropped after a year—if Dad's death hadn't aborted his efforts after the third book. Our concept was, at the time, to do large oil paintings (wrap-around covers—actually works of art to hang), the originals to be given to the authors.

Between the first magazine sale and last pocket book cover he managed to produce around forty covers. When he started sci-fi work, in the early '50s, it was considered impossible to break into the New York market from the West Coast. But he managed. By the mid-'50s Dad was getting assign-ments from such magazines as Famous Monsters of Filmland, Amazing Stories, Fantastic Stories, Fantasy & Science Fiction—along with many pocketbook commissions.

To me, personally, the final painting my father did—for my book Im-ages of Tomorrow—combines both his commercial and artistic talents in the very finest level. It was my personal treasure, and I have the original hanging in my home. It was a final statement—a perfect combination of what he stood for as an artist. It said it all.

DAD & I*

By Charles Nuetzel

And what makes us want to write?

To present a message we consider of value to the world around us. Our ego or our needs or our natural human instinct to add to humanity drives us to have this mad desire to communicate our ideas we consider original con-cepts.

As for me?

I think it was a desire and need to communicate my thoughts and ideas to a father with whom I shared a lot of love, but with a father who, at times, had difficulty in verbal exchanges. Mother was a talker. Dad was a painter (commercial artist); he didn't think in words so much as in images. He had an older brother who was gifted with words, who talked in a very interesting and intelligent way about many things, and had traveled the world over his years of living. But Dad? Well he was an artist and expressed himself creatively through art rather than through words. Not that he was a dummy. Heck no. Not that. Just that his communicating talents were channeled mainly through his art. He didn't like to argue, have debating exchanges, mental fencing. I loved to work out problems of the world and everything in a verbal way. But my mouth always stumbled over the words. And I found it very difficult to have complete, satisfying conversations that were conclusive. I've been told by a life-long friend that I write more clearly than I speak. Okay? Debate ended.

Dad was born 1901, and died some 68 years later, mere weeks before Man landed on the Moon.

Throughout the 1930's Dad worked for Fox West Coast Theaters, at which he painted huge poster like things that were used to hang in the lob-bies of movie theaters in San Francisco. They didn't have the printed post-ers in those days. At least not in the first run movie houses. During these years we saw all the first run movies for free; dad just called the manager and said we were coming!

Later we moved to Southern California and what followed in Holly-wood simply reinforced this dedication, though we had to pay for the films by then, but Dad was making a lot more money, so it all evened out. And it was during war times. Gas was rationed, so was food. Dad did, though, get some food under the counter, so to speak, for over the counter art work. I remember the thrill of Dad meeting the man at a street corner and exchang-ing "gifts"—it was the other side of going out and gathering cans or buying those War Bonds. Black-market meat for a bit of commercial art.

My father wanted me to go into show business as a singer. I'd been given private vocal lessons since I was around nine years old and done my normal appearances here and there. In time I had developed a style and pro-fessional level that opened some very interesting doors and fed me into the very beginnings of a career in that business. But that wasn't my dream.

When I finally sold my first story, ah, what a thrill that was. I made a life-altering decision.

Dad felt: "You can do both!" Meaning I'd out-grow my interest in writ-ing and pay attention to realistic matters: a singing career.

Ah, the passion of it all.

I mean: Dad's passion was all vested in my becoming the second Sina-tra, or the Mario Lanza of my day. Sure. Dreams are made up of such illu-sions. Many a parent has driven their child down the road to self-destruction via great success, or simply great success, or simply down a dead end road. Many Super Stars were pushed into fame by a mother or father possessed with the idea of their child's name in lights.

I told Dad: "Well, I think I want to be a writer!"

"Wonderful, son," he probably said, verbally giving me a generous pat on the head, "that will be nice. You can write and sing!" The implication, of course, was that I would probably outgrow this silly impractical ambition and could then place all my attention on the practical manner of a suc-cessful career in show business.

Sure. Sound, loving advice, missing one vital point of order: My passion was writing, not singing.

#

I still have vague memories of being a young child in San Francisco. Dad worked for Fox West Coast theaters and did those grand large paint-ings used in the lobby of the theaters to promote the movie playing at that very moment. For a while Dad had a few of them in, of all places, his gar-age, all of which, sad to say, are now long gone.

But I remember going backstage, usually upstairs, or elsewhere in the theater in downtown San Francisco, and watching Dad work.

Mostly, though, for me, it was a natural education in art. I simply picked up a lot of pointers by watching and listening. At times he did work on ads for newspapers—freelance work. And also did some cover art for small pamphlets on the California Missions, some of which I still have.

When I was seven we moved a few dozen miles south of San Francisco to Milbrae, where the folks bought their first home. We stayed there for one year before moving all the way to Los Angeles, when Dad got a job at Pa-cific Title & Arts Studio, in Hollywood.

Returning to Southern California we settled not far from 20th Century Fox Studios and even closer to Westwood Village, a few minutes from Santa Monica. And then there was Hollywood, not far by bus or car. It was the beginning of the war, the big one, the Popular One, to say nothing about the bloody one. We tend to ignore all that. Not only thousands of Americans, but people from all over, including German, lost their lives in the retaking of Europe, away from the Nasty Nazi Monsters of Germany's Third Reich—under the Master Leader of the savage fanatic crazies of that government, Adolf Hitler, Mein Fuehrer! Those few years of history were difficult for all concerned and a disgusting blot on an otherwise noble nation.

The nation was up in arms and totally supportive of the war. We'd been attacked without warning by the Japanese at Pearl Harbor and rallied around the President and flag. It was a time when being an American, when saluting the flag, when proudly standing together in a solid firm front, was not only popular but a total devotion to a common cause and a belief in ourselves and our good place in history and our mission to stop the monsters in Europe and then in Asia.

The Russian front slowly swelled away from Moscow and right into what was Poland and in the last months of the war my wife's family was rushing to escape the on-coming armies, for she (Brigitte) came from Prus-sia in a town named Elbing. Her story is a feast of horror and reveals the human side of war for the German population. She was far too young to be anything but a child rushed though the last days and weeks just ahead of the Russian invasion forces.

And me? Heck I was having fun playing war and going to school and just being a kid. I had wonderful parents, even if not perfect, but very lov-ing and caring and protective.

Dad did his daily job, which had given him safe exit from the draft–his work involved movies that were also made for the government and ex-empted him from military duty. We also lived in a rationed society, a wel-comed state of affairs. All people recognized the importance of winning the war and being a part of it, doing our duty for our country and our men in uniform. We were totally supportive!

We thrilled to movies with John Wayne single handedly defeating the monsters of the Pacific and, I believe, did his number against the African and/or European front. He was a master of battle. And I remember the first Gregory Peck film, Days of Glory (1944), where he was introduced and played a Russian. This was when they were on our side thus that was a hero role. We had many actors that went into the army by choice when they could have avoided it for any of a number of reasons. And, of course, there was Glenn Miller who sought to bring his whole popular civilian band into the armed forces. That didn't happen, but he got his commission and formed one of the best bands ever! (And certainly his best musical organi-zation.) And he, like many other heroes of the time, died in the war.

My Dad, being in the motion picture business, gave me access to a lot of interesting things. We saw one heck of a lot of films, so that when TV came along later, that was a natural for us. The whole Hollywood scene was my childhood in many ways. And the war years were certainly important.

Now the company he worked for did the screen credits for studios like MGM and Warner Brothers, and a few other top film producing enterpris-es. One of Dad's jobs was to paint backgrounds for the titles and screen credits, which others in the art department hand lettered, many times on glass plates.

I can't remember any of the films Dad actually did, too many years ago, but I do know he had done the Alfred Hitchcock drawing that was fea-tured in the television series under that name! I don't think he originated it, but did do the version actually photographed for the show.

Most of his life was involved making a living as a commercial artist in order to feed his family. And that was, at times, a drag. Even if working in the film industry, which got him deferred from the draft, kept him safe at home, since Pacific Title did work on government films from time to time, the job was at times creatively draining on him.

But for me, there were other advantages of having an artist for a father! One of these was the Easter Eggs. He could make some very fancy designs on eggshells. And then, too, there were other little pluses. He made a num-ber of additions to my childhood through his art. Alas, most of that is lost to memory.

I usually got A's is art class. Never knew if that was because of any na-tive, personal, talent or the fact that the teacher maybe wanted to impress my father. Dad claimed that I showed more artistic talent as a teenager than he did at that same age. Of course, he was somewhat biased, my being his one and only son!

His influence was very strong in the department of using one's natural talents in a commercial way, rather than as pure art. Though Dad was hung in the San Francisco Legion of Honor, which wasn't no crab apples!

I might leap ahead at this point and confess to one incident that took place between Dad and myself, which was far from enjoyable. He was do-ing a cover with Mars in the background (the planet hanging high in the upper part of the sky—into which a magazine logo could easily be placed. But he didn't do Mars justice. And so I figured I'd try to show him the way. And I tried, by God I tried, and he showed me the way how not to help him do a cover! He was furious! I was sadly impressed and depressed over the whole thing. But we both did learn a lesson: he to be more scien-tifically correct and me to limit my suggestions to verbal ones when work-ing with him on covers.

I didn't start reading compulsively until around age twelve, and I had my nose stuck in a book from then on. It became my social life, more than the real life around me. But then, the folks left West LA in a few years to move across the hills to San Fernando Valley after the war and settle in the small town of Encino, right next to Tarzana. Even more importantly, where Edgar Rice Burroughs was to live his last years and die. But, alas, I didn't know about that. I only knew that I was reading his books at a hungry rate and that in the coming years I'd spend a lot of time going to Hollywood and Los Angeles by bus and streetcar. And one day in a second hand bookstore I run into a nice fella who asked if I had read anything by Ray Bradbury. This was followed up with his announcing he was Ray Brad-bury: What followed had nothing to do with world wars and nothing to do with anything but the world of science fiction! I had never heard of s-f fan-dom, nor people like Forrest J Ackerman until that accidental meeting with one hell of a nice young writer! What later followed created swift connec-tions which were in a few years to help launch not only my career as a writer, but would result in my meeting of that young German lady destined to be my wife.

Throughout all this was that singing thing that Dad had in mind for my future career. And against that was my fannish sci-fi collection, ever grow-ing. Once I went to an early convention in San Diego I was more than hooked.

It was around this time that our lifetime work together began. I wanted some original cover art, like they sold at science fiction conventions; pub-lishers offering manuscripts and art to help support these early gatherings. And thus started our collaborative efforts that continued over the years.

And that's the story I want to relate, for it opened doors in several ways, and even to this day has been effective in my designing covers on books for Wildside Press. Some of the covers are self-designed, from the ground up, such for Dimensions: Past, Present & Future, for The Ersatz for Any One Can Die. And a number of others, such as Epic Dialogs of Mhyo were mostly designed totally by me outside of some art (in this case, the dragon). Most of the rest are a combination of elements gathered together from bits of original art Dad did. In a few cases I adapted the covers that appeared on the original pocketbook editions so many years ago. Others, I simply did in part or in whole.

The point being: I'm not an artist, but I learned a lot about art and about composition and about covers over the years. All of this experience made it possible to do some work professionally, even being hired by one of the top pulp publishers, Leo Margulies, who, in his later years, came out west in semi-retirement. He was still publishing magazines such as Charlie Chan Mystery Magazine, Weird Tales, Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, and Zane Gray Western. He had done something like 40 different titles during the forties back east. But in the early '70s he came to Los Angeles and needed somebody to put together the covers for these magazines. Forry Ackerman suggested me and I was doing that for about a year.

A lot had taken place between the early years of working with Dad on covers for the sci-fi magazines and then with Leo. I even sold one of Dad's covers to him for the Mike Shayne, January 1974 issue.

What a delightful man Leo was, too. This was a tough professional, but a wonderfully open and giving mensch. He would look at something you brought into his offices and either frown, saying: "Can't use it!" or give off a wide generous grin and see that a check was instantly written out. If he had said he couldn't use it, I'd find out what was needed, do it and deliver on deadline! He was amazed and delighted when I came in with just what he needed and had that check in my hands before I left his office.

The short time I worked with him was quite a learning experience, too.

This all occurred during a period shortly after my mother's death. I was in a very bad space, emotionally drained. His offices were in the Holly-wood area, almost an hour away from Thousand Oaks. He seemed to be interested in having me do the total magazine layouts, paste-ups, but that would have meant coming to his offices on a daily basis. He also encour-aged me to offer him some manuscripts, but I simply wasn't able to write at that time. I might have learned a lot from him if things had been different. But what a delightful man he was.

Again, I keep getting ahead of the story.

I almost forgot to clear up a point. It has to do with the extra L in Dad's signature for magazine covers. The name is Nuetzel and he added an extra l so that it balanced out to: Nuetzell.

Magazine and pocketbook covers were totally alien fields for Dad. He wasn't a heavy reader, for one thing and for another he knew less than nothing about science fiction. That was my department! I had become an avid reader and collector for a number of years. By the time I started writ-ing, things had changed for me to mainly collecting copies of magazines containing stories I'd written—and later copies of my books.

Leaping ahead too far into the future, again...

I thought, maybe it might be possible to get Dad to do some covers and I could have the original art returned into our hands.

What a wonderful thought; and what a wonderful idea. And what a fantastic learning experience that would open doors I had never imagined possible that day I met Ray Bradbury in a second-hand bookstore in Holly-wood.

Who would have believed this chanced meeting would have so many dramatic effects over my life?

Heck, if it weren't for Ray I would never have met my wife! And he never has met her!

Links and twists and turns all gathered together and around the future developments that lead to a partnership between father and son. And it all started somewhere in the beginning of the 1950's.

Some times fathers and sons work very well together. It may take a bit of time in order to get to the point where they can work smoothly together. We had our moments. For us it was a mixed bag.

The silk screening project was one thing that sometimes worked, and other times didn't. One of my first collaborative efforts with him was on the Egyptian project. He had developed an outlet for silk-screened prints of his art where he did the design and the screens. Then the printing was done with the help of my mother and my cousin Carl and, of course, myself. Many of these projects went just so far into commercial success. But one of the most successful ones was based on a suggestion I made:

"Dad, how about a series of Egyptian pictures? Start with a litho of a wall and then we can silk screen over that with pictures like they have on Egyptian tombs and ruins." Well, that's exactly what we did. I filled the original order of 1,000 prints of a twelve-set series. They were sold to a framing house that did so well with them they wanted to order more. At that time we decided, for reasons I've forgotten, to just sell the design to them, which we did, along with the litho negative so they would have the background to silkscreen the pictures on. I don't know what happened after that insofar as the numbers of sales, but we walked away from that project with a wee-profit.

I won't go into any more details concerning these projects Dad was in-volved in and I mention this only as a matter of record and illustrating how we were able to work hand-in-hand on some things. In this case he was top dog, so to speak.

In cover work it was a totally different matter.

Here I was in a somewhat better position. The first cover I sold by my-self, agenting and going through the whole selling process. Ray A. Palmer was an established sci-fi pulp editor who was publishing his own digest magazines [Other Worlds and Science Stories] out of the mid-west and had, previously, been editor of Amazing Stories and Fantastic Stories for Ziff-Davis.

The first items we sent to RAP, as he was generally called, were turned down flat, but we learned a lot about cover design from him and made a new sketch idea I submitted. They returned it with a suggested change. This was done and accepted and appeared on Science Stories, the February 1954 issue, which had a cover story by John Bloodstone (penname belong-ing to Stu Byrne) titled The Last Days of Thronas and a requested bio con-cerning Dad. Well, it was supposed to have been written by the artist in question, but was my first published writing; for I ghosted it for him.

I still have letters from the editor accepting this cover for publication and I was thrilled to the ends of the known universe! My head was swim-ming in galactic dust and didn't come out for a very long time.

This sale caught Forry Ackerman's attention and we signed on with him, with me playing in-between man. The deal always was: the art returns to the artist. This meant, though, in reality to the son of artist: me! Over the years I ended up giving the originals to Forry for his Ackermansion. Many of them have now fallen into the hands of sci-fi collectors. But for a period of time, long enough to satisfy my hunger for such things, I owned each and every one. And some of them I actually had designed. I'd come up with the ideas, Dad would execute them, and I would hand them over to Forry who managed to rack up quite a nice list of sales.

When conventions arrived I was able to rap with the pros, get into par-ties and private places only open to professionals–things that were purpose-ly isolated from the fans. My "glory days" were beginning to open up to me in wonderful ways.

It was through these connections that I ended up handing Forry Acker-man a few manuscripts he was kind enough to look at, submitting a few to magazine editors. Suddenly I got an acceptance for Country Boy [originally titled: Flowers for the Lady]. That was a far cry from the sci-fi mags I really wanted to get published in; but it was a beginning.

That sale went to Cocktail, a girlie magazine, filled with lots of nude ladies (only airbrushed to keep the women somewhat modestly mysterious) showing off their well-developed bustlines. Today called Hooters or Boo-bies. And the airbrushing has been long gone; cause today anything goes —well, everything goes, come to think of it. The censorship doors were blast-ed wide open a long time ago, after a very prolonged struggle between people who wanted to reveal and see all and those who wished to restrict visual and graphic images of all and any kind!

Heaven forbid a young kid might discover what a nude body looked like. I remember, as a child, being exposed to pictures of naked men and women. Heck, I was the son of an artist, and commercial or not, he was no prude about concerning these kinds of images. Not "naughty" but pure re-spectable visual information. So, I never really had much interest in such things as "French postcards" which merely offered shots of naked women. My attitude was: "Well, so what?" Of course this was before a bit of "ma-turity" would spark different kinds of reactions.

But back to the magazine Cocktail and the publication of Country Boy by Alexis Charles. (Yes, I used a penname for that story!)

The editor who bought the story used the editorial penname of Larry Maddox. I don't feel it right to expose his real name here, though it is well known and not much of a secret any more–a long time exposed.

Larry was a sci-fi fan and writer and one of those who circled around the Ackermansion. He had me come into his offices at Art Enterprises in Sherman Oaks, and went over the manuscript line by line telling me what was needed to make it a winner. And, of course, I went about doing as instructed. He bought a few other manuscripts over the next months, but became resistant as I became more and more prolific in grinding out one story and/or article after another as fast as I could type.

Forry found other publishers who grabbed up things from time to time, keeping me continually encouraged to keep tappin' away at the keyboard that first year! One thing led to another. A little issue of seven stories for seven titles, led to my first novel sale to David Zentner and to meeting Bob Pike, who was to become an important factor in the work with Dad.

Dad had some contracts of his own, also. Such as Vera Radcliffe, whom Dad had known for some time socially through a fellow artist, and helped in the original contact with David Zentner, whom she knew on a personal level. Well, she knew a lot of interesting people and one of them was connected with a local, developing, serious pocketbook publisher, who owned "Book Company of America" and had managed to get 1st class na-tional distribution of his books through his contacts. In any case, they had an office in Beverly Hills. Dad was introduced to them as a cover artist—they hired him to do on work several of their current books in production. Dad introduced me to them and they signed me to write a book on Holly-wood, which came out under their suggested title: Whodunit? Hollywood Style. This was the first book published under my own name and for a mul-tiple of reasons I dedicated the original printing to Vera. It later saw print in French, Dutch, and who knows where else it was translated; and later was reprinted as Hollywood Mysteries by Powell Publications and now as True Stories of Scandal and Hollywood Mysteries, again by Wildside Press, in a modernized, updated, and expanded edition.

Selling Dad's sci-fi magazine covers was topped only by having my fa-ther do a cover for one of my books! Now that was one big thrill and five-halves!

Once he started doing the covers, which were done to please his son, we begin our connections with the professional world of science fiction. We had made a serious connection with the Ackerman Agency and I was doing the in-between stuff between 4e (Forrest J "no period" Ackerman) and Dad.

Dad was in place, and now the agent was in place, and I was ready to start really writing for publication. What followed then was the publications of my first short stories and finally my first pocketbooks.

It was Bob Pike who was the first editor/publisher/packager to buy one of Dad's covers for one of my books he'd released. Then he suggested we consider actually packaging books, bypassing publishers like himself!

One good thing led to another.

My real relationship with Bob started when he got his deal with a local distributor to package (publish) pocket books, called me and asked if I had something for his new publishing company, Pike Books. Bob had met me at David Zentner's office. Reputations are built very rapidly once you've made one sale. He had, in fact, edited my first pocket book Hot Cargo for Zentner's Epic Books line.

Well, Bob contracted to package two books a month and for the first month he took an un-produced film script, converted it into a short novel, did a photo cover for it, and used it as one of his first months' release.

Well now he needed a second novel and cover for this opening month's release of Pike Books.

Did I have a deal for him: A manuscript which I was willing to sell at the drop of a "cover by Dad" being added into the deal!

Lost City of the Damned hit the stands with Dad's cover on it. [An up-dated, revised version, both story and cover, is now published by Wildside Press.]

An interesting side-point concerning this cover is two-fold: Dad hated it! And many people liked it, enough so that Jeffrey Luther used it on one of his many postcards sold as prime examples of this kind of cover art. What a tribute to Dad!

But back a few decades to when Lost City of the Damned by Alex Rivere (yes, another penname!) was released.

A major fact of life was taught me when that came out on the stands. My Dad's brother, Uncle Carl, and his second wife, wanna-be writers themselves, were so very impressed by Dad's cover, and had nothing what-soever to say at all concerning the book.

Now, that hurt like blazes! It took some time for me to understand the obvious: it is far easier to look at a visual object and compliment that than to actually spend time reading a book! Can you blame them for being im-pressed with the art and not at all interested with the writing? To say noth-ing about the fact that my words were in print and theirs never did reach that level of achievement. I have always wondered if it was merely the ob-vious easy take on art vs. writing or if something else had entered into their judgment concerning Lost City! Since I happened to have liked it to some degree, I find it difficult to imagine they were all that contemptuous of the bloody thing. Like many people who attempt to write, they didn't seem willing to bend to the demands of the market in order to get published. Or, perhaps they didn't want to write what could be acceptable, or maybe they simply had their own ideas as to what was worthy of publication.

The fact is, though, that they did write a number of things that never got past any editor's desk. That does not mean these stories weren't good. It simply means they weren't commercial enough to reach the markets that would, perhaps, have been possible buyers.

Reasons aren't important. The issue here is that in order to get published you have to develop a hard skin and a determination to do whatever is necessary to appeal to the editors/publishers who are willing to pay to put your words in print and into the reading public's hands.

There are other factors, of course, involved in such matters: determina-tion, connections, and most important a market willing to take on the chal-lenge of a new, unknown writer. Sometimes a publisher's doors are closed to anybody other than a few select writers. It can be just that simple.

Like Bob Pike calling me by phone and asking for a book. I happened to be in the same general area and within easy driving distance from where he was setting up business. I was willing to cooperate with him, and not hard to get, nor unable to slant or revise to his demands.

In this case we delivered manuscript and cover together as a packaged deal. Plus tossed in for good measure: cover lines and flyleaf copy (teaser which is published on the page upon opening the book, previous to the title page).

We sold several double packages to Bob, and in at least one case he did a photographic cover for a book of mine. At the same time he commis-sioned Dad to do the cover for Coming of the Rats by another author.

So, that's how things opened up; one deal ran right into another.

In fact, it was Bob Pike who said: "You should bypass me and go di-rectly to the distributor and do the whole thing yourself!"

How things progress, step by amazing step!

But for that simple side remark from Bob, the "books with a sting" would never have come into being. I did just what Bob suggested and came out with a deal that turned into Scorpion Books! Though I had total creative control of this line, it wasn't done without checks and double checks. Most of these books have been reprinted elsewhere and in translation, so I felt pretty good about that.

But Dad did all the covers for the Scorpion books and I wrote cover lines, flyleaf copy, and the books themselves, including any and all ads concerning them. I owned all the covers for many years, until I sold them via the Tom Lesser Pocket Book Show.

One of these books was titled: Lovers: 2075 by Charles English and later was totally revised to become The Ersatz in Images of Tomorrow, a collection of my sci-fi fiction for Powell Sci-Fi, and now again updated and totally revised as The Ersatz and The Talisman for Wildside Press. Another bit of business concerning the original edition was its translation in Europe under my own name.

It is always nice to have a winner!

The first book for Scorpion Books was....

Oh, but maybe I should let that be told some other time.

The final chapter, working with Dad, all started with meeting Bill Trot-ter in his offices previous to his going independent as a publisher all on his own.

He was a small man [in size, only], delightful in many ways, but quite serious and business-like. Plus an important factor: dependable insofar as delivering payment upon verbal contract.

His background was simple enough: he had been involved with Play-boy, early on, in the distribution department, then later with setting things up for some adult publishers in the mid-west, and apparently involved with William Hamling for a while, even when they went to San Diego. Then his connection with Richard Sherwin in Venice Books set things up for our meeting one afternoon in 1968.

Bill Trotter happened to be a friendly guy who invited me into his of-fice, when I was there to just pick up a copy of the current Carson Davis book.

I'd brought copies of a few things I'd done in the past, like If This Goes On. I mentioned some of these things to Bill during this rather light and social meeting and showed these samples of what I'd done. He was inter-ested, and impressed.

He confided that he was planning to go out on his own, forming a pub-lishing house, and doing more than just "sex book" such as the Carson Da-vis line. Legit books, with first line distribution! That would set things up in a totally different way. In many situations the sex books and magazines didn't get frontline distribution, and even when displayed, it was not up front in the quality section with all the other major publications. But what Bill was planning would be a totally different setup. Very exciting.

Obviously I mentioned my own experiences and contacts, Forry Ackerman and the If This Goes On book I edited. I even suggested a sci-ence fiction line, and how I could probably get some very top named au-thors. He took my name and phone number and said he'd give me a call when he was ready.

Sure. Of course he would. I decided to be excited about the wild possi-bility of that happening, but not overly so. In fact, I'd pretty much forgotten all about it by the time I got a phone call. "This is Bill Trotter" and probably a "remember me" kind of statement. He was set up to publish books, wanted to know if I had some things for him, originals or reprints. I said something could be worked out. We arranged for a meeting that very day, I do believe. I simply closed up shop and drove to his office, about 30 minutes away. We talked for perhaps an hour.

When I came home I had a deal where I'd give him two books a month with covers by Dad, and I'd write all the cover lines and promo copy and not even delivery them to his office, but to the printer. They would be orig-inals or reprints of things previously published, but sexed up a bit to meet the present day market demands for more erotic material. They would be for Tiger Books, his sexy line. He had hired me on my reputation and didn't have an editorial staff to supervise the production of his books. In other words, he had hired me as a packager. We planned on doing the "quality" book and a sci-fi line in the very near future.

Strangely enough I believed him! Actually, here was the kind of man who was straightforward, direct to a blunt point, and didn't bullshit. So I knew he was as good as his word!

I offered up an original manuscript that I titled Nympho and got Dad to do the cover for that and another book, I believe was Blowout! In this case a sex-up version of a book I'd done for Zentner, thus making it, in many ways, an original, new novel. That was the beginning of our publishing "partnership" and what a delightful experience it turned out to be.

I was to get original stories from other authors, or use my own books as reprints. In a short time I got the offer to do the sci-fi line and suggested he call it Powell Sci-Fi, beginning with two books a month. I used the Ackerman Agency, exclusively. [What better expert could I consult for material? And most of all he had connections to named sci-fi writers, well established in the world of science fiction—worldwide!]

The opening month one book was by A.E. Van Vogt, and his wife E. Mayne Hull, containing all the stories from their hard cover edition of Out of the Unknown along with an original story never before published. As for the other book, that was my Swordmen of Vistar selected at Forry's rec-ommendation.

In the months that followed, I picked for publication books like Starman by Stu Byrne and Godman by John Bloodstone (both the same writer). Even some of my own books were included, again at Forry's rec-ommendation.

I wanted to release the most impressive books possible. And the deal was that rights were sold for only one year and the author got the original cover art for their book! Just a little sweetener for raking in established writers into the fold, since the rates of the advance to them was not as inviting as those offered by New York publishers. While Bill Trotter had great distribution, he could hardly compete with the Big Boys on the East Coast. He was just beginning a publishing house more as a fun thing, and as a moneymaker, sure, but it was something he had wanted to do, apparently, for a long time!

Almost all writers, no matter how big they get, have something special they'd like to have released and for whatever reason have not found a pub-lisher willing to take these products, and I was open to any kind of deal possible that was inviting.

Doors were closed in all this packaging for Powell. I had total control of the sci-fi line and the doors were shut to any other agency or writer or packager. And I would only buy manuscripts and/or reprints through the Ackerman Agency.

This is "dirty" business for the freelancing writers struggling to get through publisher's doors. Mine had to be closed and locked tight cause I was pretty much a one-man operation, writing and packaging. The only "staff" I had was Dad, who took care of the art side of things. He painted the covers. Sometimes he did the paste-up, but most of the time I wound up doing that for one reason or another. But it was always done under a joint effort with him. Dad was not well and in fact dying, though we didn't realize it at the time. The last book he did for me was for my Images of Tomorrow. I suggested a cover design that would be very easy for him to do: clouds for the background and a few simple objects in the foreground.

These paintings were done on a large hard canvas for wrapped around covers, which meant they went from front, through the spine, and around to the back of the book. And designed too also look good on the author's wall in a frame! We were a small closed market.

I had the pick of the Ackerman Agency's suggested books to consider. A number of L. Ron Hubbard books were offered and I planned on doing Kingslayer after replacing one story, which was dated, with a different one. That was a can-do idea. It just happened not to take place, cause the line didn't last forever and I was over-worked and things changed. Dad died shortly after doing the Images cover.

It is enough to know that Dad had cancer of the spine, and was hospitalized for most of the last months of his life. I had to find someone to replace him as a cover artist. Of course, we figured this would be a short-term thing. Only when it became evident that he would not be coming out of the hospital did I have to face some hard decisions. Those were dark days for me, for all of us, in fact.

Luckily, during a previous conversation with Bill Hughes, we ex-changed phone numbers. Some time later, when Dad couldn't do any more covers, I remembered Bill. I needed a cover for the adult line of Tiger Books, for Take Me, I'm Yours. I called Bill asking: "Can you deliver al-most immediately? Like tomorrow?"

I was quite serious about that. I had Uncle Louis doing the "serious" mystery and sci-fi covers and now was about to add Bill Hughes as my main guy.

He invited me over to his office; I believe I drove over immediately. We talked about the subject matter of the cover and the necessity of having it the next day or so. He did a quick pencil sketch based on our running conversation in his small two-room bungalow-type office. I said something like do it, and a cover was delivered to the printer within days.

Bill Trotter wasn't even notified about the cover-artist change. It was all happening so fast. We figured Dad would be okay, since he was in and out of the hospital for a short time before going in forevermore. I remem-ber that we did some fixing on the Warrior of Noomas cover, laying it out. After that, Dad was lost to me forever as a cover artist, and a few months later he was to die in a convalescent hospital.

By then I was deeply involved with making full use of Bill. He was not only able to do covers, to meet deadline, but also "traffic direct" the whole operation, laying them out, doing all the art direction, and final paste-up. In other words, I didn't have to do anything other than tell him the title of the book and okay the final artwork. He would take the copy I gave him for cover lines and get them all set up in type, put it all together, and that was it.

With Dad, I'd had to do a lot of that work myself, for we'd literally de-signed covers together. Plus this wasn't his natural creative field.

With Bill, it was totally different. He was basically a cover artist and art director. He had been doing this kind of thing for a long time and knew the business. I was able to turn that side of the operation over to him, thus free-ing myself up for writing.

I'd actually done the layouts in the months previous to working with Bill Hughes. I remember that Images of Tomorrow had to be done almost on the fly. We'd gone on some weekend trip, Brigitte and I, and mother had "baby sat" our dog, Spatz. When we got home there were messages from Powell Publications and elsewhere. I don't remember all the details, but do remember putting the Images cover together on the kitchen table.

Everything was done very fast, and delivered directly to the printer. It was the rushing deadlines that force me to make fast, instant solutions to getting covers when Dad was ill.

From Bill Trotter's POV I'd kind of surprised him. He wondered why I simply didn't call him to assign the covers to one of his artist connections, who did covers for some of his other books. He was working with a num-ber of people like me.

In any case, I showed him the results of my instant decision, pointing out there hadn't been time to consult with him–and not admitting that I didn't want to lose total creative control over the books I was commis-sioned to release, including things like the Harlan Ellison book, and the Powell Sci-Fi line, which, to be truthful, I considered "my personal proper-ty" even though it wasn't in any way such a thing. I'd convinced Bill Trot-ter to do the line as Powell Sci-Fi and had managed to get the packages to-gether for the opening months with covers Dad did. I had Uncle Louis do-ing the two Noomas covers and then hired Bill Hughes to fill in for Dad.

Over the years between his first magazine sale and last pocket book cover Dad managed to produce around 40 covers. When he started sci-fi work, in the early '50s, it was considered impossible to break into the New York market from the West Coast. But he managed. By the mid '50s Dad was getting assignments from such magazines as Famous Monsters of Filmland, Amazing Stories, Fantastic Stories, Fantasy & Science Fiction—along with many pocket book commissions.

To me, personally, the final painting my father did—for my book Im-ages of Tomorrow—combines both his commercial and artistic talents in the very finest level. It was my personal treasure, and I have the original hanging in my home. It was a final statement—a perfect combination of what he stood for as an artist. It said it all.

*Excerpted from Pocketbook Writer: Confessions of a Commercial Hack and edited by Earl Terry Kemp. All of Mr. Nuetzel's newly released books can be accessed via his website http://haldolen.com/wscan/WScan.html or directly through Amazon.com.

Added notes by Earl Kemp:

REED ENTERPRISES, INC. was William Hamling's distributing arm of his Greenleaf publishing complex in Mission Valley, San Diego.

From all the employees signed on originally as the firm was established, two quit the company early on and went into business as publish-er/distributor on their own. Presumably having learned quite a lot about what that entails under Hamling's employ.

The first of those, and by far the most successful, was Donald Partric, who formed Publisher's Export Corporation (PEC) and operated it from his A-frame residence in the Fletcher Hills sector of El Cajon, where coinci-dentally I happened to live.

And Bill Trotter was the other. Trotter lived in the Shady Lane Apart-ments just off Second and Madison Streets in El Cajon...and I lived two streets from him on Roselle Avenue. There were numbers of times, after the editorial division of Greenleaf was fully operating along with Reed En-terprises in San Diego, when Bill and I would, for convenience or necessity, share the ride and drive into the office together.

He named his company Powell Books.

SOME WRITINGS FROM ELSEWHERE

The following material in this section comes from FLUFF, and reflects material published in what was politely called "girlie mags" back in the 1950s-60s & 70s. I've included my "blurg" from this book, so here is starts...

Well, if you are going to deal with prostitution and all that, and some of these stories certainly, at best, linger over this very subject, one way or an-other, then maybe it might be smart to consider an argument...

IN DEFENSE OF PROSTITUTION?

They call it the "wor1d's oldest profession" and label it as something dirty and immoral. It's been condemned socially for so long that it is im-possible to remember when it was embraced by all and accepted as a part of life. lt is illegal in the United States, and many countries in the world at least restricted. The so-called "red-light" districts, where a series of "hous-es" would line the street for the direct purpose of selling a woman's body for an evening to any man might desire to buy her services, are outlawed. The wild west days are over. Today the only way for men to find a woman who is willing to sell herself physically to him for a few hours of pleasure is by going to a cheap bar, or by finding a contact to a "call-girl". And escort service. It isn't easy, it isn't cheap and it isn't legal! And some say it isn't moral, either!

We're not concerned with the morality—purely the practical side of the subject.

In support of the legal and moral side of the argument it should be pointed out that they have a strong case.

Most prostitutes come from broken families, poor families, or where the mother and father are unhappy together or drink to excess, or where there is illegitimacy. Many come from the tragedy of having been seduced at a very early age, either by friend or father or stepfather. The fact is that most girls get into prostitution because of an early environment which was inducive to seeking a quick and easy escape. Poverty, drug addiction and physical threats, can cause a girl to turn to this way of making a living. Sometimes it is simply survival. Runaways get trapped in the big city cesspool that won't let them escape: sell their bodies or starve. By the time that they have been in their profession long enough to become expert in the arts of pleasing a man for money, more than 80% will have been infect by some form of venereal disease. Many of these women die prematurely of these diseases or because of mental disorders created as a direct result of their professional experience. [2005 note: and Aids demands the use of condoms for safe sex.] This is the ugly side. The elements which would shock any thinking person.

Yet there are other considerations to take into account. One point is that while prostitution has its built-in bad points, it helps to solve many other problems. The Christian theologian, Saint Augustine, after the fall of Rome, believed that if prostitution were eliminated it would cause far worse forms of perversion, vice and immorality, so, in his own belief, it was a lesser evil.

Interesting conclusion.

Society has tried to rule it out many times in history but never managed to do so. It couldn't be stopped in the 15th or 16th centuries any more than it has been stopped today. Paris, during this period, had orders that all prosti-tutes be flogged and shaved bald and placed into exile for life, without rights of a trial, and yet they couldn't stop it.

Today the only thing which laws against prostitution have been able to do is create a new form which is called the "call girl". And the price for this woman's services ranges from $25 to $500 a night! (And far more in 2006.) All this has done is to make it impossible for the young man on the street to easily obtain a woman's services —and places prostitution either in the streets or on a large nationwide big-business scale. Big business hires women to "please" out-of-town clients so they will give the orders to their company. It is all handled in a delicate way—but it is simple prostitution at high prices.

What are the reasons for man to seek out a woman for the night? Why will somebody be willing to pay money for a woman's entertainment? And more important, why is prostitution so very important to society and young men and women?

Let's take a typical case of the sensitive young man who believes in the standard "accepted" social moral code. Which is? That there should be no sexual relations between a man and a woman until the wedding night.

It is a popular belief that repressing the sexual urge over a period of time can cause a man to be unable to perform the sex act. Be that as it may, one harm it can do is to make things awkward on that most important night when he takes his bride in his arms and is expected to be a GREAT lover. Without experience! He is expected to caress her with expert care, to build the desires and passions in her virginal body to the peak of ecstasy and then finish this first experience in making love as if he had done it all his life and knew exactly what he was doing. The question which comes to mind quite vividly is: how many women have enjoyed the first sexual experience—even with a skilled partner? And what's more: what is the young bride's reaction to a husband who turns out to be awkward, inexperienced and unable to complete a sexual act? It is a recorded fact that many—if not most—divorces are caused because of sexual mismatching or "mental cru-elty," as it is many times called—which means that the husband, for one reason or another, was unable to develop a satisfactory relationship in the bed chambers with his wife. Many women live their lives in such a marriage with men who never give them sexual satisfaction; some cheat, some simply live sexless lives.

We won't deal with the fact that few women are virgins on their wed-ding night, or than the very idea of remaining a virgin is considered, in some circles, as rigidly outdated. Regardless of all these factors in modern times, the reality is that we live in a world of true believers who think that sex is basically for building family, rather than pure pleasure and daughters are still taught to save it for their wedding night. The public stance, even the legal structure in many countries and societies place a rigid price tag on virginity for unmarried women. So, let us bypass all that and consider what prostitution can do for society in general.

Sure, it is true that many couples manage to learn together but how many others never get this far?

How many so-called "frigid" wives are merely women who have hus-bands unable to excite their desires and bodies to the point where they get sexual pleasure during the act?

If a young man had a way to learn, before marriage—without the pro-cess of seducing as many young girls as he was able to—the arts of love making, many of these problems would he solved before the wedding night! And there are many experienced men—but their experience has come from seducing young women and learning while taking the virginity of their bodies. How much worse is this than seeking out an expensive prostitute and learning "what the score is" from one who knows the ways of sex?

But this is merely one side of the defense for prostitution

What about the man who is not married? What should he do to relieve the needs of his body? Seduce women for the mere pleasure of seeing how many he can have? Or would it be better if he could seek out a prostitute, pay for her services and then leave? Some would suggest that is far more moral to seek a professional rather than taking advantage of some women who might not want to be sexually active with her date.

Seduction isn't rape; but it can be a form of pressure that breaks down the reluctance of some women not sophisticated enough to simply say "No" and mean it.

What about sexual crimes?

Would there be as many if there was legal prostitution? It is provable fact that in countries where prostitution is legal, there are less sexual crimes, almost to the point where they aren't even heard of!

How many young girls have not only lost their virginity in a sordid back-seat-of-a-car-seduction, but also ended with bearing an unwanted child? Is this what the law is trying to aid by making it impossible for a young man to find out what sex is all about with a professional prostitute. Isn't there some realistic way to avoid such tragic "accidents"? Sure, sexual education on a grand scale might help. But even then, there is a place for prostitution even in this social equation.

Wouldn't it be much better for a young man to satisfy his natural and normal interest in his body and sexual urges with the help of a professional prostitute instead of with some young girl his own age whom he takes ad-vantage of?

There is no question about the fact that neither solution is really desira-ble. Neither pro nor con leads to Utopia! Yet where is the answer? What solution could be suggested which is better than having legal prostitution to solve the sexual side of American life? A defense for prostitution is merely an argument against the closed-mind attitudes of many people who say that sex isn't here, that it isn't a problem, and that people shouldn't indulge in it! And there are no children born out of wedlock, and teenage pregnancy doesn't exist.

It is impossible to curb the sexual urge; it is a basic part of our nature and needs to be realistically guided and realistically dealt with in a way that is the least damning and damaging to people and society at large.

It is a defense for the only solution which we have at the present for the realistic problem of the need for young men to learn something about the sexual side of life without harming themselves or others in the process. Better with a professional than seducing virgins. The idea of children learn-ing from other inexperienced children is frightening. And that's what hap-pens every day. Young boys doing their best to get the girl to do it with them. Such activity is a reality, but it is, at the same time, a damning one, and if prostitution was widely accepted it might very well help to cut down the numbers of illegitimate births.

The fact is that no matter what the law reads it can never, has never, and will never make prostitution stop existing. People have tried to stop it throughout history and failed. It existed in ancient times, before Rome and it was a natural part of that Empire. And it continues to exist. Where there is a demand, there will be a product to fulfill that demand! Enough men want the services of prostitutes—and because of that they will be with us until another solution has been presented for our needs.

Saying it is wrong, evil and immoral, doesn't change the fact that there is a basic need for prostitution in the scheme of things—like it or not! And until that time when the need for it stops and another solution is offered, there will be men to buy, women to sell, and all the shouting and all the legal double-talk will never change the fact that it is here to stay!

Right or wrong! Moral or immoral!

Face the truth!

There is a defense for prostitution!

This is one of the liquor articles which I had published during this time. It is my special History of Rum. This is a about the charms of rum and how it can be used to create a seductive mood for a romantic night for a couple in love. Or, at the very least, a night of mutual pleasure, if you happened to be a would-be pirate with a lovely maiden on hand to go off on a South Sea Island adventure. That's when you...

SAY RUM, CHUM?

Anytime anybody thinks of a fancy, out-of-this-world drink they will invariably come up with a mental picture of some rum drink. There are several reasons for this; and most of them are pretty good and understanda-ble. Rum drinks have the hint of tropics and therefore the hint of romance and passion which will delight any lovely female and help to bring her into a more willingly seductive mood.

Once, when having a friend over for a dinner and entertainment, and a few drinks, the subject came up as to what had been put into the "cocktail that I'd mixed her with." It would seem, from her reactions, that something had hit her right between the eyes like an exploding atomic bomb, sending colorful stars in all directions and she couldn't see how it had all been done. She said it made her feel so warm and gay—and she wasn't talking about the weather or anything short of an inner feeling to be affectionate and show her pleasure at having been put in the "right mood." The simple answer was, naturally, rum.

There is nothing like rum in the world, when it comes to making a strong drink with hidden power-drivers, or making a good tasting drink which all will enjoy, regardless of their tastes in liquor.

Today, rum is thought of in combinations such as the zombie, which a rather sharp restaurant owner created for the pleasure of his customers. To-day, Don the Beachcomber is almost as famous as the drink he originated.

But rum has had a long and interesting history which is connected with literature, pirates and rum-runners, that gives it more than a mere romantic flavor to the taste buds.

"Fifteen men on a Dead Man's Chest—

Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

Drink and the devil had done for the rest—

Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!"

Robert Louis Stevenson wasn't just writing a few lyrical lines of fanta-sy for his book Treasure Island, when he created those now famous verses for his bearded and deadly pirates to sing while downing bottle upon bottle of this dark brown liquor which was their favorite "man's" drink. He was taking a truth of life about these rugged men of the high seas and recording down for history and literature the devotion which these daring men had for this distilled sugar byproduct.

There must be some reason why these pirates of the high seas, swinging their cutlasses and cursing at their hard lives and hard living and fighting and loving, went so strongly for this dark-brown, heavy boiled liquor called rum. There must be some reason why rum's history saw men like Sir Henry Morgan, Spanish explorers of the New World, smugglers, pirates and dur-ing the recent Prohibition era, "rum-runners." One finds it had to picture a bottle of rum without getting the feeling of the romantic hard living and hard men and hard loving which helped to open the New World: or tropical islands with Spanish- and French- and English-speaking sailors.

Yet today the drink of the pirates fits just as boldly and naturally in the hearts of modern drinking habits, as it did for the hearty seamen, with such ever popular drinks as the zombie and the Daiquiri Cocktail, or just the old pirate stand-by—a straight bottle of rum.

There is nothing more delightful, pleasant to the taste, or versatile to the bartender, than rum; there isn't a thing that can't be downed with this liq-uor of the pirates, when it comes to mixing new and delightful taste treats. It can be used in cooking, as well as drinking; it can be taken straight, it can be mixed with wines, other liquors and liqueurs, fruit juices of all kinds or used as a flavoring for candies, cakes or food.

Rum is a product which is distilled from the fermented juices of sugar cane or any other by-product of sugar or molasses. It is an alcoholic bever-age whose origin has been somewhat faded to time, but still believed to have deriver from a far Asian country; still, wherever it did originate, there is no doubt about where it is loved and drunk and produced today, or the romantic history which it became a part of during the opening of the New World, and later at the time in American history when it was illegal to pro-duce and sell and type or kind of liquor for public use.

There are several stories related to the origin of the name rum, any of which could have some truth to them. One tells of the swashbuckling ad-venturers who called it "rumbustion" and "Rumbullion"; and another claims it was named for Admiral Vernon who saved his men from dying of scurvy by giving them this new East Indian beverage in place of their daily beer ration.

Still, there is even a more logical seeming answer to how it was named, in the story which is believed by many people still living in the tropics: it is said that thousands of years ago the Hindus had a work for sugar, sakkara, which was later changed for Latin use into saccharum. When man and sci-ence and drinkers got their heads together to create something new and ex-citing for the drinking public they came up with the word "rum" by just dropping the first six letters of this Latin word for sugar. All in all it would seem possible that each story might be, in some degree, part of the truth. But today it doesn't really matter much which is or isn't the full truth, for regardless of what you call it, there is nothing like this drink of the pirates in the world.

Rum is basically cheap to produce and in countries like Mexico, can be bought for as little as $1.25 a fifth. But a good bottle can be obtained here in the States for something close to four dollars on up to nine dollars a fifth (depending on brand, type, color, aroma, strength, texture and age). There are hundreds of brands and about a dozen types of rum, but this never con-fuses the expert, for he learns to enjoy each and every type, by themselves or combined together and with other liquors and liqueurs and fruit juices. One thing most people don't realize is that blending several types of rum and kinds and brands of rum, makes the drink much better. Instead of just using one kind of rum, the secret is to use several types, giving the drink a fuller, richer and more well-rounded flavor.

Each brand naturally has its own standards and levels of quality, but even then there are only the following popular types—and sometimes these will be different in degree of quality. Barbados, Cuban, Demerara, Jamai-can, Martinique, New England, Puerto Rican, Virgin Islands, Haitian, Habañero, Philippine, Batavia Arak, Trinidad, and Venezuelan. Unlike oth-er spirits, Rum can be bought with as high a proof as 151 (200 proof would be 100% alcohol), which is used as a topping for Zombies and other rum drinks of this type. Rum comes dark or light; the darker many times being heavier in body, yet this is not always the rule, since the difference can also be only in the coloring which has been added to darken it.

A good grade rum is a delight to taste when taken straight in a liqueur or shot glass. Sipped slowly, it reveals its inner perfection and own indi-vidual taste. But, also several rums can be combined to make a blend of each of their flavors, giving an all-over effect which is even more delightful and rewarding.

In the mixing of Rum punches and zombies one quickly discovers the need of having several brands and types and proofs of run. Generally such drinks will be Puerto Rican, Jamaican, Demerara and Cuban; the most common rums used and sometimes Virgin Islands rum will be called for. This does not mean a person shouldn't use some of the others, if they are on hand. In fact, it is a good idea, when making a rum drink, to first mix a "rum-base". What you do is to combine the rums together beforehand and then after finding out the amount of liquor the drink calls for, measuring an equal proportion of the "rum-base"—it not only makes the drink easier to mix, but also gives it your own personal touch.

There are several advantages in mixing a rum drink, rather than buying the many rum fruit mixes being marketed today. One it that you can make a strong, but good tasting cocktail or punch or cooler or Collins or zombie, and it will be hard to tell it from fruit juice or soft drinks. Or you can make one hell of a knock-out bomb, and all you think you are drinking is some-thing delightfully strong, rummy-tasting—until it hits you (or the girl) like an atomic bomb! Also, rum will mix with almost any other liquor or liqueur or fruit juice so beautifully that one would think they had originally been created to be blended together.

In the mixing of any good rum drink, as with any other drink, it is nec-essary to follow only a few easy to remember rules:

1. Always pour the liquors over the ice. This will chill the liquor with-out watering it down any more than necessary.

2. Chill your glasses first—before mixing drinks.

3. Serve icy drinks as quickly as possible to avoid dilution.

4. Use fresh fruit, if possible.

5. Get the best liquor you can afford.

6. Stir drinks only, never shake—unless told to do so.

There are other fine points in the mixing of drinks and the know ledge comes in time, for it is in the Personal touch of your own taste and creative ability.

Any bar book will tell you how to mix a good Daiquiri or a Ruin Col-lins, Rum Sour, Planter's Punch, Rum Ricky, Rum Gimlet, Hot Toddy Rum, Hot Buttered Rum, Tom and Jerry or Rum and 7-Up. What they won't tell you is how to mix some of the following rum delights which have been found, by the author, to be some of the most exciting experienc-es into the delights of drinking pleasure, and the sensual pleasure which the women are anxious to give in reward for the good drink they have been served with. All of them should be made with the highest quality liquor and the freshest of fruit and fruit juice—don't use canned juice if you are able to get fresh juice.

Two simple drinks are Coconut & Rum and Ginger Rum. The Coconut & Rum is but a combination of one jigger of any rum which you might like with the addition of coconut milk; they should be poured over ice, gar-nished with a cherry and sipped through a straw. The second drink, Ginger Rum, is made up of one ounce of Ginger Brandy and one jigger light Cu-ban rum. Pour over ice cubes in high-ball glass, add two teaspoons of gren-adine and then fill with soda. Sip through straws and garnish with cherry. Both drinks ~re simple to make and delightful to drink.

If you ant something for the hot afternoon, which is little stronger, try a Caribbean Cooler. This is not only relaxing but also a drink which every-body will want to have more of. And naturally this calls for seconds which will please any bartender, for he knows that he'd done what he set out to do in the first place—and the woman ill be soon quite willing to show her delight, by delighting him with the curving giving softness of her body and kisses. The drink is simple enough to make, but gives the impression that you have gone to a lot of bother to produce a not only good tasting drink, but also a good looking one, too. First, take a Collins glass and fill it half full of crushed ice and then add the following: 1 ounce Puerto Rican rum, 1 ounce vodka, 1 ounce Sloe Gin, the juice of one half lime. Stir with sizzle sick until mixture is completely chilled and then fill with soda water, stir again and then add cherry, slice of lime and mint sprig. Place a couple of straws into this Caribbean Cooler, and serve. The flavor will be delicate but strong enough to disguise the liquor taste. It is a perfect choice for the per-son who doesn't like the taste of liquor too much, but enjoys the effects.

But for the drinker who likes the flavor of liquor more or less straight, yon might try something like Jamaican Sunset. This is a pleasant blend of the national drink of Mexico, Tequila, and the produce of the isle of Jamai-ca, flavored with a touch of lemon juice and a dash of liqueur.

After filling an old fashioned glass with ice cubes, add the following:

One ounce Tequila, one jigger Jamaica Rum, juice of one-half lemon, and one ounce of Maraschino liqueur. Stir gently, fill with soda water and then garnish with a maraschino cherry. This will delight anybody who has a yearning to feel the hot passion of Mexico and Jamaica flow through their veins. It's a fiery drink which is good on a warm evening, for it is cooling and relaxing and inwardly warming.

But there is really only one summer drink which is always thought of when one sees a bottle of rum:

The Zombie! It is a mystery drink which the owner of Don The Beach-corner restaurant seems determined to keep as a secret.

Place into a shaker several ice cubes and then add the following: one ounce White Puerto Rican rum, one ounce Jamaica rum, one ounce Dark Virgin Island rum, one ounce Demerara rum, one-half ounce apricot (or peach) liqueur, one ounce of Crème de Almond, juice of one-half lime and one ounce pineapple juice. Now shake the devil out of it until well blended and chilled. Then pour into fourteen-ounce zombie glass, quarter-filled with crushed ice. Garnish with slice of lime, a sprig of mint and one maraschino cherry. Top with a small layer (about one-eighth to a quarter inch) of 151 proof Demerara rum and then serve with straws. This will send any lovely lady into the happy hunting grounds of passion, back across time into the Caribbean and the swashbuckling days when rum was the drink of pirates.

After two of these zombies and any man will feel like lifting his beauti-ful woman into his arms and carrying her off onto the high seas (or some-place else where they will find the privacy which is so important for the survival of what wonderful feeling that can only be expressed in the arms of two people in love).

You won't have to say, "yo-ho-ho and a bottle rum!" Since for all prac-tical effects, you've already had your sea-man's quote and are adventuring on the Spanish Main, a girl in your arms, a drink in hand and love in your heart.

And all this for the price of a few bottles of rum and art of knowing how to mix and handle the drink of the hearty pirates. Good pirating; good drinking and good loving.

Hollywood as an industry is a sneaky business with as many curves as a lovely lady in heat. Everybody is seeking a way to make a move up in the climb to fame. Sometimes the play gets an unexpected payoff. Of course, sometimes a downer can be an upper. Or in this case, it could be sideways. Show-biz lifts its hungry head in this bit of...

PARTY BUSINESS?

"Say, you're new here, aren't you?" the woman asked, eyes fairly rak-ing over his body. All he noticed was that this female was nicely attractive; but just one of countless wannabe actresses, or mere party girls that deco-rated such affairs. How could he know she would turn out to be special?

Dan Carnes didn't know what he was doing at the Belfort party. It was Belfort who had kept him from getting a role in that picture the man was producing. Big Name Star Johnny Belfort.

But Carnes' agent had told him to get to that party and "ride with the punches!" and they would see what tomorrow brought in way of a part.

Well, as far as Dan was concerned you could take these so-called Hol-lywood blow-outs and shove them! He'd been to several. Women presented themselves in the best tradition of the silver screen. Low-cut, bulging breast-lines. Bleach blonde hair—unless they'd had blonde hair to begin with, and then it was red or black—tight fitting dresses created by one or another top Hollywood fashion designer and borrowed from every studio costume department. But these were the "look, but don't touch" variety of women—except for some high class producer or director. That was the trouble; a women had an edge when it came to getting parts in movies, and if she was the type that normally ran around, she had it made.

But that was the least of Dan's troubles. His problem was on two levels. One was frustration that no matter what he did, things seemed to end up exactly like before: failure! The other problem was connected to that: fi-nancial. He had needed that part in the Johnny Belfort new movie. And there had been no reason to be turned down. Just like all the other times, a person needed more than talent, good looks and a winning personality. You had to know someone. Without that important contact you had to take the time developing one. Like going to parties. Hollywood parties where eve-rybody stood around listening to the jokes of the big boys; laughing—even if nothing was funny...and trying to get an edge on all the other slobs who were out to beat you in the eyes of the important people.

So, around and around it all went.

"Say...you're new here, aren't you?" she said again. He nodded and tried to keep his eyes away from the lovely crevice between her large, creamy breasts which was almost completely revealed because of the low cut of the dress top.

"With anybody?" she asked, stepping forward. It was one of those slinky movements of her body which seemed to push her exciting round hips forward.

"I...well..." was all that he could manage.

"I'm all alone, too...in a way." She made a sidelong glance toward a group of people who were crowding around the Big Star. "Mind keeping me company?"

That was one thing he wouldn't mind. If there was anything which would help to cut the bitter taste of defeat from his throat, it would be a sexy young woman like this one. He let her take his arm and lead him through the room. A moment later he was surprised to find that they had stepped out onto the patio. The lighting was dim and he could hear the mu-sic of the three piece combo playing in the background.

For a long moment they stood in the semi-darkness, just looking at each other. Then she half turned away from him, her face seeming to shade slightly pink. "You have the remarkable stare," she told him in a throaty way.

"I'm sorry about that."

"Don't be. I liked it." She turned toward him again, and then, taking hold of his hand, led him to a small table which had two patio chairs by it.

"You seem to know your way around here pretty well," he pointed out, sitting and idly working the glass of scotch in his hands. He found it hard to look in her direction. She was far too beautiful and desirable. Naturally he'd leap in bed with her the moment she made any subtle hint that this was what she was after. But, for the moment, he had to wait, and the waiting was all the more difficult when he looked at that flowing, well built figure.

She laughed. "I've been around here quite a long while."

"How's that?"

"Let's not ask questions about ourselves. Just enjoy the evening. The night. The dim lights and music. The cocktails. Each other. Make believe that we have known each other for a long time...that we are at the annual country dance. Maybe we're sweethearts or lovers or married..."

He felt his insides dig slightly. There were mixed emotions rushing through him. What kind of nut had he run into this time? If he didn't know Hollywood, he might say it was the town. But the fact was that everybody who seriously wanted to build a career was too busy building it to be "nut-ty"; regardless of popular belief, it was far from a crazy industry. It was cold business spiced with big egos and big business money. There were nuts, all right. But.

"Don't you think this is sorta fast?" he asked, taking a swallow of his drink.

"Hardly."

"We don't even know each other's names." He tried to smile.

"Oh, that's not hard. You're Dan Carnes and I thought you knew who I was. I'm Mrs. Johnny Belfort. But you can call me Karen."

That one made him gulp several other swallows of his scotch.

"What the hell?" was all that he could say.

"Oh, it's quite simple. I saw you in Johnny's office the other day. You were too concerned with...well, other things. I know how it is with young struggling actors. And ..."

"I don't get it!"

"I wanted to meet you. It was simple to just call your agent."

That explained a lot. Why he had been brought to this party so quickly. One moment he hadn't known anything about it, and then the next he'd been given the good old push.

Which had landed him right in the lap of Mrs. Johnny Belfort. That would help a lot. He was suddenly mad at his agent. And a little mad at this woman. And a lot mad at himself.

But there wasn't anything that he could do about it now. Except get out of the situation as gracefully as possible.

He stood, looking at his watch. "Oh, my God!" he exclaimed, in a voice which sounded even faked in his own ears.

"Sit down, and stop acting silly!" Karen Belfort told him in a stern voice. "Stop acting silly!"

He was surprised by the harsh quality of her words. So shocked that he did as she told him.

"You don't think that this is just a casual pass, do you?"

She leaned across the table, looking at him for a long time. "I don't make casual passes!"

Her mood changed then. She smiled. Leaned back and then drank from the glass in her hands. "I liked the looks of you the moment I saw you in hubby's office..." Her voice drifted off.

"I'm afraid that I don't understand," he told her, downing the rest of his drink.

"Let's not worry about that." She looked directly into his eyes. "Let's talk about other things..."

She stood and taking hold of his hand, pulled him after her. They walked through the living room, which was filled with scores of important Hollywood personalities.

She ignored them. A moment later they were walking up a staircase.

"You don't mind telling me what..."

She turned sparkling eyes in his direction as they entered a long hall-way. "My, my, you are innocent, aren't you?" she smiled, squeezing his hand.

He didn't want to think about what must be going through her mind. He was just numb, only following her because he couldn't think of anything else to do. In a few moments they were in a large bedroom, the door closed and locked.

She turned and slid both arms around his neck. He felt the soft pressure of her body as it blended against his. Her lips caressed his mouth.

He just stood there, too numb to respond. Things were not only happen-ing too fast, they were a little blunt and brazen.

"What's wrong?" she demanded. "Don't you like girls?" She looked deep into his eyes. "Or is it just me?"

He gulped nervously, dropping his eyes to the floor. "Let's just say that I don't go for shacking up with somebody's wife."

She laughed. Her lovely head fell backwards and her lips opened wide; and she laughed.

"You're kidding. You must be!" She backed away. Then her hands went in back of her and a moment later the dress slid to the floor. She'd been wearing nothing else underneath.

He just gaped at her.

She was just about the loveliest woman he had ever seen. Her breasts large, but rigid and firm. Her waist narrow and slender, spreading out into curving hips and tapering down to full, solid thighs and legs.

"Don't be a silly child." She told him, stepping up close and then press-ing against his body. "I want you. That's all that should matter!"

"Don't...don't you think that this is rather sudden?"

A giggle bubbled up through her chest and out past her lips. "I don't see where you get your square ideas. This is Hollywood! Live, love and have a ball!" She wiggled against him. When he didn't respond she stepped back a little. "Look, if you're really serious about...about worrying...just see it my way. Johnny-boy is a big star. Girls fall all over him. And he uses their bodies each and every time he can. He plays around. So, I play around."

"But why? When he has somebody like you?" Dan gulped, beginning to break down his resistance. His arms were already sliding around her back.

"You know how it is. A woman in hand never is like the one across the street."

Their lips met passionately. He responded with every ounce of physical energy he had in him.

"See what I mean?" she told him, leading him toward the bed. "Just like the new lover is always better than the old one!"

He slid down next to her a few moments later, and for a long time they locked in a series of meaningful embraces. "You won't regret this," she sighed, breathless. "Believe me, you won't regret it ..."

After that neither of them were saying anything. And just before he floated down through the pit of burning, fiery passion, one thought flashed though his mind: it was a gas on Big Shot Actor, Johnny Belfort...the man had turned him down for a movie role, but his wife hired him for a lovers' role.

It wasn't until the next morning, when his agent called, that he realized the price that Mrs. Karen Belfort had been willing to pay for the service he had rendered the evening before, or exactly what she had meant when she'd told him that he wouldn't regret making love to her. As if he could ever regret making love to any woman as beautiful as she was.

The voice was excited and loud in his ears, as his agent told him the news, "Its just like I figured ... and have told you—there is always more than one way to make a powerful friend in Hollywood. Apparently you came through with flying colors. Johnny Belfort called and said that he de-cided that you would be perfect for the role...wives do have influence..."

The rest he didn't hear. After the phone had been hung up, it rang again.

This time it was Karen Belfort. He didn't have to guess what she would want. He had a few more installments to make for her help in getting him his first big break in movies.

And he was determined to pay, in full!

And here's another "hot little number" considering its opening state-ment. And one does have to believe what they read, after all. A variation of the previous story, immediately quite obvious! Yet with its differences.

SUDDENLY LUST SUMMER?

It was terribly hot. A heat that broke down from the skies and cracked and dried everything it touched. It squeezed the body into a tired, restless, desiring thing.

That's the way summer affected Ruth Carlton. It burned her insides to cinders. Her skin crawled in tingling pains. Her muscles felt shaky and even the marrow of her bone seemed to give a heated quiver.

She hated the heat. She hated summer. Summer brought the pain, the agony, and the hurt.

She couldn't keep her hands off her body. The nerves were raw. They felt cruelly grated. And breathing was so blasted hard. It was a terrible ef-fort that racked her lungs, and expanded her chest, and bobbed the large balls of flesh that danced searchingly there.

But there were no caressing hands, and seeking fingers, no hungry lips.

She shivered convulsively.

Something had to happen. Something had to be done. She needed a man, like ham needed eggs, like cars needed roads, like engines needed gas, like fire needed air.

Quickly she dressed.

She'd get herself a man; she'd get herself a man!

* * * * * * *

Ben Winters liked the hot summer sun. It worked over his body with soothing fingers, pushing oiling sweat from the anxious glands, burning the surface skin to dark brown.

It was a man's life.

And what a life it was, Ben was on his vacation. And that was a laugh! Vacation from what?

Wine, women and song!

But then, there was nothing like the life of a rich lover. And he lived it up to the fullest.

Women found him all they desired in a man. The corny term tall, dark and handsome fit perfectly. It had been created for him. At least if that wasn't true, it should be.

Yet, there was a time for everything. And now was a time to rest. Vaca-tion time, in sunny California. It was a relief to be away from grasping, sex-starved females.

Not that he didn't like them. He loved them; literally!

The trouble with women was that they wanted so much out of him. Money, jewels, apartments, dresses, and then they started trying to get with the serious stuff! And that he just couldn't take.

He had just run from one marriage-minded sexy little woman in New York. Now he was on an extended vacation, at a lonely stretch of beach, staying in the summer home of a friend of his, Brad Rayberry.

It was a good place. A wonderfully stocked bar. Three bedrooms, living room, play room, and den, with the normal ultra modern convenient fix-tures.

What a life!

"Excuse me," a silky, low-pitched, feminine voice interrupted his thoughts.

He opened his eyes.

Blue sky. Nothing else.

Was lie dreaming?

"Pardon me?" the voice repeated itself. It came before from behind him.

He turned and looked.

Such a lovely creature! Such a delight to the eyes.

He recoiled violently.

What was wrong with him. Women were the last things he wanted to get involved with.

He was on a vacation!

"What's wrong?" she smiled, her lips making a sexy twist as they curled up into that delightful, humorous expression.

What a woman!

His eyes could not be stopped from running along the curving lines of her figure. Such hips. Such narrow waist. Such beautiful swells of chest material. Such a revealing bathing suit. She really had it!

She dipped down beside him, and he couldn't help noticing the luscious crevice between her mountains.

She sighed and trembled slightly.

It shocked him.

He had planned to surprise her. To scare her off. Instead she had come to him with a desperate eagerness; a longing passion.

With a jolting abruptness he jerked away from her.

Rising, he walked toward the house several yards away. Up the steps. Opened the door. Into the living room. Over to the bar. Quickly mixed himself a martini. Drank it down in one gulp.

It hit his stomach. Painfully. Shot through his blood, nerves, muscles, bone, and brain. Numbed him. He mixed another, drank it down in one gulp. Reacted.

What was happening to the world. Women just didn't come up to strange men and start acting like she had. And not such beautiful women. No questions asked. No answers given. No such woman could exist in real-ity.

Of course she just wasn't! He had made her up out of his mind.

He had always been looking for the free, sex-starved creature who would come out and offer herself without charge, without strings attached. Without desiring anything except the enjoyment of a loving mate.

But this was just too fantastic to be real.

Downing another drink he moved to the curtained window, pulled aside the shades and looked out across the beach.

She was lying out in the sand.

He blinked.

Shocked.

She had pulled off her bathing suit.

She was lying there, bathing in the hot summer sun, without a thing on.

He had never seen such a body. Such a delight. Such wonderful curves and swells.

Suddenly he didn't care if she was a dream or not. He didn't care what it would cost him. He forgot he was on a vacation. He forgot everything except the burning ache in his guts that cried to take her, to walk out there on the sand and reach down and enfold that lovely body in his arms.

Maybe it was the drink. Maybe it was the passion.

He didn't care. He didn't care at all!

He walked out of the room, out of the house, onto the sand, and over to where that naked Goddess waited. There were no words. None were need-ed. They both desired the other. They both knew what was expected. They both took and gave what was necessary.

* * * * * * *

Ruth Carlton walked into the New York office of Brad Rayberry, smil-ing thankfully. She plopped down on the large leather chair that faced the long modern desk.

"Well, Brad, you were right!" she announced happily.

"I told you...knowing Benny," the heavy set, elderly business tycoon explained.

"Sure thing...thanks for tipping me in on where he was staying. If there ever was a man like him, I never found him. He seemed even grateful for the affair. Grateful that I came, without word, questions, or requests!" she grinned from ear to ear. "What a summer vacation! What a vacation. I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't cued me in on Ben. We really made out."

Brad smiled knowingly. "When you were making such desperate at-tempts to get men, and I knew just what you were looking for, it didn't take long to lead you in the right direction."

"And the pay off..." she exclaimed in excitement. "He wants us to meet next summer...Won't it be delightful...free love!"

This was a story which was written very early in my writing career, be-fore I ever did a novel length manuscript. When the time came to do a book, on assignment, first time around, I desperately searched for some-thing to use to start things out. "Big Dave's Girl" was what I found in my files and taking the general ideas behind this story, I used that as a frame work for what ultimately was published a number of times, under different versions, from "Hot Cargo" to "The Body Merchants" which can be ob-tained as an ebook or printed from Amazon.com or Wildside Publications.

Soul mates are a standard product of romantic fiction. And here we find two people who meet and fall in love. But the price tag is heavy. It is fluff of a different nature.

Beyond that, there's a real story behind this story, or, more correctly, ahead of this story. Let me put it another way: I wrote it, I used some of it in a totally different fashion as part of my first novel, and then later offered this original version to the magazine editor who published it. While the story has little to do with the novel, other than some of the words being used in it, what follows stands alone as a totally different creation. (Writers do, sometimes, cannibalize their stories when needed.) So I offer this version of...

BIG DAVE'S GIRL?

"Open up, Flyboy," a hard, high pitched man's voice cried through the paneling of the door of Barry Larson's clingy hotel room.

Joan hugged closer to him, terror filling her eyes. "Oh, God!" she whis-pered. "That's Tommy, one of Dave's men. They must have found out—"

"It might just be business...maybe!" But Barry didn't believe his own words. His gut twisted as he stood up, pulling Joan Withers along after him. He pushed her to the side of the door which would hide her once it had been opened. "Quiet!" he hardly whispered into her ear.

"Come on, Flyboy, open up!"

"Just a second." He opened the door.

A fist smashed out at him. He staggered backwards. Another fist sank into the pit of his stomach. He doubled over, and a hammer like object fell down on the back of his head. He collapsed to the floor as a scream sound-ed from the blackness which was flooding over him.

He fought for consciousness. He had to keep awake!

He had to get up! Fight!

He struggled with his muscles. He tried to push his body upwards through the black whirlpool in which he had fallen.

Hands reached down and pulled him upright. They were rough, hard, and cruel.

"Come on, Flyboy, you'll live!" The words were thin and faraway sounding.

The blackness was slowly beginning to lessen.

"Leave him alone, don't hurt him. It wasn't his fault...I came here, he had nothing to do with it..." It was Joan's voice, pleading.

"Shut your damn mouth!" the high pitched male voice rasped. It sound-ed very close to Barry's ears. "I'll let Big Dave decide what to do about him...and you! Now help me with your flyboy."

He felt soft tender hands take hold of him, as the black clouds around his eyes started to open, letting in light and shape. The room was spinning dizzily, and his stomach and head hurt. He felt himself being seated on the bed.

As things slowly started to settle down, he saw a tall ugly man standing before him, a gun in his hands.

"Now listen, Flyboy!" The leering face distorted, as the gunman moved his mouth. "You make one false move and I'll blast your head in! Got me?"

Barry nodded weakly, trying to appear even groggier than he was.

He could feel Joan's arms around him, supporting his body upright, in a sitting position.

He tried to think.

The other man was standing before the small desk now, where the hotel phone was sitting. Picking it up, he stared at Barry, pointing his gun toward him. After a second he spoke into the receiver, giving a number.

He was calling Big Dave.

Barry felt his stomach knot in fear and horror. God knew what would happen next. The gangster was neurotic; insane. The man would kill them both.

He had to do something, quick. If he could get away from this man, and then to the airport, their problems would be over.

He could feel Joan trembling next to him. Out of the corner of his eyes he looked at her. Fear showed on her face. Her lips were quivering; her eyes were moist and frowning. He squeezed her hand affectionately, hoping it would give her some courage.

"Let me speak to Dave," Tommy said suddenly. Barry had to do some-thing. But what? The man was too far away to make a sudden rush at.

"Dave, I've found Miss Withers...in the Flyboy's apartment. Yes. Okay. Right...I'll take care of him. Okay, leave him to you. Both of them. Yes, I'll watch them." Hanging up the phone, he turned, his thin loose lips smiling. "Dave don't like it not at all! He's coming right over!"

The man walked across the room toward them.

Just a little closer, and I'll be able to jump you! Barry thought, trying to appear dazed. He let his head hang slightly, and acted as if he were having trouble focusing his eyes.

"Dave's going to take care of you two, but good! He'll fix both of you so this won't happen again. He don't like his best girl stepping out on him. And he's got special plan for you, Flyboy..."

The man was close enough.

Barry tensed and leaped upward. He attacked swiftly and efficiently; with a sureness which only years of practice made possible.

The other man reacted with the same speed as Barry; but he was too late. Barry's fists battered at the other's face, stomach and neck, while his knee rammed up into the gangster's groin. The man crumbled to the floor, moaning. Barry kicked at his head, and then picked up the gun that had fallen from the gunman's hand.

He turned to Joan, taking hold of her arm. "Come on, for God's sa-ke...let's get out of here, fast!"

In seconds they were out of the room, minutes later they were on their way to the airport in the car Barry had rented when he arrived in town a few days earlier.

All the way to the airport Barry could feel a horrible knot of fear make his stomach sick. Their chances of escaping before Big Dave got to them, seemed almost nonexistent. But they had to try. The alternative would he to await death.

He looked at Joan, sitting next to him in the car. She was as beautiful as that first night; only last night?

She had on a red dress, the top of which dipped downwards, revealing the soft fullness of her breasts. Her blonde hair was in loose curls on her forehead. Her lips looked moist and velvety; almost childlike: full and red.

He couldn't help wondering if she still felt the same way he did.

"Scared, Joan?"

"I don't know," she smiled up at him, taking hold of his arm. "It's all happening so fast!"

It seemed strange that one moment he had not known her, and then the next she was the whole world to him. And, maybe now, death!

He had felt a strong impulse of emotion for her, when he first saw her at Big Dave's New Year's party. But he hadn't known she was the small-time hood's special girl; or that she was caught in a trap of fear, terror and hate. He had not realized how far Dave would go to keep her under his thumb; that she could not run away from him, because he would kill her if she did.

Maybe Barry had loved her when he first saw her; but he hadn't realized it until he had found her in his apartment earlier this evening. Attraction was one thing; love another.

She had come into his arms, without a word, clutching him madly; pleadingly.

Barry held her tightly to him.

Their lips met in explosive passion.

His mind became dizzy, but he didn't care.

She was here, in his arms.

He picked her up and moved toward the bed in the corner. She kissed his neck and his cheek as he laid her down, and moved beside her. She clung to him, and he held her tightly in return. Her breasts were soft and full under his touch, as he moved his hand down to them. He could feel her body press closer. Her mouth quivered hungrily to his, seeking, searching, demanding. Her whole body was burning warmly.

He was confused as to why, or how, she had come to his room. But he didn't care for the answers now. She was here. She wanted to be made love to. That's all that mattered.

His mind had been possessed with desire for her the moment he had seen tier; it had been fired cruelly, when she had run out after that first, wildly unexpected, embrace the night before, at Big Dave's party. His guts had been ripped apart by the fact that he had lost her before he even knew her name. And now finding her here, and making love to her, which she returned without excuse, reason, or word, he was not about to try under-standing. He could only caress her, kiss her, and return her love in the same violent unembarrassed passion and desire which she had expressed.

His fingers ran along the soft nakedness of her flesh, and it shivered with the excitement of his touch. Her mouth was moist and thrilling. Her breath matched the pounding ache of his own.

The hunger and fervor she explosively demonstrated was not just pas-sion; it was something else too. And he knew he felt the same intangible emotion.

Something had happened when the two of them had met the night before. And that sudden surprising, impulsive kiss had not been a sexual exchange. It had been a mutual need. The need of two lovely people reaching out for one another; a need for understanding and for love.

For a long time they made love, But finally the heat, the passion, the animal emotions welling in them subsided, and they parted, their bodies tired but satisfied.

As he lay back quietly smoking a cigarette he realized that he loved her. He knew what she was; she'd told him that the night before. It didn't matter. Everybody was allowed a few mistakes in life. He'd made some of his own. So she'd had a bad time in the big town. A pretty girl in trouble; it was the same old story.

Hell, he'd not lived such a clean life. Jockeying contraband; smuggling. And God knew what Big Dave had called him in to use his plane for; but that didn't matter now!

He looked at the girl. He'd known her only a few hours, but he loved her; you got to know something about people. He liked this woman. He didn't like Dave. But he realized what would happen if Dave found out about them.

An adult knew what he wanted in a woman. And after a while, he could tell in a glance.

It had been mutual love at first sight. That happened, sometimes. Though never to him before this. It was as if they were soul-mates who had known one another in past lives, and upon meeting in this one had instantly recognized that soul so deeply hidden. What each of them had done up to that moment of meeting meant little. They belonged to one another; and always would, throughout eternity.

Hell, he didn't know why that might be. But he was convinced..

He wanted this woman. He wanted her more than anybody else.

And here, in Big Dave's town, it would be sure death to ever see her again.

"I love you!" he said suddenly.

"I guess silly...but I feel the same way."

He could tell by the worried look in her blue eyes just how confused she was. He could see that she must feel the same emotions he felt; she must, or she wouldn't have come to him like this.

"Last night..." she said, sitting up and looking at him seriously. "Last night I felt something...and I was sure you must too...it's funny...but some-thing seemed to click..."

"I didn't like it at first...it scared me."

"But I couldn't stay away. I had to see you, and I had to!"

"To find out the truth?" Barry offered, tenderly.

"Yes."

"I felt I'd go mad; you left without even letting me know your name..."

"Joan Withers," she smiled. "I thought it might just be a passing animal attraction...passion...now I don't..."

"I know it wasn't!"

"I know; what are we going to do?"

"Don't really...can't...maybe we should leave town together..."

"I couldn't. Dave would just send one of his boys after us..."

"Hell! Leave the country!"

He was shocked by his own words. He was shocked by the decision which his mind had already made. He wanted her. He was going to have her!

Grabbing hold of her shoulders he exclaimed: "I don't know why...I don't even know how it happened; or how lasting it will be...or real my emotions for you are I don't think it really matters. I want you and you say you feel the same way! We're adults...I love you now...I want you more than anything else in the world...I'm willing to fight for you...to get you out of here.0... Hell! You can't be worse off with me than with Dave."

She leaned over closer to him, sliding her arms around his neck, and moving her cheek to his. "Oh, God...I've never felt such a need for anyone before, I want you the same way you want me...regardless of what comes out of it later."

She clutched to him. Her breath shortened. Her lips crushed on his, soft and moist, desperately seeking, anxiously demanding.

The horrible desperation returned, flooding over them. He felt the mus-cles in her go rigid with excitement, as she moved up against him harder.

"Oh, love me...love me...my dear wonderful love!" she sighed, wildly working her mouth on his neck. Her teeth bit into the flesh of his shoulder as a moan of helpless excitement rippled through her body convulsively.

He ran his hands over her trembling form, and her skin went fiery under his touch.

Her fingers clawed his back, and her mouth sought his again. Her tongue reached out in a surge of hungry anxiety.

The wildness, the savage demands, the burning fervor bathed over their bodies, numbing all thoughts, all reason, all memory. Only the desire, that had to be fulfilled, only the love that was so needed, only the heated awareness of two lovers who have discovered themselves, each other exist-ed. And then final union.

They did not stop.

They could not.

It as a moment of ecstasy that seemed to last forever, but finally came to an end.

He looked down at her lovely face and smiled tenderly. "I love you...oh how I love you."

He kissed her lightly.

"There's no question about what we must do, now," he said sternly. "It's settled! We leave...get out of this damn city...and then out of the country...the plane's fueled...it's ready. All we have to do is leave!"

She smiled up at him. She said nothing. She didn't have to.

He knew.

She would come. She was his now.

There was a suddenly knocking on the door.

Barry jerked upright, then froze.

He saw Joan's eyes go wide with terror, and her body shudder.

Who could it be?

"Open up, Flyboy!" a hard, high pitched man's voice demanded.

That's when the first horror started. Tommy. Big Dave's gunman.

Now they faced another horror.

Barry turned the wheel of the car, and directed the vehicle through the gate that enclosed the air field.

Now it was a case of getting his plane into the air before Big Dave came storming along with his insane anger, his determination to kill.

It took what seemed forever for Barry to check out his plane, pay for the housing of it, and have it pulled out of the hanger.

Once the four-seat plane was free of the hanger, Barry warmed up the engines, explaining to Joan how to strap herself in.

He called the control tower, and was getting instructions for the take off when Big Dave arrived.

Things happened fast then.

A car pulled out of the night, right in front of the plane, blocking its pathway.

Two men got out of the front seat. One was tall, the other short and heavy. Two others piled out of the back seat.

"Big Dave!" Joan cried as she saw the short fact man.

"Latch the doors quickly!" Barry yelled hand her the gun he had taken from Big Dave's man. "Use it if necessary."

He checked over the controls. Then he threw aside the mike, knowing the control taking off without instructions; there just wasn't time to do any-thing but move fast.

He had to think of some way to get around the car; or they would never make it.

"Get down..." he demanded, as the four men came running toward the plane.

He throttled the engine, then moved the control stick.

He'd have to take a chance!

Slowly the plane moved.

A shot rang out, and the glass splattered between the two of them.

Joan leaned out the door, at her side, and returned the man's fire.

Her aim was terrible.

The plane moved closer to the car.

Touched it.

The wing was clearing, but the cockpit, and body scraped the car.

Barry felt a sickening fear run through him.

They weren't going to make it!

One of the men was reaching up to the cockpit door, near Joan. A gun was pointing through the glass.

He had to move fast!

Joan screamed and fired at the face. It jumped backwards, yelling in pain.

He'd have to chance it.

He pressed the throttle.

Another bullet crashed through the cockpit, grazing the back of his head. He felt nausea flood over him. Blackness started to cover his vision. He shook his head and fought for awareness.

A scraping sounded, and then it turned into a loud grating noise.

We aren't making it. We aren't going to make it, his mind screamed.

His vision was clearing, and his mind was beginning to work more effi-ciently.

The grating sound ended, and the plane moved forward.

Another bullet exploded past them, just missing Joan.

The sound of more bullets hitting glass and metals, surrounded them. But they were clear of the car.

He pointed the plane toward the dark runway, and kept going; he didn't have time to consult the control tower. He could only hope for the best.

And as they left the shrill sound of the bullets and soared into the sky, the passengers Barry and Joan, let out a sigh of relief seconds before the two planes collided.

His last thought was: Maybe their souls would meet again, soon, and rediscover one another under better circumstances. Maybe next time it would last for a life time.

Death came quick and painlessly, and Big Dave was cheated.

What not follows is a story which was used in total, with some added material and slanting in "Bodies 4 Sale" and while I don't have the original anywhere in my files, I will offer this excerpt from the book, with this ex-planation:

In the mid-fifties it was a common practice for quality eateries to offer the standard piano bar, and in some cases with some very good musicians, even duos and trios. It was a starting place for some and an ending place for others. Many wannabe singers would get a chance to sing their songs for the drinking folk gathered around the bar. And for some singers it was a beginning spring board to better things that led to small or large careers as vocalist. In any case, it was a place where people could experiment and get a chance to show off their talents.

And to be totally and completely ignored, no matter how good they were.

This was a place and time and setting where gland handing and me-chanical, hard smiles accented reactions by public and agents alike. As in the following material, the message is underscored with...

FROZEN SMILES AND GLAD HANDS

And the night before, when Jamie Norton was in Mexico with the little tramp, another man was starting on a path that would soon cross his.

George Kayne's fingers moved across the keyboard of white and black, causing the jumping dullness of "Roll Out the Barrel" to bounce through the smoke-filled air of the cheap saloon, whose name he had already for-gotten in the medley of other cheap places so much like this one.

Smoke—Drinks. Drunks. And—"Hey, my girl here's got a voice," and a dollar bill drops on the piano in front of him. "How about letting her sing?"

"What'll it be, Miss?" He'd let anybody sing a song or even dance for a bill...

"I'm In the Mood for Love."

Didn't they know anything else? She's slightly drunk, but pretty enough; and from the expression on his face, nobody would ever know about the hurt deep down inside, or the slightly sickened feeling he would get as she slurred over the fact that she didn't know what key she was about to sing in.

That was all part of the act. A frozen smile, and "what'll it be, Miss?"

But this night was different. He was waiting for his agent, Manny An-son. Maybe this would be the night he would get out of this dive and all the dives like this one in which he seemed to be spending his career.

Frankie, the cocktail waitress, stepped up to the piano bar. "This drink just came from the man at the end of the bar—wants to hear 'Down by the Old Mill Stream', sorry about that!" she said, smiling and placing a beer within easy reach.

Frankie was all right. She was sexy as hell and it took one hell of a lot out of him just watching her and her bouncing bosom. She was the kind of woman you couldn't help thinking would be one hell of a swinger in bed. But there was something other than just animal appeal about Frankie. There was something that made him not only want her in bed, but also protect her. She made this dive different from the rest of the dives he had been working in ever since Jamie Norton hit the bottom and he had to make a go at it alone. Most of the girls working as cocktail waitress looked cheap—like whores. Frankie had a sad look about her—a helpless lonely expression in her brown eyes.

She was also different because she seemed to like him. The way she would glance out of the corner of her eye at George. Her shy smile. Most girls didn't go for his kind of guy. Too small. Too quiet. But even though he and Frankie had said very little to each other, there seemed to be aware-ness and a silent communication between them. He just somehow knew she was interested.

She was lonely, too, he guessed. Maybe he'd ask her out after work to-night it. Especially if the audition went well. Then he would feel like cele-brating.

This was a hell of a place to have an audition.

"Mister—play 'Sweet Adeline'—play it for me soft and sweet!" an overly painted, worn-out face asked.

"Sure, anything you want!"

Where was Manny? What the hell was keeping the guy?

"How about letting the lady sing another song?" A second bill fluttered its way toward the small glass which was already half full.

Good tips tonight!

"Sure thing—right after this lady's request..."

He wondered if the blonde would know her key. She didn't. The voice went flat several times and he had to fake the chording to keep her from sounding bad. But he was good at that; he was an ideal pro at playing for amateur singers who had to get half loaded before they had the courage to let the world hear their golden attempts to keep on key. Everybody thought they could sing. Even the good ones numbered in the thousands.

He tried to remember how long ago it was when he'd gone to his first piano bar to solo for the first time before a bored, noisy crowd. He really couldn't remember anymore.

Frankie looked in his direction. That lonely wide-eyed wounded doe expression. She had pretty brown eyes and one hell of a bobbing body. Last night he'd almost gotten around to asking her out, but he'd been side-tracked by a customer, and it was quitting time and Frankie had gone be-fore he got another chance.

He wished to hell that Manny would get over here!

He was just like a kid on his first audition. Maybe because it was so important to him. Maybe because he knew that if he failed this time he would be finished—never given another chance at the vocal bit. And he'd have to return to his one room apartment with its dim lights and dark, old-fashioned furniture from the 1890's and grease-smeared walls. And he'd not be able to face the truth that he really didn't have quite a good enough voice, and that he didn't have quite good enough looks, and that he didn't have quite a good enough personality.

Then he would drink away the smell and taste of defeat. Lonely and beaten like all the other times.

Things weren't like they had been when Jamie Norton was on top. Ja-mie had seen that his friend, George Kayne, was taken care of with a good job and a good chance to get ahead. It hadn't been only one-way, though. The two of them had worked well together. Norton never had been able to find a better team partner for him. But since Norton had been black-listed by Manny, things hadn't been going so well for Kayne.

A harsh voice cracked: "Okay, move outta the way, Miss...sorry! Gotta get to Georgie boy here. Business. Business."

"So, who do ya think you are, buster?"

"Business, business!"

Manny.

"Hey, Manny, what took you so long?"

Out of the side of Manny's mouth: "Keep it easy—had to build you up real big and then spice things up a bit with an offer of free booze." A beefy hand reached for the tip money on the top of the piano. "This'll probably take care of it..."

Sure, let George pay for everything. Show business! Why'd he get into it? Admit it! Nothing else he could do. Music had been his life; playing pi-ano was something he'd done since his pre-teens.

"What you gonna sing, Georgie boy?"

"Same old thing."

Just then a large man came up. The expression on his ruddy features and slightly glassy eyes was enough to tell George that the man wasn't in any condition to judge anything—or even care about judging anything!

"Mr. Delcado, this is the fellow I've been talking to you about..."

"Okay, okay! Glad to meet you sonny!" That large hand gripped his and for a moment he could almost believe that Mister Big was really inter-ested.

Frozen smiles and glad hands.

That was the trademark of the business world; but it was the very heart and core of the false reality of show business. Smile when you're crying. Pat them on the back when you want to slug their damn teeth down their throats. Everybody loves everybody else!

"You're agent has been talking you up real big," Mr. Delcado said me-chanically, hardly noticing whom he was talking to. He and Manny turned and stepped back through the crowd, disappearing into the Mardi Gras of drunken faces and dim smoky atmosphere that hung over the place like a drapery of misty fog.

George reached for the mike. "Ladies and gents, the club is offering a special low spot in the show, tonight..." He wanted to say that this was so very important; and wouldn't they please, pay attention. But. "Normally, guys like me are only allowed to make with the keyboard stuff, but tonight I'm going to give out with a little of the voice."

A scattered applause.

Maybe three or four people had heard him and made a half-hearted at-tempt to be polite. They turned back to their conversations.

Frankie eyes looked his way and her lips smiled encouragement. He could really go for her this evening. A real swinger. What rolling hips, de-lightful, fully-stacked breasts. Maybe after the...

Suddenly he felt the old hates and frustrations and years of disgust and heartache rush through him. What did it matter to any of these bastards that he was about to sing his guts out so that maybe some rotten slob who owned a night club would give him a chance to get a new start?

As he started singing, a couple of the people turned his way. The soft words and flow of his voice carried across the darkened room and more people turned. They nudged each other and shushed each other. The noise slowly faded to a quietness that seemed almost tomb-like.

With a great sense of power, he went into his second number.

They liked him all right. Never had he had such a crowd like this be-fore. A bunch of drunks and lonely pick-ups and tramps and men on the make. He had them all clutched in the swell of his voice. It was a wonder-ful feeling of power. They sighed when he sighed, and cried when he cried.

For his third number he went into a happy swing tempo and the people were tapping their feet and smiling and laughing. The applause afterwards was first only a rippling and then it slowly swelled. After a short moment it was over.

Frankie rushed up through the crowd.

"That was wonderful!" she whispered, her face beaming and her eyes shining with excitement.

Manny pushed toward, them. "Great! Have to rush off right now. Call me in the morning!"

"How'd Mr. Delcado like it?"

"Fine! Said he'd see what he could do. Maybe a spot in—well, call me, tomorrow. Have to rush off!"

He was gone.

George looked silently at the cocktail waitress. "Well, Frankie—whatever that meant; I guess it was something good!"

For a moment he paused, not knowing how to ask the question he wanted to ask, or if he should. Looking into her eager eyes he saw the long-ing there.

"How about celebrating with me tonight after work?"

She nodded anxiously, then she was called away before they could say anything more.

But it didn't matter now. She had said yes with her eyes and her ac-tions. She'd be waiting for him before she left work. It was funny how lonely people could say so much without many words communicated to each other.

"Say, mister, how about playing 'Down by the Old Mill Stream'?"

Watching Frankie, he didn't mind so much now. As he followed her progress from one table to another, he couldn't help noticing the difference in her movements; they seemed more alive. Happy. Excited.

He could hardly wait to get her into bed caress her full breasts. Feel her naked body squirming against his. That idea sent excited energy and anx-ious excitement through his whole body.

"Say, you sure sounded good. I mean the singing. Could you do 'My Funny Valentine' for me and my girl?" A dollar fluttered like an autumn leaf into the glass. He hardly noticed.

Nothing was too important right then, except that after work things were going to being different. A little less lonely.

First, there would be drinks; then celebrating with Frankie. Tomorrow would possibly start a new existence for him.

But he didn't really care—right then, anyway—about anything except Frankie.

After work they talked a little. The bartender had brought them drinks. And then later at her place they had, continued the talking and drinking.

He'd learned things about Frankie. Some of the things about the loneli-ness which her eyes expressed every time they made contact with his.

She'd come to California when she was eighteen. Gone to college. Met a man who said either she'd let him climb into bed with her or she didn't really love him. The affair had been short, but it had broken her in to the sexual side of life.

Then things had worked out pretty fast. They had been drinking for a couple of hours by then and the buzzing effects of the booze worked their passions into a burning pain inside them. They had been sitting on the sofa for a long time, his arm around her body, her hand touching his leg and thigh. She was warm and affectionate.

He was finding it continually more difficult to keep from taking her in his arms. The position was just right, and her full red lips were only inches from his.

Both held their breath for a long moment. Then suddenly she pulled away and stood.

"I'll be right back," she smiled warmly, leaning over towards him and pressing her lips on his. It was one of those closed mouth caresses that sent a man out of his head. He wanted to pull her into his arms right then.

She moved away and then a moment later she disappeared into her bed-room.

He took out a cigarette from his jacket pocket and lit it. Nervously he puffed on it, blowing smoke into the air. The very thought of what she must be doing was enough to make him feel shaky inside. It was as if he was being pulled into a whirlpool of ecstatic excitement and the suspense was overwhelming.

He reached for his drink and downed it in one gulp. One thing he could say for Frankie, she was one hell of a woman; and that was for damn sure! The bedroom door opened and Frankie stood there.

He swallowed hard, finding it difficult to catch his breath. She was just about the most beautiful, sexy thing he had ever seen. The lacy negligee, which was loosely draped around her body, hardly did anything to hide the fact that she had a terrific body. Every curve showed through the thin net-ting. He found it hard to keep his eyes away from the full, supple swells of her breasts, which peeked through like curiously waiting eyes.

She slid across the room towards him, her eyes sparkling and the cor-ners of her lips turned upwards in a happy anxious smile.

"Hello there, baby!" he sighed. He reached up and pulled Frankie down to him. She came willingly and hungrily into his arms, her lips parted and trembled slightly under his.

The kiss lasted long enough to get them both stretched out full length on the sofa and then slowly he pulled aside the lacy netting and started ex-ploring every curve and swell of her body. It was sheer delight—the feel of her silky, velvet flesh was like smooth cream. He couldn't keep his eyes off her—or his eager hands. Her response was remarkably, swift and passion-ate. She seemed to have been hungrily waiting to be made love to for some time, for now that they were close and kissing and caressing, she squirmed and writhed in pleasant agony. Her breathing was heavy and intense; Her whole body became a sea of quivering, excited flesh, that lurched with eve-ry touch as if given an electric shock.

It seemed as if all the energy in his body was being sucked out of him as they clutched tightly to one another. Her lips once more made contact with his. Her tongue was a delicious darting target, moving with his with a hunger all its own.

He moved his hand down to her breasts, slowly stroking and fondling them, excited by her frenzied response of her body as it moved under his.

Then they couldn't stop. The anxious beating of her heart as it pounded against his searching and caressing fingers began to match the desperate agony in his own chest. The flood of passion became too heated, too stimu-lating and overwhelming as they churned frantically and desperately against one another until their fiery explosive need had been burned out of them.

Afterwards the need was still powerful in them.

He had known women in the past; but never one that affected him like Frankie. They rested, and then he felt her move once more.

Her body pressed up against his, and he felt the excited fullness of her—as she breathed heavily. Her hands clawed at his back with an almost painful intensity. The need and electric power of that one embrace left them both weak and—breathing heavily in each other's arms. They tried to relax, but found it impossible. They looked at each other for a long time in si-lence. Only the soft, drifting sound of music filled the air.

Again they kissed, slowly embracing each other with lips, arms and body. They didn't stop until the ocean of desire had been silenced and their needs and passions soothed once more.

CHAPTER TWO

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

ADDED DIMENSIONS

While some of the following material has been touched upon in the previous chapters, many details are further developed along with other in-formation concerning my writing career. They are all articles complete in themselves.

1. A TAPED INTERVIEW WITH

CHARLES NUETZEL

by Lynn Munroe

Lynn Munroe came out to the house several times to do this above in-terview, recording a lot of conversation. He is a very dedicated fan and col-lector of books, and is actually in the business of buying and selling hard-to-find collector's editions of pocket books. He is considered one of the top experts in the field. I can only thank him for the following interview.

* * * * * * *

American author Charles Nuetzel (pronounced NEWT-zel) was born in San Francisco in 1934. The son of artist Albert Nuetzel, Charles has written over seventy paperback originals under many pen names. When Victor Berch asked me to see what I could dig up about Scorpion Books, I called Nuetzel's agent, Forrest J Ackerman. Both Victor and I had heard Nuetzel had died, and over twenty years have passed since his last book was pub-lished. Ackerman surprised me with the news that Nuetzel was alive and well and living in Southern California. Ackerman got me in touch with Nuetzel, which led to this interview:

BAE: Mr. Nuetzel, as I told you on the phone, my friend Victor Berch noticed an error in Warren's Official Price Guide to Paperbacks. There is a listing for Scorpio Books of Chicago, NAC Publications, listing two books. But actually it was Scorpion Books of Los Angeles, and there are eight ti-tles. You wrote all eight of them under pseudonyms, didn't you?

CAN: Yes. NAC are my initials backwards.

BAE: Did you sell them to the distributor, Golden State News, as a package deal?

CAN: Yes. Bob Pike was doing a line of books for them, and I was selling both my books and my Dad's covers to Pike. One day Pike said, "Why don't you cut out the middle man and do it directly?" GSN was a one-man operation: Joel Warner.

BAE: So you sold the whole package to Warner.

CAN: Everything. Wrote all eight books, wrote all the ads and copy in-side, wrote all the cover lines. Dad did all eight covers, all the art and the paste-ups. My father was a commercial artist for many years. Most of his work was done for the movie studios. Later in his career he did magazine art and paperback covers. It started with me, as a young science-fiction fan, acting as his agent and selling a cover to Ray Palmer at Other Worlds. (The cover was used on one of his publications, Science Stories.) At that time, 1951-52, I was getting to know Forrest J Ackerman, who later was my agent. And my Dad's agent. When Dad retired from the studios [movie industry, Pacific Title and Arts] he began doing science fiction covers for me. By then I was writing professionally.

BAE: How did you meet Forry Ackerman?

CAN: It was as a result of meeting Ray Bradbury. I met Ray at the Cherokee Bookstore on Hollywood Boulevard in 1951. I was a fan. I was listing every science-fiction story and novel on color-coded index cards. So I knew Bradbury's name. Talking about fandom with Ray led to an intro-duction to Forry.

BAE: How did you start writing paperbacks?

CAN: I started writing magazine stories. I told Forry I wanted to write for the science-fiction pulps. He told me the pulps were dead and the girlie magazines were the pulps of the '60s. So I started writing stories. The tech-nique was to type a title on the top of the page, pick a pen name, type that down, and start typing straight through. No more than twelve pages hope-fully. I trained myself to finish something once I started it. That first year I did about 100 manuscripts and sold about two a month. But I sold a fair amount of those others over the years.

BAE: What year did you start writing?

CAN: 1960. My first science-fiction story was "A Very Cultured Taste" in Jade Magazine #1. One magazine publisher, Dave Zentner, was doing a line of adult books. I wrote my first books for him in 1961. Zentner was very good to me. A lot of us learned the book business from him. He could be intense, demanding... well, there are a lot of stories about him. There was a writer named Mike Knerr—

BAE: The guy who wrote Sex Life of the Gods (Uptown 703)?

CAN: Yes, Dad did the cover for that. Knerr wrote other books, too. Knerr was a sweetheart but he could talk tough on the phone. Zentner kept delaying on a payment so Knerr called him and said; "If you don't have a check for me I'll come down there with a .45 and kick in the door." So he went down there and they had the check waiting for him. Another night I was writing a book for Zentner like mad. Knerr tells the story that he called me up and said, "Let's go out for a drink." I said "OK, but just a second." He heard this maniacal typing for a while and then it stopped and I came back to the phone and said, "OK, I just finished a book, I can go now." That's how we worked, chained to a typewriter. Knerr told me he wrote Sex Life of the Gods in one week.

BAE: So he wrote under his own name?

CAN: He was one of the few with enough guts to do that. I was too chicken. I wrote too many adult books. Mike only wrote a few. Like Harlan Ellison, he didn't mind putting his own name on the books.

BAE: Even Ellison did a book he didn't put his own name on. But an-yway, getting back to Zentner....

CAN: That line was called Epic Books. That's where I met Bob Pike, who got his start working for Zentner. When Pike started his own line he called me and said, "I need a manuscript." I said, "When do you need it?" He said. "Yesterday." So a week later I gave him Lost City of the Damned.

BAE: And that's the first Pike Book, Pike 101.

CAN: Pike wrote the second Pike Book himself, under the pen name Marv Struck (Beatnik Ball, Pike 102). That was a one-man job. He even took the cover photo himself. My next for him was Appointment with Ter-ror (Pike 204).

BAE: In the meantime Pike had published The Coming of the Rats, by another writer. Did you know him?

CAN: George H. Smith. No, never met him. [*Author note added Au-gust 1997: met George a few years before he died, a very nice fellow.] He had a lot of pen names. Very prolific. My Dad did the cover art for The Coming of the Rats.

BAE: It's unforgettable. I think that cover, and those great Famous Monsters of Filmland magazine covers your father did for Forry Ackerman, are among the best covers of that era.

CAN: He also did Lost City of the Damned at that time. He hated that cover.

BAE: So doing those books for Pike led you and your father to Scorpi-on Books for Golden State News.

CAN: Joel Warner, right. He was GSN among other things. The way he worked, you'd go to him and get a contract and he'd pay you with an IOU that was cashable in three months. But he'd tell you about this company that was willing to cash them immediately for a ten percent charge. So you'd go there to get your money right away. Then we found out later that he was a partner with this company too. He had you coming or going. He would use one publishing company for two or three months then jump to another, then back. He used to play everybody against everybody else. But he got a lot of people started in the business. Milt Luros started with him. Even Dave Zentner did some books for Warner. Some became publishers, then packagers and printers, then wholesalers. The whole thing.

BAE: Luros was Parliament News (Brandon House, Essex House, etc.) and Zentner was Bee-Line.

CAN: And Epic Books and Escapade Magazine and many others. Warner's partner was a lawyer, Frank Laven. You'd send the manuscript to him and he'd check it out. They were very conservative, they would not let anything pornographic get past. They were very careful, whereas Luros was pushing the edge as far as he could, and Bill Hamling did even more.

BAE: At least until he went to prison for pornography. Your most sought-after book today is Queen of Blood [author note: totally non-sexual adaptation of movie script], published by Hamling's Greenleaf Classics (GC 206.) Was that your only book for Hamling's syndicate?

CAN: Yes. Forry gave me Curtis Harrington's script and said "Do a novelization of this screenplay." I did it in ten days. I'd take one page of the script and expand it into three pages of manuscript.

BAE: At the same time Greenleaf Classics published Ed Wood's Orgy of the Dead. Wood of course has become a cult figure today as the director of the worst movies ever made. Did you know, or ever work with, Edward D. Wood, Jr.?

CAN: I don't think so.

BAE: He did a book for Powell, Mama's Diary by Dick Trent (Powell PP-129).

CAN: I remember the name. Never worked with him. I worked mainly with the publishers like Zentner and Pike and distributor Warner. And then Gershenson at Book Company of America. I did two books for him, the Hollywood book (Whodunit? Hollywood Style, Book Co. of America 008) and an anthology, If This Goes On.

BAE: I noticed the cover of If This Goes On (Book Co. of America 015) lists Ray Bradbury as a contributor, and the acknowledgments page lists a Bradbury story called "Almost the End of the World." But there's no Bradbury story in the book.

CAN: I submitted the book with the story in it and to this day I don't know how they managed not to get it in there. I learned about it the first time I thumbed through the printed book at a newsstand. I didn't even know it had been published. At that time the publisher was having great financial difficulty. They didn't want anyone to know about it, but that's why they weren't paying up front. So they rushed the book out and I didn't get the page proofs I was supposed to see. If I had seen those page proofs I would have caught the missing story right away! No one got paid. I have an angry letter here in my files from Asimov about how they treated him. The only writers who got paid were Scott Meredith's clients, because he screamed bloody murder at the publisher all the way from New York. So Marion Zimmer Bradley and Fredric Brown were the only ones who got their checks before the publisher went out of business. Gershenson was a neat guy when the money was flowing. I got the check for the Hollywood book right away. And Dad did a cover for the van Vogt book for him (Planets for Sale, Book Co. of America 0113).

BAE: Their first book was by Alvin H. Gershenson. Is that the same guy?

CAN: That's the guy. He was a lawyer, and something of a..... Well, everything he had was leased. He had a home in Beverly Hills, cars, offices, all leased. He didn't trust anybody. The company went out of business and he suddenly disappeared. It turned out everything he appeared to own had all been leased.

BAE: That was the end of Book Company of America. Did you know any of their other writers? Woodrow Olivetti.

CAN: Didn't know him but I was told he got his pen name from his typewriter. I knew Bill Stroup. He lived down in Hermosa Beach then. In fact I sold his book to Gershenson.

BAE: Ah yes, The Mark of Pak San Ri (Book Co. of America 010). Charles, even with the Bradbury story missing and even though the compa-ny immediately went under, If This Goes On remains one of your greatest achievements. What a line-up for an anthology: Richard Matheson, Isaac Asimov, Fritz Leiber, A. E. van Vogt....

CAN: The van Vogt story was rewritten for this anthology. I asked him to update it and change the theme to prejudice. The idea behind the book being "if this goes on, this is what will happen." That idea run through eve-ry story.

BAE: In addition to the story under your own byline, you reprinted "A Very Cultured Taste" under one of your pseudonyms, George Frederic.

CAN: Right. First book appearance. Oh, by the way, Heinlein really didn't like our title. He had written a piece called "If This Goes On...". His agent wrote back saying the only story Heinlein would even consider sub-mitting was "If This Goes On," a 70,000-word novel! HE was really angry. There was an awful lot of touchiness 'bout titles then. Nobody seems to care now. I really didn't steal that one from Heinlein. I liked that concept and couldn't see any other way of saying it. I thought it could have been developed into a TV series at the time. But the Book Company of America was in the process of going bankrupt.

BAE: None of the other authors got paid?

CAN: I don't think I was the only one who got shafted. As far as I know. But that was at the end. At the beginning; it was great. It started with Dad. A friend knew Gershenson and contacted Dad to do covers. This one time it was reversed: Dad got me the job. They contracted me to do the Hollywood book. Powell later reprinted it (Hollywood Mysteries, Powell PP-133).

BAE: It was in the late '60s, after the books for Gershenson and Hamling, that you began doing the Powell Books.

CAN: I was doing a series of case history sex books as Carson Davis for Venice Publishing, and the publisher, Dick Sherwin, sent me over to his partner, the distributor, Bill Trotter. We were talking and I showed him If This Goes On. He wrote my name down and told me he was going to go into publishing on his own. Months later he called me and said he needed books. That time we talked for an hour and I walked out with a packaging deal to edit a series of science fiction books for him to be called Powell Sci-Fi. I was given total control.

BAE: Like the Scorpions, a complete package deal. But how did Trot-ter become Powell Books? Why not just Trotter Books like Bob Pike did with Pike Books?

CAN: Trotter was a direct descendant of the Powell who explored the Grand Canyon, Lake Powell—that Powell. First Trotter was doing sex books he called Tiger Books. He couldn't match my price for original manuscripts so I said, "Fine, we'll give you reprints, as long as we agree my Dad's doing all the covers." So I would take one of my old books and expand it out a bit. I'd send the book to a typist to be typed out and told her to list any pages that were suited for expansion. I'd get the thing back with the notes and expand those pages. Trotter never saw anything until it was printed.

BAE: You successfully recycled most of your earlier books.

Give us an example of a rewrite for Powell.

CAN: (picking up two books) Well, here's one: Blowout by Donald Franklyn (Powell PP-111). This is the same book as Red Light Campus (Pillow Book 109) by Fred MacDonald. It was expanded. The market had become more pornographic at that time. More risqué. [That's French for dir-tay.] So we did a line of these, and I tried to give him some quality books for the science fiction line. The term sci-fi came from Forry, he'd coined it years before, so I thought "Powell Sci-Fi, sounds like a good idea."

BAE: It was a great idea. Even though most modern SF fans discount the phrase sci-fi, there are many collectors who cherish all of the Powell Books.

CAN: Bill Trotter was a fun guy to work with. He sent me a check eve-ry week and I sent him two books every month. My goal was quality. When Boris Karloff died, I tried to get Trotter to do a book on Karloff. He called up his wholesalers across the country, and they didn't know who Karloff was. He was just a dead actor. Forry could have had the thing at the printers within one month of Karloff's death. So Forry sold it to Ace Books and dedicated it to Bill Trotter and me (laughs). Sort of a jab at Trotter.

BAE: One of the quality books you did as packager at Powell was a re-print of Harlan Ellison's Memos from Purgatory (Powell PP-154).

CAN: I was doing both quality books (the science fiction line) and the sex book reprints for Powell, so I jumped at the chance every time I could do something of quality. I also thought we should reprint Ellison's Gentle-man Junkie. That was the name of the other one, wasn't it?

BAE: Yes. Ellison wrote those two books when he was the editor at Regency Books in Evanston, Illinois. His publisher there was William Hamling.

CAN: I had a budget of half his asking price to reprint Gentleman Junk-ie. I remember sitting in his living room while he was finishing his intro-duction to the Powell reprint of Memos from Purgatory. I said, "How about such-and-such a price?" and he said, "NO!!" and that was the end of that negotiation.

BAE: That was a nice touch, having Ellison himself write the new intro.

CAN: That was part of the deal. So was his cover photo. I tried to make him look like the gang members in his book, posing him wearing sunglasses and a black leather jacket. So Harlan supplied us with a new introduction for the 1968 audience. I did the same thing with the Bloodstone book (Godman by Stuart Byrne writing as John Bloodstone, Powell PP-205). Byrne said "Why don't you write the introduction? "and I said, "Why don't you do it?" So Byrne wrote it, as Byrne, as if Bloodstone was an old friend of his. We had fun doing gags like that. I used to write cover lines for the....

BAE: Donald E. Westlake did the same thing on his book Comfort Sta-tion by J. Morgan Cunningham.

CAN: The cover artist Bill Hughes did something like that on Slaves of Lomooro (Powell PP-189). I wrote that one under the pen name Albert Au-gustus, Jr. That had been my twin brother's name. Dad's full name was Al-bert Augustus Nuetzel. I picked that pen name right after Dad died.... Any-way, Bill Hughes came in to do the covers after Dad's death. On the back covers I'd write all these cover lines. This one has a quote from Morris Chapnick.

BAE: One of Forry Ackerman's many pseudonyms.

CAN: Right, that was Forry, but I wrote most of these quotes with his OK. So I gave Bill all the lines and when I saw the finished paste-ups, he'd added one!

BAE: There's a blurb at the bottom of the back cover of Slaves of Lomooro recommending this book by William A. Hughes, who of course also did the great cover art.

CAN: He was a great graphics man as well as an artist. After Jungle Jungle (Powell PP-162) came out, he called me and pointed out that he had put six fingers on one hand of the hero on the cover.

BAE: This is a great cover, but you're right. He's holding a gun, pre-sumably with a hidden thumb, but there are five long fingers sticking out as well.

CAN: Bill Hughes also came up with the title. It collects two stories about the jungle, so he said call it Jungle Jungle. He had read that repetitive titles stick in the mind, and he was right. We used to rush these books out, which is why you'll find a word misspelled on the back of Images of To-morrow (Powell PP-135). "Androids" came out "androids."

BAE: I notice Images of Tomorrow has an intro by Forrest J Ackerman and a cover blurb by Morris Chapnick.

CAN: A lot of the Powell Sci-Fi series was a two-man effort by Ackerman and Nuetzel. Images also has a cover by my father. Last one he ever did. It's my favorite, actually.

BAE: He also did covers under the name Albet. Victor Berch thinks he got that name by combining the first two letters of his name with the first three letters of your mother's.

CAN: Betty. That's right. Very clever how you guys figure things out. Dad pronounced it Al-bay.

BAE: Blowout takes place in Davidson City and one of your pen names is John Davidson. Does that name have some special meaning?

CAN: I've often wondered where I came up with that pen name. John, I know, is for my cousin. Where I got Davidson I don't know. I was using it before John Davidson, the singer. He stole it from me! When you start creating pen names, you are creating contractions and expansions. Short-ening or turning your own name around. It's more fun creating a pen name than a book. Because you get to create a new author. After I'd written a million words as Carson Davis, even I had trouble remembering which one I was. Not really, but you do create a whole persona.

BAE: Another prolific writer at that time was Charles E. Fritch. Did you know him?

CAN: Only met him a few times. Very nice man. I packaged his book Crazy Mixed-Up Planet (Powell PP-1967).

BAE: When you say "packager"; is that the same thing as an editor?

CAN: It's more than that. A packager many times packages books for various distributors. He gets everything together, sends it to the printer and pays everybody. Some packagers refer to themselves as the publisher. I don't consider Powell my publication, but Powell Sci-Fi was all "mine" that first year. The editor only edits the manuscript. The packager might hire an editor, or do it himself as I did. At one time I did all of the layouts and did a lot of the graphics. I got so good at it that when Leo Margulies came out here he hired me just to do cover graphics. I did Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine for a year, and also Charlie Chan Mystery Magazine.

BAE: Thoris was going to be your next book when Powell went out of business. It was never published but you have the cover proof here. May we reprint it with our interview?

CAN: Sure. It was supposed to be the first in a series. I had already written part of the second book. Actually this first one was a reprint of Swordmen of Vistar (Powell PP-121). Bill Hughes did this cover.

BAE: I notice he signed it in hieroglyphics. Can you translate the hi-eroglyphics on the back cover for us?

CAN: It says "This story has to be read to be believed. I suggest you read it for yourself.—Charles Nuetzel."

BAE: It would have been Powell 1018N. You also edited Rubicon

Books.

CAN: I only did the last four Rubicon Books. The artist Bill Hughes lined it up. He was doing covers for them. As packager I tried to get relia-ble professionals who had written in other fields but could also write sex books. For example, Stu Byrne did one for me. The publisher wanted a more literary market. It seemed to me the writer who best met all our re-quirements was Philip José Farmer. He had done those kinds of books be-fore: his science-fiction novel The Lovers, and the Essex House books.

BAE: And the Beacons.

CAN: I got his number from Forry and called with an offer he couldn't refuse, and he did a book for me. There was a pen name on it I've forgot-ten. But then Rubicon went out of business. Somehow the book got to Brandon House and they published it, under Farmer's real name, as Love Song (Brandon House 6134).

BAE: And they put a boring cover on it. No cover art. It's a shame you didn't publish it at Rubicon because those books all feature sensational co-vers by Bill Hughes, which we will show with this interview. Do you re-member the authors behind the pseudonyms of the Rubicon Books you packaged?

CAN: The first one, Eroto-Therapy by Lyle Masters (Rubicon 1009) was already contracted when I went to work for them. I don't know the author. Nymphette by James Z. Muntz (Rubicon 1010) was written by an Englishman named Peter Crowcroft. He was an actor, right at that time he was filming On a Clear Day You Can See Forever with Barbra Streisand. Swapping Singles (Rubicon 1011), "edited by Howard Dare," was Stu Byr-ne. Sweet Kiss of Youth (Rubicon 1012), "edited by Geoffrey Neil," was written by Jim Bellah.

BAE: Not James Warner Bellah?

CAN: No, another Jim Bellah. Then we were set to do the Farmer book next.

BAE: I'd like to show these Rubicon covers by Bill Hughes in addition to a sampling of your books. We can't find any paperbacks with your name on them after 1970. What happened?

CAN: My last book was a hardcover, Last Call for the Stars, published by Lenox Hill in 1971. My title was Adapt or Die [now published by Wildside Press]. They cut 20,000 words. It was also published in England and in Italy. There is no English-language paperback edition. (A later reli-gious book, Now the Time, had been written twenty years earlier.) At that time I stopped writing for the adult market.

BAE: There were a lot of changes in the adult book world

around 1970.

CAN: A lot of changes. There was a recession and several of my pub-lishers went out of business. The sex market also changed drastically. Got a lot more raunchy. The books I wrote are very tame compared to what came out later.

BAE: Why did you stop writing in 1971?

CAN: I dropped dead! No, seriously, there were many reasons that all snowballed. Writing is a brain-bashing process. You have to be obsessed with wanting to sell, and obsessed with wanting to say something. So ob-sessed that you'd pay any price for it. and money's no longer an issue. Ex-cept that you have to be paid to make the writing legitimate. Vanity press books don't count. When you find someone who is willing to pay for it. then it counts. Getting it in print is what it's all about. wanting to say some-thing to the public. How you say it depends on what the market demands. In the sex field, you wrote what you had to write. I started writing what I wanted to write about, not for a contract. That was mistake #1. Write what's commercial. If you can't, forget it. There's a difference between an author and a writer between an artist and a hack. Stopping writing is a slow process. I burned out doing so much in 1969. I'd written five million words. When I turned forty I stopped drinking and stopped writing. I had already moved out of Los Angeles. When I had said everything I wanted to say, I stopped.

Charles Nuetzel lives in California with his wife of thirty years, Brigitte. A "self-styled hack writer," Nuetzel found work in other occupations. He keeps a business card to remind himself. It says "Charles Nuetzel—Retired Author."

* * * * * * *

The above text was published in a publication for collectors of pocket-books: Books Are Everything, Vol. 6, No.1, Whole Number 25. The pub-lisher used the cover of my Swordmen of Vistar for the cover. At the bot-tom of the Contents page the publisher wrote:

This twenty-fifth issue of Books Are Everything is dedicated to Charles A. Nuetzel. A shy, self-style writer who has certainly left an indelible mark on vintage paperback collection.... Many thanks from all the thousands of collectors of vintage paperbacks.

A very nice tribute, I thought.

2. AN E-MAIL INTERVIEW WITH

CHARLES NUETZEL

by

Charles A. Gramlich

The following text is taken from an interview done over the Internet, via e-mail.

Razored Zen Interview: Charles Nuetzel is the author of numerous books and stories, including a number of Heroic Fantasy novels like War-riors of Noomas, Raiders of Noomas, and Swordmen of Vistar. His The Slaves of Lomooro, another Heroic Fantasy, was published under the byline Albert Augustus, Jr. Mr. Nuetzel wrote under other pen names as well, as many as thirty of them, and says that he has turned out "more or less" a hundred books—depending on how you count major rewrites and/or altered reprints. His career officially started in and around 1960 and ended sometime between 1970+ to 1980 (or never), though most of his published material saw print between 1960-71. His agent was Forrest—Forry—Ackerman, who was, perhaps, best known for Famous Monsters of Filmland. This interview was conducted over the Internet, using e-mail, and will be published in two parts. The first part will deal more with personal issues, and the second will look at Mr. Nuetzel's professional relationship with Powell Publications and similar topics. I greatly appreciate Mr. Nuetzel's time in answering my questions, which are indicated by RZ for Razored Zen. Mr. Nuetzel's answers are signaled by CAN. Any editorial comments or added words are surrounded by brackets.

RZ: Mr. Nuetzel, authors are often asked in interviews about their in-fluences. Well, here the question is again: what writers would you say had the strongest influence on what you wrote and how you wrote?

CAN: Gosh and golly, I'm going to appear very narrow and limited. Edgar Rice Burroughs. ERB, ERB, and ERB. But then there was Ray Bradbury, though not so much on the literary level as on another level. He is the first writer I ever met. He approached me in a book store asking if I'd read anything by Ray Bradbury. Apparently he noticed I was interested in sci-fi. I was a sci-fi virgin and Ray "intercoursed" me about Forry Acker-man and science fiction fandom, and about the LASFAS—the Los Angeles Science Fiction and Fantasy Society. I thus met Forry. There are other writers from the real world of literature, but I don't think they count. Plus, there aren't many. W. Somerset Maugham's The Summing Up and Call It Experience by Erskine Caldwell influenced my thinking about writing and writers. They had a very strong effect on my general thinking. But as to style of writing, I was more attracted to the commercial hacks rather than the grand literary giants. I don't suggest that this is to my credit; it is just the way things were. Being a Grand and Wonderful Literary author of the Great American Novels, or whatever, never entered my mind. All I wanted to do was write a lot of books and have a bookshelf full of them. I admired the ERBs and the Erle Stanley Gardners. I would have been happy with half their success. The commercial "hacks" were my personal "idols." But ERB, Bradbury, and Forry Ackerman had the most immediate effect over my writing career.

RZ: As opposed to the techniques of actually putting words down on paper?

CAN: Yes. That came from other places.

RZ: Such as?

CAN: Outside of wanting to write. Outside of actually putting words to paper, like all would-be writers. Outside of dreaming and wishing. And reading books on writing, like the ones already mentioned. Beyond that, most writers end up being helped by some person who is already a profes-sional. For me it was a man named E. Everett Evans, who was a profes-sional writer who became a personal friend. It was casual until I bought the manuscript of his first book, Man of Many Minds, at my first sci-fi conven-tion. There were a few pages missing so I called him and he said come on over. He hunted and pecked the three pages out right then and there for me. It was the beginning. Ev (he was known as that, though I always called him Mr. Evans—I was under twenty-one) would give me his working drafts to read and make any written comments on that I wanted to. He also read my first serious story, "Terror by Night," which was something like 12,000 words long. He made comments like "it doesn't have a subplot," and helped me rewrite and rewrite and rewrite the damn thing. It was, naturally, never published. Nor meant to be. It was part of the normal "learning" period of writing. Of course, Forry Ackerman helped. He really worked with me once I had reached a level where an agent could consider struggling to develop a writer from beginner to professional. Boy, did he help. That first year he had to read through some 100 manuscripts. But I learned a lot of the basics from the Palmer Institute of Authorship. It was a blatantly commercial hack course on writing that taught plot and narrative hooks and such. It was cheap and two years by mail. I took it because the ads for it said A. E. van Vogt had taken it. This was good as a way to train oneself. One of the instructors, a sci-fi writer who I had requested (and who stayed on for only a short time), told me privately that: while one should not take the course "too seriously" it could be helpful in developing writing skills and understanding the raw basics. He was merely admitting what seemed obvious enough: this course made more money for the "school" than it did for the "students." But it worked so well for me that I was selling long before I finished the last assignments.

RZ: What about your reading habits during your "formative" years?

CAN: I actually went through a very long period of reading nothing but Edgar Rice Burroughs. I'm what is known as a compulsive. I dive in and completely submerge myself in whatever catches my interest. With ERB, after I'd read through all the books I could get my hands on, I started over because there just weren't any more new ones around at that time. This is the period before the 1960s pocket book boom in his works. There were less than thirty of his books in print. I have two autographed books by Bur-roughs, both signed by the author and by his illustrator son—John Coleman Burroughs. M. Jenson, ERB's secretary for many years, told me that the books I had were the last ERB signed. He did them in the hospital when he was ill, not long before dying. I never met the man. A book store dealer got them for me. So, I started as a serious ERB fan and finally, before I stopped writing, managed to put out a few of those types of novels. They might have served as the beginning of several series, but I retired before any of that came about.

RZ: Yes, you mentioned in private exchanges with me about being re-tired, but also said you were working now on an article concerning the use of pen names. What do you mean by retired?

CAN: Retiring from writing is somewhat of a problem. The ability to write is always there, haunting you daily. So I carry a card in my wallet to remind me, which says: "Author—Retired." It actually works almost all the time.

RZ: Your agent during much of your writing career was Forrest Ackerman. You already mentioned meeting him through the Los Angeles Science Fiction Fan Club, but can you tell us a little about your relationship with Mr. Ackerman?

CAN: He is one of those truly nice fellows. And thousands or more people know him, and he treats them as if he remembers who they are. Ob-viously, you gotta work really hard to be in Forry's inner circle. I'm one of the lucky ones who has been there. But then, I wouldn't know my wife without the Forry connection. His wife, Wendy, was German. So is Brigit-te. Though they met through Forry. My father did a lot of artwork for Forry's art collection; plus, he has much of the stuff Dad did for sci-fi mags. Forry was noted for being a sci-fi agent, collector, writer, editor. He started as a pre-teenage reader in the '20s and developed into a major early fan and collector. After World War II he decided to turn his interest and knowledge and experience into a means of making a living. Thus, the Ackerman Agency. Everything else, (i.e., Famous Monsters of Filmland and such) is aftermath, only to become a major career direction for him. As you know, he invented the term sci-fi, a play on the popular hi-fi. But he never really retired the Ackerman Agency during all this period. That first year as my agent he sold twenty-four short manuscripts from some 100 I wrote. In the following years he sold most of the other stuff. In fact, for many years almost ninety-nine percent of my written material was pub-lished. You certainly know the story about Ray Bradbury and his first two million words. He might have hated "Firemen" in his book on the subject, but he set fire to his first two million words so that when he was famous and dead somebody wouldn't find and publish them. I weren't so smart. I let the fools publish my stuff. If I had burned my first two million words I would have only had a little over that many published.

RZ: You mentioned having a twin brother, who died soon after birth. And you used his name, Albert Augustus Jr., as a pen name. How did that come about?

CAN: My father died in 1969. The Slaves of Lomooro was published after his death. I dedicated the book to my mother and used my brother's byline as a kind of double tribute. The dedication went this way: "To my mother, Betty, this first science fiction book is lovingly dedicated." It was the first sci-fi novel I ever wrote. I had a typical ERB ending, which got my people through their first adventures on the planet where they would be stuck forever. Because it was my first sci-fi book and I wasn't quite sure how I felt about it, I gave it to my "elder" brother, and thus created another pen name that I used a few more times on pocket books.

RZ: I understand that because you were making your living at writing you often had to write fast and to some very tough deadlines. What do you mean by writing fast? A novel a month? A week?

CAN: I'm gonna have fun with this question! You have hit on the very heart of the way I worked. While some people are very talented (like Ray Bradbury), who rewrite and rewrite, even after something has been pub-lished and is about to be reprinted (I actually did rewriting this way too), then there are guys like me who write under the pressure of deadlines and "hack it out as fast as possible." So, here's the basic method I used during my writing career. I suggest new writers consider this approach in some manner or other. It worked for me, and for others I know. Get ten reams of paper. (In case people have forgotten, that's about 5,000 sheets.) Start by opening ream number 1 and taking a sheet of paper and slipping it into the typewriter. Then type: Page 1 on the upper left hand corner. Then type some title like Warriors of Noomas, drop down several double spaces and then center CHAPTER ONE, and drop down a few lines and write some-thing. Anything that pops into your head. And then develop it into a narra-tive hook. After that, just keep typing away as fast as possible without looking back. Rewriting can come later, if necessary. When I started out I had a manual typewriter and managed around four pages an hour. When I turned to an electric with no automatic carriage return I leaped forward to around six pages an hour. When I went full electric with auto return I was doing something like six to eight pages an hour, depending on how inspired I was and how the storyline was developing. I did learn to crank out the writing as fast as possible. First draft and never looked back. In some ways this wasn't too good for my reputation. It is sloppy writing, sometimes. But, on the other hand, the ability to grind out a book on deadline, giving the editors something to publish, even if they had to correct grammar and typos and stuff like that, gave me another kind of reputation that worked. Plus, editors (with a small "e" as opposed to a big "E") have to do some-thing to learn their living. I mean, aren't editors supposed to edit? And, an-yway, it gives them something to complain about. Plus, every editor is go-ing to change copy one way or another. Makes them feel grand and im-portant. (And, quite frankly, authors can learn a lot from their editors; many of whom are highly talented and more than willing to help beginning—and even high established—authors polish or fix or improve their "literary" output.) But first come the words, as fast as possible, onto the page. And as many pages as possible.

RZ: So, four-to-eight pages an hour comes out to be...what? In words a day? Or pages a year?

CAN: Well, I could hardly put out four-to-eight pages an hour, eight hours a day, forty days a week, could I? I never said I spent twenty-four hours a day writing, or 365 days a year. Writing fast means, to me, being able, when called upon, to do a 45,000-50,000 word book in a week, at about 10,000 words a day, first draft, no retyping, and as little editing as possible. It means hitting the deadline, no matter what. But it does not mean doing a book each and every week of the year. It means knowing very realistically how long it takes to write a book and not promising any-thing to the buyer or to yourself that you can't deliver. Then you deliver. Or you don't eat. As simple and direct as that. The long and the short is that I averaged around ten novels a year. When I finally learned something about my realistic output, I made a chart which assigned me five pages a day, each and every day of the year, minus two weeks for that ol' vacation time. That meant, of course, 1,255 pages a year, or seven to eight books. Each day I would give myself credit for every five pages I did. If I wrote thirty pages then it was six days of writing, thus giving me five days off. Over the long haul of the year, I ended up doing seven and one-half pages a day. That gave me something like ten books a year.

RZ: What process did you use to discipline yourself to write each day?

CAN: Whips and chains. Of course. Mike Knerr (a fellow "hack" writer who was one of Forry's clients, too) pointed out, that "we used to chain ourselves to the typewriter." Sometimes, though, it was necessary to use the whip. Other times it was necessary to simply say: Sit there and write anything that pops into your head and then continue along those lines, fol-lowing one word with another, one paragraph with another. And finish what you start—no matter how difficult, no matter how terrible the results. Sometimes my huge waste basket would be filled with balled up pieces of paper. But that was, you have to remember, a loss of profits. And you gotta eat. And, like every guy and gal you gotta sit right down and do your job. The job of writing is writing. When you don't write you aren't working. That is evil. And since you don't want to be evil you force yourself to write at all costs; no matter how difficult. Rule #1: WRITERS WRITE. (And what that means for me is they write for publishers who pay cold hard cash.) When you break that rule you aren't a writer anymore. But first of all you always meet agreed-upon deadlines. No matter what. The publisher doesn't care how you do it; just so you deliver.

RZ: What is about the fastest that you ever wrote a book?

CAN: David Zentner called me one Friday and asked if I might have a book to give him by Monday morning. I had started a book that day. I had learned long before with David that he was flexible about the "when" of deadlines, but in so far as making them he was unbendingly rigid. If you promised to deliver, you delivered. So I gulped and said: "Not Monday, but Tuesday." Well, by the time I had finished the first forty pages I had written myself into a blind alley. I could not find a way out and quite obviously didn't have time to write a new forty pages. So I rushed to my friendly agent man, Forry, and screamed at the top of my voice: Help! He read the pages and suggested a new direction. That saved the day. I typed away and delivered the book. I think it was published as Passionate Trio by John Davidson. The writing of a book in one week isn't all that difficult if you kind of lock yourself in a room long enough each day to get the right amount of pages run through the typewriter. Of course, you gotta have a very clear and focused idea of where you are going. There was a four-week period where I wrote four books. All of which were quickly bought. I started a fifth and when I got about halfway through it I almost picked up the typewriter and tossed it against the wall. I had had it. I had to go off to a friendly hotel and hide away with a bit of "hard" unwinding drinking. In those days I enjoyed booze, but not while writing. I had a very hard rule about that. No drinking in any way while writing. But when the writing was over for the day, that was another matter. Haven't touched the stuff for some twenty-one years.

RZ: But you drank quite a bit during the years that you were writing those hundred or so books. How did you keep the drinking and the writing separate?

CAN: Early on my style developed, insofar as hard writing and "hard" drinking, when I got a "pad" of my own. I stocked up on enough booze, wine, beer, and hard liquor, to cover the next six months or so. I had a VA pension check coming in monthly which supplied just enough money to deal with the bare basic expenses. What I brought in from writing would offer the "goodies." But booze was something one needed to survive; and mostly, at night, to "turn off" the mind. This was my schedule: get up and write. Write until it was too hot to continue, then have some drinks while listening to Dave Brubeck or Sinatra. I would continue to "unwind" until sleep slipped over consciousness. Then I'd get up the next morning and start all over again. This took place daily, seven days a week. And it meant something like 10,000 words a day. Much of my stuff, I now realize, was done on what one could consider a hangover, which was seldom felt. Once a week I had some buddies come over for an evening of drinks and conver-sation. For the most part this drinking was "controlled" and managed to not go much beyond "high." Or so I believed. To some degree, this pattern of using booze to unwind, turn off my mind, was a very active part of my pro-fessional writing career. I managed to manage the drinking, and kept it sec-tioned off to [non-writing] hours. Though this might sound like I was walk-ing around half stoned, that just ain't the facts. I smoked more than I drank: three packs a day. And, of course, while I didn't drink all the time I smoked, I certainly smoked while I was drinking. The point about drinking is that the roller coaster ride that writing demands, the total dedication, the total obsessive focus, the exhaustive use of everything, makes it necessary to turn yourself off at night. Actually, I did a pretty good job; never got into any real trouble; was a "safe" driver. But then, I never left the garage, either. Well, that ain't quite so. But I'd learned not to drive drunk. A tiny bit high, now and then, but, heck, fellows, you gotta give a good guy a break. And, anyway, this ain't no "drunk a log." Enough to say that not everybody that drinks finds it necessary, sometime along the way, to stop. For the "normal" drinker the issue of "controlling" their drinking doesn't even exist. But for compulsives, like me, there comes a time where you stop or end up brain dead or really dead. I didn't want to kill any more brain cells than was necessary. There came a time where I had to stop the downhill slide before it really got out of control. But that's another million stories.

RZ: I understand that you knew Robert Bloch, of Psycho fame.

CAN: Actually Dad came to know him casually, at first. The editors of Amazing Stories and Fantastic Stories managed a couple of collaborations between Dad and Bloch. They assigned Robert Bloch the job of creating stories around a couple of Dad's covers. I remember how the two of them had their picture taken together at one of Forry's parties. But for me, I think the most interesting event that took place with Bloch was at the Twentieth Century Plaza, at a party that Galaxy magazine was giving for writers. They had finger food and plenty of champagne, and a little social fun. Well, the champagne flowed. There was the general mix of beginning and established sci-fi writers, and the stars like Ray Bradbury and Robert Bloch who told a story about Ray, which was really funny. The event they talked about was when Ray was a young fan and Bob a famous writer. So here they were at a party at Bloch's home and Ray apparently managed to really feel his drinks a bit more than he should have. His host felt he should stay overnight. So what'd they do? They put him to bed. But there was a catch. He woke the next morning to find himself with a major hangover. In a strange bedroom. In a strange bed. In a bed with a woman. And the woman was Bob Bloch's wife. One can only imagine what went through this young fan's mind. Or the scream of open horror as he leaped out of that there bed. Ray and Bob told this story with glee and delight. Of course, Robert Bloch was famous for his dry humor.

RZ: Did you ever talk to Robert Bloch about writing?

CAN: Well, at one point I was sitting on the floor with him and some other writers. And we were talking about, guess what, writing. I don't know how it came about, but I related how I had written a book in three days and the price I paid for it. Bloch pointed out that the problem was: when you do a book in three days you think you have to do a book every three days. That point stuck with me.

RZ: You mentioned something to me once about a tale of "seven titles; seven stories," involving you and Forry. Could you retell that tale here?

CAN: I had been at a party one Saturday evening. Forry was there. As a gag, he took a small cocktail napkin (by the way he never drinks booze, never has) and wrote down seven pun titles like "Suddenly Lust Summer" and handed them to me as story ideas. I left the party that night and flip-pantly said: "Seven titles, seven stories. See you Monday morning." And as a "gag" I beat the typewriter until I had seven stories to deliver and there I was Monday morning at his doorstep, envelope crammed with the required number of completed manuscripts. That really impressed him. It was a great gag. And he actually sold most of them, if not all. As a result of all this, a month or so later Forry called me saying: "Publisher Dave Zentner needs a book rapid fast. And considering those seven titles, seven stories, I thought you might want to try your hand on a novel. He would need to see 20,000 words in one week. Interested?" I pointed out rather bluntly that I'd never done a book before. He suggested I try it. Well, it worked this way. I ran 34-45 pages through the typewriter each day, hand delivered the unread first draft to Forry and called the next morning to say: "How's it going." "Just fine, keep up the good work," says he. I had the total first draft fin-ished in that week. Later I had to do a second draft, but heck-a-roo, what do you want? It was, after all, my first novel. But it sold. It was published as Hot Cargo by John Davidson (before the singer).

RZ: You were saying that your father was an illustrator, and did some covers for science fiction magazines and pocket books. Was he a sci-fi fan?

CAN: No. A commercial artist who got talked into doing covers as a favor to his son. I did an article about Dad, titled "Dreamer of Tomorrow," published in the first issue of the "all slick" Vertex. While I titled it "Dreamer of Tomorrow," it was a slant job because he wasn't really all that interested in science fiction or fantasy. He did the first covers [for me] be-cause I wanted a sci-fi cover and couldn't afford to buy one. I did the mar-keting of it and sold it to Ray Palmer who used it on Science Stories. Palm-er asked for an autobiography and I was the one who wrote it, as if it were by Dad. Later, when the editors of Vertex learned that I was Dad's son, and a writer, they asked for an article about him. They published black and white reproductions of his cover art, using as the opening his cover to my Images of Tomorrow. Seldom does a son get the chance to do something like that for his father. Dad, sadly, was not alive at that time. He died a couple of weeks before man landed on the moon. Dad was not a cover artist by nature. What he did in this field was in many cases collaborations with me, right from the start. We learned the cover business together. I designed several of his covers that went on Amazing Stories and Fantastic Stories. Many, of course, he came up with all by himself. But he wasn't a sci-fi fan. He was a very professional artist who could do what was necessary to meet requirements. He'd been working in the motion picture business for most of his life. Dad always said that you should be commercial; he had contempt for the artist that lived in an attic painting for himself. "Arty Poo stuff" was not his style. He was very fast and quite good. Obviously. In any case, the story of my father and me is a story about love. He was a quiet man who expressed himself with a paint brush. We worked together in the cover work; we loved one another. And I got the chance to write about him.

RZ: At first as a professional you wrote mostly short stories—that first 100 manuscripts—then suddenly turned to novels and sold the very first one. On assignment, too. How did you make that transition so easily?

CAN: Well, as noted, I had learned how to deal with short manuscripts. With this first novel I had to come up with a method that would work—somehow. In fact it worked so good I continued using it, in various ways, for most of my books. Of course, like all "tricks" it implies less than it really is. The trick was to simplify the method into an easy to understand plan of operation. Instead of following the rule of starting a story and finishing it in something like twelve pages, I now went about writing incomplete stories, one after another. I called these "Chapters," which led to the final climax: a completed "short story." In other words, I developed a "trick" way of writing books: Write a series of incidents that lead up to a "short story." I've told this to other professional writers, only to be shot down, or at best answered with: "an interesting idea." But, quite frankly, most novel writers think this is too simple, not complete, misleading and "nice" words to that effect. And, of course, they are right. One has to consider subplots and multiple storylines and themes that all must come together by the end to be tied up into a neat little package offering all the answers to all the questions. A novel gives the writer more space to move around in; more areas to explore; and more places to say more things of importance to the writer. But, no matter what, the basic concept is to write incomplete stories and call them "Chapters." Each Chapter has a storyline arc and the questions normally raised in a story, without the final "answer" that a story would have. The Chapters, in turn, form peaks and valleys along the plot line that brings the reader, finally, to a concluding climax that can, for our purposes, be considered a "complete" short story that ties everything, finally and at last, together.

RZ: Do you have a favorite book from among your own works? In oth-er words: What book or books of your's do you remember most fondly?

CAN: I think the short answer to your question is probably: Images of Tomorrow and the Noomas books [Warriors of Noomas and Raiders of Noomas] and Swordmen of Vistar and Whodunit? Hollywood Style. Proba-bly in that order. Images of Tomorrow was a selection of my "better" sci-fi short stories; and the short novel The Ersatz was included. It had my fa-ther's last cover for one of my own books. And it was probably his best. "The Nova Incident" and "The World the Womb Made" were also in this collection. The first was a poke in the eye at hard-line Presidents, war, and politics, and I got exactly the effect I wanted. "Womb" is, perhaps, my fa-vorite story in that I really did a number on the people who follow the rule books. WOMB meant "World Operational Mechanical Brain," and it knew EVERYTHING about everybody so that it could supply all your needs even before you knew you needed something. WOMB did everything for you. Only, our hero was a man who wanted to make his own decisions, even if they were wrong. As to others, there are books I like for strange reasons: Jungle Nymph because that was an updated ERB-type female "Tarzan" story. There was Sex Queen, which was done in three days. And, of course, the Noomas books and Swordmen of Vistar. I really wanted to continue with the adventures of Torlo Hannis [from the Noomas books]. And I wanted to continue with the Thoris series [the character from Swordmen]. Then there is the unpublished book The Wall Book. Completely non-commercial. But a personal kick in the head. If I ever get it polished, and/or in some shape, I'd love to find a small publisher and a good illustra-tor who wanted to publish a "small" fairy-tale satire for adults. But, of course, that won't happen. [Author note 2006: the book has now been re-leased by Wildside Press as The Epic Dialogs of Mhyo.]

RZ: You mentioned reading a lot of ERB when you were younger, and that as soon as you finished all of his books that were in print you started reading them over again. Makes it sound like you were a compulsive reader. Is that the case?

CAN: Yes, then, I was a compulsive reader who wanted to be a writer, and became a compulsive writer who drove himself. But things do change.

RZ: In what way?

CAN: After I started writing full time I read other writer's fiction only as required in order to know what the publisher wanted. I didn't have the time to read for pleasure. Plus, I was exhausted after a day of struggling with the typewriter and staring at the wall. You know, those bloody terrible periods between typing sessions which are, in effect, both the most active creative period, and also the deadest. Typewriter time is just placing ideas and words to paper; first you have to develop the ideas. That's what I call staring at the wall. By evening I wanted to escape in booze, TV, or Jazz. Even Robert Bloch told me that he didn't read fiction any more, only fact. By the end of my writing professionally I started reading about the history of the universe. I figured it was time to get a better education. I began with the Big Bang and worked my way forward though time. All that ancient history was quite exciting. But the closer I came to written "history" the less interested I was. It becomes sad when you know too much about an-cient civilizations. The less you knew about the details the more your imag-ination can fill in the blanks. Then, around the opening of the Christian Era I simply burned out on that, too. Another cold hard point: The more I wrote the more I understood what the writer was doing or where the story was going. If the writer was very, very good, I didn't want to be exposed to it and be depressed to the point that I would never write again because I weren't no damn good! Today, reading is something I am relearning. But it is on the Internet. And not fiction. If I turned to enjoying the fiction experience it would be for professional purposes, not pleasure. That's part of the price tag [of being a writer]. Right now I get my "fictional" experience through movies and TV. I know. Horrible. I know, a book of fiction has more to say. And in fiction the writer can offer deeper insights. So? Oh, hell, I've been through that. I know how it works. I realize the writer is not God, just some jerk like me trying to make a fast buck. No matter how educated and literary. The fact of the matter is that we're all human; we all, so to speak, have to put our legs into our pants one at a time. We all love, eat, have sex. We all exist and we all dream. And die. Sure some minds are better than others, some talents greater than others. But, in the end, it is ego or money or mere necessity of one kind or another that drives the writer to put words on paper. And as for the writers with great and true talent, I don't wanna know about them. That hurts too much. I'm sticking my tongue through my cheek a bit here, but I won't tell where it actually protrudes and where it is all illusion.

RZ: Why did you quit writing?

CAN: Well, to be truthful, when it comes to writing I take it too seri-ously to lie. But I do have a viewpoint, and a bias. And the experience. This all drove me to the point where I decided that if I had anything more to say—in print—it will be on my terms or not at all. I've not been writing for some years; I have not been published for some years. But then, I don't drink Martinis and edit manuscripts that make me wanna vomit. Either. When I got to the point where booze was necessary to edit some of my stuff, where it weren't no fun to add just one more book to a shelf-full of books, where the payoff in thrills and whatever reached the point of dimin-ishing returns...I simply stopped! I stopped drinking, stopped smoking. I decided I'd never write anything that I didn't want to write. If I couldn't sell it my way, forget it. Thus the rumor that Charles Nuetzel had died came about. And in some strange way that was, kinda, a half-truth. Clearly, I had burned out at one level and was not willing to pay the price to make another giant step upwards. And, of course, markets change. But my atti-tude changed at this point. The facts are: I simply didn't care enough to work that hard, simply to continue repeating what I had already done. I really was burned out. But only after a five million words run. I got to the point where I couldn't look at the typewriter without having problems—I learned to hate the monster, as I thought of it. I simply hung up the type-writer. Better than throwing it against the wall, which had been a tempta-tion many a day. You call it a day before the day calls you into the grave.

RZ: So, would you say that the "process" by which you wrote broke down?

CAN: That's exactly the right word. The process of writing broke down over a period of years. It is difficult to tell the difference between a dry spell and a dried up period, or the end is near kind of thing. As I continued NOT writing and learned how to hate the typewriter and consider it a mon-ster, I suddenly realized I was breaking rule #1: WRITERS WRITE. That is why, by the way, on my "card" I have author retired. Not "writer" retired. An author is somebody who has "authored" a book; a writer is somebody who is active in writing. When I started writing to please myself rather than please the paying market I stopped being commercially viable. I stopped being a professional. But there were other things going on in my life. Mid-life crisis, perhaps. I think I had about said everything there was to say on the level and subject I had been covering for so many years. Perhaps, for the period, I was finished. But it took a long time to realize this truth and even longer to accept it. Writing is like filling one's self full of a vast and wonderful feast, then burning it up in energy and getting rid of the waste product—in this case on the printed page. Then you have to refill yourself. Once you have emptied your guts, you gotta load them up again. Some-times it takes time to find the "food" and convert it into new, interesting, exciting ideas. You gotta catch your breath. Sometimes the "catching" takes longer than you expected. Sometimes you can pick up the chain and lock yourself to the typewriter. Sometimes you gotta get away. And you finally learn that you have reached the end. That's what happened I think. For then.

RZ: Do you think you'll ever take up the typewriter seriously again?

CAN: And toss it against wall? No. I have a computer, now, anyway.

RZ: Well, put another way: is there more writing in Charles Nuetzel's future?

CAN: Considering this bloody computer contraption with its multiple word processors, such a question is difficult to answer completely in the negative. Maybe the long dry spell might be ending now; perhaps I'll start playing with a few words here and there. If I'm lucky something useful will magically arrange itself on the word processor and I'll find it impossible not to submit it for publication somewhere. But such an idea isn't as attractive as it once was, in the beginning. I would have to do it for fun. I am not certain how much fun it is. Perhaps I'll find out in the near future. Perhaps.

Razored Zen Interview: Here's Part Two of the interview that I started last time. This deals more with the publishing rather than the personal.

RZ: Can you tell us about your involvement with Powell Publications, which printed many of your Science Fiction and Fantasy books under its Powell Sci-Fi imprint? Powell was also a publisher of various adult works. Did you do much writing for their adult line?

CAN: Bill Trotter [founder of Powell Books] was an elderly man, small, nice fellow. He'd been in the distribution business for years, connected to, among others, Playboy. He had developed personal contacts with wholesalers across the nation. He came out west and made a deal with a guy we will call Richard, which was his first name. They created Venice Books, which did adult books of a "factual" nature. Richard did the pub-lishing/packaging side and Bill set up the distribution. Richard bought the books, the art, and put it all together for the printer. He also paid his au-thors immediately on delivery. In fact, I developed a deal where he sent me a check a week, each and every week, and I'd walk into the office to deliv-er a book before the last check was due. I did some twenty books [for them] under the Carson Davis byline. They were supposed to be "true case histories" concerning men's and women's sexual experiences and problems. Well, in any case, I went to the offices of Venice and it was here I met Bill Trotter, who, being a very social fellow, invited me into his private office. This was around 1968, and by now I knew something about the editorial end of publishing. I had sold Dad's cover, and had ended up packaging, in 1964, the Scorpion Books line (books with a sting), eight in all, two a month. I had done a book called If This Goes On, in which I collected sto-ries from Richard Matheson, Isaac Asimov, Fredric Brown, Fritz Leiber, Willy Ley, Donald Wollheim, and A. E. van Vogt, with an introduction by Forry Ackerman, a long story by Marion Zimmer Bradley—and a story by Ray Bradbury, which the publishers "screwed" up by not including it inside the book, though it was mentioned on the cover. Well, back to Bill Trotter, pre-Powell Books. We talked and he revealed plans for forming a company of his own. In the very near future. So I casually said I'd be interested and made a point of mentioning my past experience. Especially the book pack-aging stuff and the sci-fi anthology. So he took my name and phone num-ber, saying he'd be in contact soon. Sure, said I, hopefully, fingers crossed. I forgot about it. Around six months later he called and said he was now publishing, and did I have anything for him. I believe we met that very day and talked a deal. I ended up walking out with total control of the "packag-es." I'd deliver the manuscripts and art and cover lines to the printer. I'd get paid on delivery (though later that worked out to a check a week on account). The first time around I showed him everything in advance, as a kind of "sales pitch" to reassure him that everything would meet his approval. After that he never saw anything until it was already printed and bound. The deal was two books a month, reprints which at first I sexed up to meet current market demands.

RZ: How did you start selling Powell your science fiction/fantasy work?

CAN: The deal with Bill was, among other things, the following: When he started doing quality books I'd be given total control of the Sci-Fi line. After all, I could offer named authors, via Forry Ackerman's personal con-nections and through his agency. If This Goes On proved my ability to de-liver the names. So. Bingo! I came up with the Powell Sci-Fi title/line. My approach was this: since he wasn't paying that much money (and certainly not the going market rate) I would have to "con" the writers into giving me some halfway good stuff. I had to come up with a package that offered more than fast bucks. And there the partnership with Dad would be a real double payoff. I wanted to get big name writers, so this was the deal. They were consulted on the cover and got the original art to have and hold till death do them part. For this they give Powell a one year exclusive on a book. I got A.E. van Vogt, Donald Wollheim. I would have added L. Ron Hubbard given time. In order to afford to make this deal with Powell work I tossed in some of my original, newly written, books at the going price. Thus, Swordmen of Vistar came into being, as well as Images of Tomorrow, and the Noomas and Lomooro books. And then there was a man name For-rest J Ackerman. I added things like Science Fiction Worlds of Forrest J. Ackerman & Friends, which was an original collection, which we planned on following up with sequels. Plus a line of books that would be called "Forrest J Ackerman Presents," the first being Invasion of Mars, a "sequel" to the H. G. Wells book War of the Worlds. I did the first twelve Powell Sci-Fi books. In 1969 I was a busy guy, and I think some forty-five books came out. Some of these were, of course, books I wrote for other publishers (like the Carson Davis books). The Powell Sci-Fi line was, bluntly put, a closed market. Period! Even Forry would not make a deal with them with-out me. It was all rather neat. I had Powell tied up from their end; I had Forry to supply me with anything and any connections I needed. That meant getting stuff from authors he didn't even represent. About this time I was handed another packaging deal from a different publisher that lasted for four books; this deal meant buying sex books from writers like Pete Crowcroft and Philip José Farmer, along with one by Stuart J. Byrne. All, of course, under bylines. Farmer's manuscript wasn't released by me, but resold to another "adult" publisher.

RZ: Talking about "adult" fiction, how did it change during this peri-od? The 1960s was a turning point, wasn't it? Since you were "there" so to speak, and part of the forces behind the scenes, could you tell us something concerning your experiences?

CAN: Hardly a force. But certainly I was there to see how things changed. And I had a great inside viewpoint.

RZ: Could you tell us something about those changes?

CAN: Well, when I started writing seriously, in 1960, Forry, you see, had told me where the "new pulp" markets were [after the original pulps died]. The girlie magazines. This market, as it turned out, especially at the beginning, was a neat way to get published while learning your craft. Just put in the required sexual teases and you were in. Then you could spout off on any subject that fit. Especially at book length. You could write about anything you wanted, do a mystery, adventure, western, contemporary, or sci-fi novel. I did only one sci-fi sex book. This was published as Lovers: 2075 by Charles English. It was expanded from a story entitled "The Er-satz"—finally reprinted in Images of Tomorrow. Fred Pohl, then editor of Galaxy Science Fiction and the Hugo Award-winning If, had made some very nice editorial comments on the original story, saying he had almost bought it. But an "almost" is just another way of saying: no sale, for now. (Some years later I sold him a story, which he had rejected, in a much longer form—"A Day for Dying.") So, under the pressure of deadlines I expanded the 17,000 or so word novella into a novel length work for Scor-pion Books. Even in this form, Lovers: 2075 was so tame I let it be released in Europe under my own name. The "sex" market in the early days was just about as daring as them thar romantic books for female teenagers. The ro-mantic books for more mature women are porno compared to what we wrote in the early '60s. The books we did had to have the proper sexual tease. You had to offer the required sex scene very so many pages...like every twenty pages the curtain had to be dropped on two lovers. You could use lines like "They were lifted upwards into the heaven in a thrust of fiery passion...etc." Colorful stuff but not very graphic. But things change. And we were told to keep the focus on sexual content throughout the book as much as possible. Then later, much later, the four letter words started creeping in until they finally took over. Then it became the orgasm on the first page and you built from there across 200 pages to a climax. Just typing the stuff was crappy enough. That's when martini time arrived. When I got to the point where I was proofing/editing first draft books with a martini instead of a cup of coffee, I figured it was time to stop drinking or stop writing in a sex market that had changed from "spicy" anything to just the orgasms all the way. I had never been a compulsive reader of the "adult" fiction; it was something I had to write for a living. And over the years things had changed to the point where it was even difficult to monitor the news stands for copies of my own current book.

RZ: Difficult?

CAN: Well, yes. Even in the beginning with the girlie mags I felt a little timid haunting that section of the news stands every delivery day. I kept thinking people were staring at me a bit strangely. What are you supposed to say to somebody giving you the "evil" eye? "Hey, I don't read this stuff, I only write it. I just wanna make sure the damn publisher isn't trying to slip one over without paying me for it." Fact of the matter is: when dealing with even the better publishers you didn't always get copies of your book, so you bought them from the news stands with whatever spending money you might have in your pockets. And you never knew when a publisher might simply go out of business. Even people like Bill Trotter, who was very up front and fast at paying, had to fold the tent.

RZ: When did Powell Publications shut down?

CAN: Around 1970-71, thereabouts. There was a recession which cut into the trucking industry, and I do believe their "strike" countrywide was enough to buckle Powell Publication's back. They [Powell] were under the pressure of getting the books out so they could get the money in to pay the bills. If the books didn't get sold then the checks didn't come in. If memory serves, it breaks down to something like this: about a third (based on total number of copies agreed on) of the payment from the bookstores comes in when things start, then another third after a period of months, then the final payment something like six months later. If the books don't sell something like sixty percent (which is, I think, the break-even point), then you end up owing the other guy. If the books sell well, then you get what is considered the publisher's profits. In other words, the final payment will determine profit or loss. And if you are working on a "string of shoes," you're in big trouble. The time between delivery of books and the final payment can break the back of a tight budget. Electric companies and phone companies don't care about your problems concerning cash flow. And if the books are not being delivered by the truckers any certain month, that delay can cripple a short cash flow. Many a publisher hit the printing dust in this manner. Powell Publications, all things considered, had a pretty good run. And if that trucker strike hadn't happened....

RZ: While packaging for Powell Books, I understand, you actually put out a book by Harlan Ellison. How was that as an experience?

CAN: Actually pretty nice. He was very professional. I wanted a pic-ture of him for the cover, since the book dealt with some of his experiences with LA gangs. This was Memos from Purgatory. I don't know the details of how I went about making the first contact. Though I had met him in the oddest places. Like outside of Forry's Ackermansion. Like conventions, or banquets, or the local magazine stand in Sherman Oaks, which I had been going to for years. He didn't live very far from it. Though the professional contact was probably by phone. He is very approachable. Nice fellow, real-ly. [He] has some problems with Forry Ackerman, for reasons I do not un-derstand. But that's Harlan. Great writer.

RZ: I understand that you almost published his Gentleman Junkie. Can you tell us about that?

CAN: Sure. That was a large collection of stories. I could only offer so much money per book and decided to suggest splitting the book into two volumes. I was at his home/office while he did the Introduction for the Se-cond Edition of Memos from Purgatory for me, at my request/suggestion. I made my offer for Gentleman Junkie as he walked through the living room where I waited. I suggested a slightly reduced rate, which was greater than doing it in one volume, and which would have given me a little profit for my time. I was doing Memos at a "loss"—no profit—for quality credit. Well Harlan, being the sweet guy he is, simply countered with the full price, without so much as a pause in his rush through the room.

RZ: During this time you almost published a book about Boris Karloff that never came off. What happened?

CAN: The day that Karloff died I immediately called Forry. He was doing Famous Monsters of Filmland and was the perfect person to do a book on Karloff. I wanted to put one out, instantly, a high quality one at high speed, and I called Forry. He said: "yes." Then I called Bill Trotter. He said he'd check it out. I figure we'd do a great cover with a close up of Karloff's head and probably call the book "Karloff." We were talking about putting a book out in a week, writing-wise, written by a guy who could wing it, rapid fire, on somebody he loved and admired. I wanted a serious book on the man, the kind Forry would want to do. Illustrated with photos and such. Bill Trotter came back with the fact that the wholesalers didn't know who Karloff was, other than a "has-been" actor. The book died, for me, there. Later, Forry sold it to Ace as Forrest J Ackerman Presents...Boris Karloff the Frankenscience Monster, and it was dedicated to quite a list of people, including me and Bill Trotter. My personal copy is signed: "For Charlie Nuetzel—without whose encouragement and efforts this book might very well have remained in the realm of unwrought things. Thanks Forry."

RZ: Did you ever have any difficulties getting copies of your own books from Powell?

CAN: Well, not from the publisher. And I could find copies all over the place on news stands in Southern California. And this was, apparently, true for most of the nation. But not in Ventura County and my own town of Thousand Oaks, California.

RZ: You mean people couldn't buy copies of your books in your own county and own home town? How did that happen?

CAN: That's what I wondered. Here we were with national distribution and I couldn't find anything in my own county. In the counties to the north and south, yes. But not in Ventura. So I went to Powell Publications in Los Angles County, around half an hour drive south. I mentioned [the problem] to Bill Trotter and he immediately got the wholesaler in Ventura County on the line and talked for some time. The problem was that the first books he had sent, a few months back, hadn't sold well enough and the distributor wasn't interested in putting more Powell Books on the stands. The whole-saler has that power of God over publisher and author. The damage was done. So, for any egoboo I had to go outside of my county to see my books on the stands.

RZ: Speaking of ego boosts. Didn't you at one point have a book that outsold the Powell Book by A. E. van Vogt?

CAN: Swordmen of Vistar, the first Powell Sci-Fi release, outsold the van Vogt and E. Mayne Hull (van Vogt's wife) book Out of the Unknown. In fact, Powell considered Swordmen a winner and planned on re-releasing it as Thoris from 30,000 BC, and have me do sequels. They had Bill Hughes do the cover, which was printed up and sent out as PR. I was lucky enough to get a copy.

RZ: The sci-fi anthology you edited had the rather intriguing title of If This Goes On. Can you tell us a little about this anthology? How'd it come about and how did you get the idea for it?

CAN: Well, this starts back to a time before I was even a professional writer. It involves the story "The Test" by Richard Matheson, when it orig-inally appeared in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction. I was so impressed with the story that not only did I remember it over the years, I came up with an idea for a TV series because of it. This went no further than a storyboard my father designed for me, and the concept. The story-board is somewhere in the garage, I imagine, but I used the concept for the collection. My idea was to take a trend of today and have it extrapolated into a story of the future. If This Goes On was "designed" to sell sci-fi to the non-believer. I wanted people like my family to find the stories and ideas reasonably sound, making a social comment and hitting home in a way that even non sci-fi readers would be emotionally moved, and intellec-tually challenged. I wanted the book to sell sci-fi as sound, interesting, and serious fiction, but with a social bite. That's why I actually turned down more stories than I used. I simply would not pick a story that didn't make a social point in a particular manner which would appeal to the general read-er, rather than the fan. There were quite a few I might have picked for a more sophisticated sci-fi audience. "The Test" was truly a starting point and that's why I put it up front, first story.

RZ: I understand that Ray Bradbury was willing to let you have one of his stories for the collection almost as a gift. Considering what he could have commanded on the open market, how did this come about?

CAN: It had to do with the movie King of Kings. It had to do with my father, Albert Augustus Nuetzel, who as a commercial artist worked for the company that did the screen credits and optical effects for this—and many another—film. It had to do with Bradbury, who was hired to do a rewrite on the script of King of Kings. It goes this way. In visiting Dad at work I saw or was shown the glass title on which was lettered a screen credit to the effect that Ray Bradbury had done some rewrite work on the script. For whatever reasons, the writer of the original script had the power to nix au-thor's credits on the screen and Bradbury's name was yanked off the titles. I quickly said to Dad: "Think that you could get this for Bradbury?" Dad checked it out with his boss, Larry Glickman, and it was a go. I called Forry, who is a lifelong personal friend of Bradbury's. I told him the facts and asked if he thought Ray would be interested. Forry checked and found out he was. So, the glass title was delivered to Forry, who delivered it to Bradbury. Shortly, Dad and I received copies of Bradbury pocket books autographed by Ray. Well, just jump a few years and I wanted a story by Ray Bradbury for my collection, and wrote him. I got the following an-swer—it is dated Nov. 4, 1964. "Dear Charlie: Of course I remember you! And I have the nice clear huge pane of glass on display in my home base-ment office with the King of Kings screenplay credit to prove it." He went on to suggest several possible stories I might use. The deal was made, in which he didn't in the least question the rate of pay I was offering, which was—I have very good reason to believe—well below his going price. We ended up with a pocket book with Ray Bradbury's name on the cover but no story by him inside.

RZ: How in the world did that happen?

CAN: In short: Book Company of America was going under and keep-ing it secret from everybody. Their cash flow was creating problems. Ap-parently. Normally they would give you the proofs to read. On If This Goes On, after I delivered the editorial copy, they kept delaying. What was hap-pening behind the scenes was the book was set up, printed, and released before everybody was paid. I didn't know about this until I saw the book on the stands. I blew up. I went directly to their offices in Beverly Hills. The irony of the whole story is that the publishers knew nothing about science fiction. But they did know the Bradbury name and basically said: "If you can get him, we have a deal." The book, as every dedicated Nuetzel fan must know, had names like A. E. van Vogt, Fritz Leiber, Fredric Brown, Isaac Asimov. But no Ray Bradbury. If I had been given the proofs I'd have caught the mishap. By their playing a sneaky cheapy, trying to put something over on me, they shot themselves in the head. I got my Bradbury story in the French edition of If This Goes On, so things worked out OK for me.

RZ: What about some of the other stories that made it into the If This Goes On collection? Any other interesting tales?

CAN: There was one titled "No Land of Nod" by Sherwood Springer. The concept was startling: What happens to the human race if the last two people on Earth are brother and sister? I asked Forry to get the story for me, but upon rereading it I discovered it was out-of-date. Times had changed. So I asked Forry if the author could update it. This was simply a matter of changing a few lines. What surprised and actually kind of thrilled me was Forry's instructions to go ahead and fix it myself. Here I was being told to "revise" a story written and published when I was a teenage fan. Years later when I met Sherwood Springer, we talked about the "changes" and I learned he was quite pleased with what I'd done. Another interesting sidebar concerned van Vogt's "The Earth Killers." I wanted the van Vogt name, but the story didn't quite fit my rigid rules of acceptance. I asked Forry if van Vogt could fix it to fit the anthology's theme. The result was my getting a tear sheet copy into which had been cut and pasted the revi-sions that gave the story the social impact to fit my book. Only a true pro-fessional would handle matters this way. Van Vogt was one of the Big Five in sci-fi. Yet, he was willing to make the changes. And he was doing me more of a favor than the other way around; quite obviously.

RZ: Did you turn down any big name writers for that anthology?

CAN: I had a very hard-line attitude about dialect. If it was difficult to read I didn't want it. One of the stories Forry offered had this problem. Too much dialect. So I simply tossed it merrily aside, considering it "not very professional." When I told Forry about rejecting it as being a bit amateurish, he laughed and asked: "Do you know whose pen name this is?" I, naturally, had no idea. It was Donald A. Wollheim. It was this kind of editorial bias and slant and policy restrictions that also kept out an otherwise fine and dandy Harlan Ellison story. The only one that the publishers, for their own reasons, nixed that I wanted to include was one by Edmond Hamilton.

RZ: You've talked about your work in adult line books, but did you ev-er write any "adult" sword and sorcery or sword and planet stories? Do you know of any books like that ever coming out? Or who might have written them?

CAN: When I started out writing in 1960 I had a theory that sex and sci-fi didn't mix. That doesn't mean they can't. Simply, from a commercial point of view, people who read sci-fi didn't, then, read sex books, and the reverse was true, too. (I broke my rule only that once, as mentioned before. Other than a few sci-fi stories for the girlie magazines, including one for Adam, which I included in Images of Tomorrow—"Planet of the Love Feast.") Now as to Sword and Sorcery and sex. I think the same rules exist-ed at the time I was fully active. Plus, I wouldn't have wasted my talents in doing such a book in a throwaway market when I could aim at the real market and use my own name. But the short answer to your question would be "No." I don't know any books that were published in the field. But that don't mean nothin'. I didn't have the time to read the stuff; even if I had wanted to.

RZ: Do you have any opinion on the field of modern fantasy? I'm talk-ing about such writers as Robert Jordan, Charles de Lint, Tad Williams, and Mercedes Lackey. Or is it something you read very often?

CAN: Not really. But then I haven't read any of them. As to opinions on the field of modern fantasy, or what it should be—that is a different matter. I at one point actually started what would have become a really hard-line Sword and Sci-Fi series, ERB type, brought up to date, and where the hero had sex. There wasn't any really graphic stuff. But it was a matter of giving real balls to a super hero. I created a hero who was raised in a tribe of desert nomads, where survival was very difficult. And sex was a normal part of growing up. In the first book (which should have been con-sidered merely background covering his childhood bio) I was detailing the hero's harsh life as a child and young warrior. With this kind of background it was obvious that when our hero got captured by city state royalty and pushed into arenas or the arms of a beautiful, passionate maiden, he would conquer and take. [As for modern fantasy,] I think we could take a Tarzan and John Carter type and make them more sexually realistic. When ERB wrote these books they reflected the "public" morality of the times. But public morality has never reflected reality in any way. So the attitudes of the then Tarzan and John Carter, were, for their time, okay. But now, I believe, it is realistic that when the evil queen spreads out a delicious menu of sexual goodies before the noble savage hero, he should be, at least, tempted, or in some cases highly involved in feasting on them (though not necessarily in graphic detail). Just, at least, please, a human, normal re-sponse beyond the crushing to the chest of his "mate." Those guys were real chest crushers. One wonders how they ended up having kids. I think the modern field has updated the sexual responses of the heroes. Which is all for the good.

RZ: You did do some ghost writing too, didn't you? Can you tell us about that?

CAN: I wrote a book for a rich guy who wanted an idea of his turned into a book by "him." I got paid well. I told him up front there was no promise of publication. Forry, who is perhaps the most moral and ethical guy I know, in and out of the business, said to go ahead and do the book. There are really a lot of great lines in the book. And it has one of the best scenes I have ever written: it is twelve pages or so that says something I wanted to say about has-been movie actresses and the price of a comeback. There are other things I really liked about the book. One cannot put that many words on paper without something good appearing out of the blue. But...alas, it was not really a commercial idea. I don't know what he did with it. I got a nice bit of money, half on starting, half on finishing. I want-ed to cut the book in half, but the client wanted a long book and was happy with just a few changes. For many reasons it was a very difficult book to write. What should have taken no more than, say, four-to-six months, at most, took a year. He wanted 500+ pages and got them. I was also called by a woman who Forry sent my way, and offered hard cash to write a book she wanted written. She had plenty of money. I simply, nicely, turned her down. I didn't have the stomach to take the money and run.

RZ: Why did you say no to her project when you had ghosted a book before?

CAN: I could claim I just didn't feel comfortable "ghosting" something that probably wouldn't have a chance in hell of getting published, simply because the "concept" was not commercial. But I believe more powerful issues were dominant. The most important problem, though I failed to see it as this at the time, was: I'd reached total burnout. It took some years to ac-cept that. What's the difference between a "dry spell," a "dead period," and a completely washed out, finished, done and over with point of no return? They all feel the same. But now I considered the typewriter a monster that sat on my desk, taunting and torturing me. Put another way: a friend suggested, one afternoon, that "burn out" was when somebody would rather go fishing. I hated fishing; I had, in fact, never really gone fishing. I didn't even like eating fish. Let alone catching them, just for the "fun" of it. Yet, when the idea of going fishing was more exciting than writing...I somehow got the point. Only then did I decide to "retire," and I found that decision, though to some degree an illusion, workable. It got me past the point where I didn't have to argue with myself.

RZ: You mentioned that some of your work has been published in for-eign editions. Can you tell us anything about that?

CAN: There were fifty or sixty. I don't remember how many, and feel too lazy to count them. The most important ones to me were translations of If This Goes On, Lovers: 2070, and Whodunit Hollywood Style, the last published in hardcover editions in Dutch and French; along with a couple of my early sex books which were about the Hollywood scene, under my own name. Then there was the Carson Davis Report on Sexuality. I liked this project for many reasons; especially since it kind of capped the Carson Davis books off in a nice way. A rather pointed story about how deals are sometimes made.

RZ: Do you want to tell us about that?

CAN: Well, I learned that the Dutch/French hardcover publisher of Whodunit was going to publish a "sex" line. I said to the Dutch agent: "Wait. Do I have a deal for you." Or something like that. I'd had most of the Carson Davis books published by now and could draw on around a mil-lion words. "How about a three-volume Best of Carson Davis," [I asked]. He thought that was a great idea and submitted it to the publisher. Shortly, I received a counter offer: "How about a six-volume Best of Carson Davis." And they suggested the titles of each volume. Well, I signed on the dotted line and started ripping and stripping from copies of Carson Davis books. I was supposed to soften the sex stuff, which meant just a little pen work. They published it in both Dutch and French editions.

RZ: If someone wanted to pick up more of Charles Nuetzel's books in the heroic fantasy field, where might they look, or who might they contact? Any idea?

CAN: Under a rock, in a book store, in a library, in the fourth or sixth dimensions, for all I know. There's a book signing each year in the San Fernando Valley, about ten or fifteen miles from ERB, INC., where one can get some copies of my books, simply because the author is there to sign the dern things. What surprised me about that show was that people were coming up with copies of things like my hardcover Last Call for the Stars, which even I couldn't find. I finally got a copy via the Internet, in Evans-ton, Ill. I'm amazed you discovered the two Noomas books. You're proba-bly more of an expert at that than I am.

RZ: To end with another commonly asked question, what advice would you give to a new writer just starting out in the business?

CAN: Don't become a writer. If you refuse to take that advice: learn everything about Grammar, English Literature. Be a compulsive reader. Learn to be friendly to everybody, social, so you'll have a vast mental file of people to draw upon. Enjoy being alone and confined in a small room, before a typewriter, sheet of blank paper, or computer. Learn about writing. The hardnosed facts like: what plot is and what it isn't. Finish what you start, and remember that quality comes with quantity. Use the Bradbury method of writing a story a week for fifty-two weeks in the belief that even you can't write fifty-two bad stories. Don't try novels until you have learned the structure of a story/plot/ writing, etc. Then learn about the com-plications of subplots. Try to always run through the first draft without re-writing. Keep the editing and revising for the final drafts. Don't let any-body read your stuff until it is finished, or at least in a finished form worthy of being picked apart in an intelligent way. Don't believe anything anybody says about your writing other than a paying editor, or helpful agent. And take editors as seriously as they deserve to be taken. They can help because they have an objective viewpoint backed by experience. But every one of them will have a different series of changes necessary to get your stuff published. If your work ain't published it is just so many words written on empty air. The idea of writing is communicating to the public. Being a writer means you are a published writer. I probably should add: paid, published writer. Get the damn thing out on paper. All else is, in the long run, nothing more than getting the final story into the hands of a check paying editor who will publish it. Like one writer I know, Mike Knerr said: "If I want to see my name in print I'll look in the phone book." Point made. The best advice is to have another job. Because chances are you'll never make it into the published field of writing. Those who make it will do so no matter how they approach the path. Most of all, you have to want to write more than anything else in the world. You have to be willing to pay the blood price, which can be heavy. Many a writer has ended up in the self-destruct ward, or dead. Talent has little or no effect on the end results. Right connections, willingness to learn, willingness to bend enough to get help from pros and finally published. Luck, contact, hard work, and so much damn determination that it hurts. One last point: learn when the copy is publishable and then go on to the next project. Nothing will be made perfect; everything is changeable. A professional learns when to stop and say: This is good enough.

RZ: Thank you, Charles Nuetzel.

EPILOG: CONCERNING ROBERT E. HOWARD

Robert E. Howard: here's a question that I asked Charles Nuetzel that I didn't include in the regular interview. I think you'll see why. For those of you who can't, here's a hint. We were goofing off considerably. And for those of you who know me, you know that this must all be Charles Nuetzel's fault. I personally have no sense of humor.

RZ: Were you at all familiar with Robert E. Howard's work during your reading years, or after you became a professional writer? I know there probably wasn't much of his material available before you started writing, except in old pulps, and you indicated that you didn't do much reading while writing, which would have occurred at the same time as the "Howard Boom" in paperbacks.

CAN: I am familiar with Robert E. Howard. (With a twinkle in his eye, unseen by RZ, of course.)

RZ: And?

CAN: I heard something about him when I was a real active sci-fi fan and was collecting old pulps. Rather popular, wasn't he?

RZ: Yes. Even more so today. Then, we could say that you are at least a bit familiar with REH.

CAN: Well...perhaps. A little bit. On the other hand I could say: "Any-body who has seen a copy of Swordmen of Vistar would have automatically known the answer to that question." But that would be outright snotty of me. Now wouldn't it?

RZ: Well, that's just the sort of lovable guy you are.

CAN: Then, perhaps, it is enough to quote from the cover-lines of that book. "For readers who thrill to the adventures of John Carter [and] Conan the Barbarian, Thoris of Haldolen and his beautiful princess are destined to become popular heroes of fantasy-adventure." So much for cover blurbs and their power to predict the future. But as you can see, Conan was right there to catch REH readers by the tips of their loincloths and drag them into the depths of Haldolen and into the power of Xalla the wizard. Or into the seductive, haunting, desirable arms of the passionate Opal, his daughter, who was determined to have her way with any and all men that caught her eyes. Of course, I recognize Conan as one of those highly successful, commercial literary works of pop art that REH originally developed for the pulps. It is rather sad that he died before continuing these adventures. I fol-lowed, with great interest, the publishing success of the Conan series. It was developed beautifully by such folks as L. Sprague de Camp (one of my favorite writers). One must wonder what Howard would have thought con-cerning the development of his Conan. Would he have approved? I think so. At least for the most part. De Camp, if memory serves me right, was one of the prime (if not Prime) writers to bring Conan to a broader audience during the 1950s. While I've been actually having a bit of fun, at your expense, here—

RZ: What! You mean you have not been completely serious. You cad!

CAN: As I was saying before I was so crudely interrupted, the fact is that as a sci-fi fan and collector (starting around the time Galaxy Magazine released its first issue) I actually spent much of my free time haunting se-cond hand bookstores. But, as with many collectors, I collected more stuff that I could have possibly read. My late teenage years were filled with col-lecting science fiction. I read what caught my attention, filed the rest away for future reading. REH, for the most part, was lost among a ton of stories, magazines, authors and books. Collecting was all part of my pre-author years, the years that later served as the ground work upon which I launched my own writing platform. [Editorial intrusion: Note the Science fictional metaphor here, "launched" my own writing "platform"]. I simply couldn't read everything. So, sad to say, I must admit that the only personal experi-ence I've had with Howard's Conan was looking at a few bits of one or more of the stories. The impression I came away with was: here's a more brutal and primitive, and perhaps, realistic warrior of old. Conan was, in the original form, a classic creation. What happened to Conan after REH was long gone was a story of taking a very good idea, an exciting and in-teresting "universe" and developing it into a highly commercial and popular product. I saw the movies. And I believe that for the most part they were, perhaps, as loyal to Conan as the Tarzan films were loyal to the "true" Tar-zan of ERB fame. The Conan movies were good for what they were. Highly popular commercial Hollywood fantasy adventure films. In other words, good fun. But, of course, the original Conan, as devised by its creator, was by far better.

RZ: Insert humorous final question here.

CAN: Insert humorous final answer here.

3. WHY ALL THE PEN NAMES?

An Interview with Charles Nuetzel

by

Bill Ewing

BE: During your writing career, you had some four million or so words published in what was considered the sex market, or adult field. That was around the 1960s, wasn't it?

CAN: And the '70s. Actually, I wanted to write science fiction, but I was advised to write for the men's magazines, which included the girlie magazines and a bit later the adult pocket books. This was the "pulp" field when I started writing.

BE: Can you tell me something about your experience in that market?

CAN: Where should I start? As writer, editor, publisher/packager of pocket books?

BE: That's an impressive list.

CAN: Not as impressive as it sounds. It all fell out of the simple begin-nings. I wanted to be a writer. And that led me down a path that ends here. And now. Before we go any further, I would like to somewhat "define" this term "adult" fiction. In the early '50s Mike Hammer was considered rather fast stuff with the ladies wiggling their bodies and tongues at him as fast as he could ram hat on his head and get outta de room. By the early 60s, when I started writing, the thrusting tongues extended to thrusting hips grinding at one another. You could get naked and give a word picture of a female body and tell about her "womanhood." But you had to keep away from graphic details. The curtain fluttered over any graphic descriptions. Oh, you could have them there undulating naked bodies. Breasts could be fondled and kissed, but nothing too much beyond that. The four letter words, at this time, were no-nos. Naked bodies. Even descriptions of the feelings surrounding orgasms had to be colored in nice little statements like: "the volcano exploded within her like...etc. "

BE: You have indicated in our private conversations that there were some editorial guidelines insofar as how much sexual content—

CAN: Oh, yes. Of course. One publisher indicated it was necessary to have a sex scene every twenty pages. "What you wanna do, put us outta business?" he would scream. So the twenty-page rule worked—for a short while. If you followed this rule you could tell just about any story you wanted.

BE: Like?

CAN: Well ... I could write books like Two Timing Tart under John Davidson; Love Me to Death with Alex Blake as the author. Both myster-ies, private-eye stories. Lost City of the Damned by Alex Rivere was ad-venture/fantasy. The Casting Couchers by Stu Rivers—about the Holly-wood Movie Industry. Bodies for Sale by John Davidson had ShowBiz in the gangster world. Over the years I used much of these same plot types to write other books, under other pen names. Lost City inspired such alternates as: Tropic of Passion and Sex on Fire both by John Davidson.

BE: These were rewrites?

CAN: No. I just considered them "plotwise" the same type of books. The Casting Couchers was reused, plot-wise, several times, notable in Sex Queen. The basic plot was: hero forced by the Hollywood powers to make it sexually with the aging actress (Monroe type) even though he was getting involved with a young starlet. Old star fades out while starlet's career blooms. All of which gets resolved in the end. It was an easy plot to—

BE: We're getting somewhat off the track. You were talking about the twenty-page rule. You implied it didn't last long. How'd that change?

CAN: Well, I kept being told to keep more focus on the sexual inter-play. I didn't have to have more sex scenes, but they could be "seductive" and/or focused on the sexual tease.

BE: Could you give us an example?

CAN: Well, you have this girl who ain't no virgin. She's wearing a tight fittin' dress, very low cut, so there's a lot of bulging flesh exposed for all to see. Our hero can't get his eyes off this delicious, mouth-watering sight. If she's wearing a sweater you can see the tight points of her nipples pressing up against the material. Our hero can't unglue his eyes, nor the reader's mind, off her most erotically stimulating biological points of interest—so to speak. One would think he was talking to her breasts.... You use the continual tease so the reader keeps with you through the more routine story development paragraphs.

BE: In other words, you use the tease on to keep the reader hooked line by line.

CAN: [Nodding] Nasty work if you can do it.

BE: And that changed...in what way?

CAN: It got more erotic and the erotic more graphically detailed. Though there periods when editors told us to soft pedal the sex scenes. That was during election time. So we offered up more "message." In fact the more sex and more message was desirable. Which is neat for the writer—assuming he/she has a message to share Nonetheless, over time more graphic details were demanded—though "four letter words" were still out. It was simply a matter of expanding the "sex scenes" and keeping the topic focused on the sexual content.

BE: More graphic sex, more message?

CAN: Actually, after a while it worked out to more sex less message. But in these beginning years it was "spicy" novels and then...well, things simply got hotter." The first year I finished around 100 short manuscripts. My agent, Forry Ackerman, sold twenty-four of them during 1960; and most of the others over the next few years. With this kind of output it was necessary to use a number of pen names—even for "submitting" purposes. Publishers want it to look like different writers wrote the stories and articles in any one issue. So I would pick a byline that fit a certain style, or ap-proach to the story; or subject matter.

BE: How did your first story get accepted and published?

CAN: An editor by the name of Larry Maddox offered to buy a story called "Flowers for the Lady" if I was willing to retitle it "Country Boy" and make some changes.

BE: And that was published under...Alexis Charles.

CAN: Yes. The Charles is obvious. Alexis comes from my middle name: Alexander.

BE: How'd it feel to have your first story published under a pen name?

CAN: A real kick. The first sale is always special, of course. The first pen name is even more special. The creation of a pen name is the creation of somebody who is, has, a kind of true reality.

BE: Would you explain that?

CAN: The fictional people in books are quite obviously not real. Creat-ing a pen name is creating a "real" person. And that's kinda fun. People like Carson Davis became almost real to me. He was, for more than three years, my altered ego. He expressed a lot of my ideas and concepts, mixed with what a "Carson Davis" should believe. There were, of course, differences.

BE: In what way?

CAN: Well, Carson was divorced. This made it possible for him to get involved with some of the women he interviewed.

BE: How...involved?

CAN: Actually he was required, by editorial dictate, to be have intimate relations, from time to time, with the female interviewees. These women would make blunt passes at him. He usually managed to sidestep the issue, but there were times when....Well, what can I say? Carson was merely hu-man, after all. You know, a breast in hand...and all that stuff.

BE: You make him sound quite real.

CAN: Well, in a way, he did seem so. The publisher actually got some fan mail directed to Carson Davis, asking for advice. Though I suspect at least half of that was leg-pulling. Or at best a bit of sexual fantasy from the letter writer. In any case I did a book based on the idea of letters sent to Carson Davis [Sex Files]. The fiction was that Carson answered these let-ters and got replies. Thus a case history was developed with "some" of those "exchanges." Today it would be like a Chat on the Internet, or an e-mail exchange.

BE: Could you tell us something about the TPOH?

CAN: Actually, this was a kind of running gag between Forry and me. But it was a reality of sorts between me and my pen names. This article should, probably, be called "An Interview with the President of the TPOH." But...well, never mind that.

BE: What did TPOH stand for? I mean, obviously it—

CAN: Well, I was an Edgar Rice Burroughs fan. More importantly I lived in Tarzana. So as a gag, since I was using so many pen names at the time, and continued to do that throughout my career, I gave myself a "title" so to speak. I was a hack. My "business" was a group of "hacks" and I lived in Tarzana. So, thusly: Tarzana Pool of Hacks came into existence. Silly as it sounds, it had harsh reality behind it. I was a group of "pen names" and they were a pool of hacks. A way to remind me that business came first.

BE: And that was writing.

CAN: Yes. My business was to buy ten reams of paper (500 sheets per) and fill them up with words. I paid as little as possible for the paper. I sold every sheet I could fill with saleable words for as much money as possible. I was, in effect, in the paper selling business. I would take a sheet of type-writer paper and put it in the typewriter and type Page 1, then create off the top of your head some title, such as What's It All About, Charlie? Now comes the hard part. A byline. In this case I couldn't use the name Charles Nuetzel. Albert Nuetzel might be reasonable. But that was my father's name. I could change the title, but that would be cheating and it would take time, and another sheet of paper would be breaking the rules. I was trying to do first draft writing, only. Well, where possible. To be business-like I figured I paid so much for paper, ink and stuff. So to save de money I tried not to use any more of this "stuff" than necessary. Sure, I rewrote. The trick was to attempt NOT to revise. Thus: avoid using a second sheet of paper. To complicate matters: I could write a new original page almost as fast as I could retype a page. Time and money. And, well, quite frankly they weren't payin' no million bucks for my stuff.

BE: So to avoid using another sheet of paper you picked a pen name, rather than reused the "Charles" in the title as part of the byline. Right?

CAN: I would pick a name like, say, John Davidson (before the singer came into existence and dumped that name for me). Once the title and the byline has been created, one drops down a few lines and begins typing as fast as they can, 'cause, remember you gotta fill pages quickly. Time is money.

BE: And how would you begin to fill them?

CAN: By typing something like: "Charlie Davis was frightened. The minute he saw the woman at the bar, he knew she'd be his for the night. Yet he was frightened. One look at that lovely, voluptuous body was enough to send the blood pumping through his manhood."

BE: [laughing] That sure sounds rustic....

CAN: You might laugh, today—

BE: No. No. It is not only the use of "manhood"—it's a bit outdated.... And certainly Politically In-Correct.

CAN: I suppose so. Though "personhood" would be confusing. Con-sider "She rubbed her personhood against his personhood."

BE: Would even he/she be PC?

CAN: I imagine not. Of course things did change quite a bit over the years. In the early '60s that "manhood" thing was really pushing it. I mean: hips rubbing up against one another was just about as fer as you could go before letting the curtain quickly yanked over the juicy stuff. Oh, you could kiss her nipples and "other parts" so to speak. You know: "His tongue moved all over her, discovering the secret depths of her passions." You could get away with sucking nipples. You could fondle her "womanhood" or probe the very depths of her womanhood. Well, you had to be careful with that kind of probing.

BE: Could you tell us a little something about this structure of the sex scenes within the pages of a novel?

CAN: Well, a book would usually open with a sex scene, introducing some main characters of the book interacting with one another. In the con-versation the names, dates, location, desire, destinations and other such plotlines could be revealed/develop. The first scene would end only after the major problem of the book has been at least partly devised. You couldn't reveal everything but you could certainly suggest enough to keep the reader...well, reading. In other words, while holding the reader's atten-tion with the sexual action, you "inserted" the information necessary to in-trigue and hook them into reading more words. Remember that the main point of writing is to keep the reader hooked from page to page. And you do that by offering more questions than you answer, while teasing them with whatever action might turn them on. When starting a book the writer might have very little other than have a few names and some general idea how the opening scene will be developed.

BE: What about a plot outline?

CAN: Some writers go for and develop a detailed outline. I found that counter productive. I would dive into the opening page with little more than a general concept. Details might have been in my "subconscious"—whatever that means—but for the most part I let things develop as I went along. This made writing much like reading, except I was in the typin' seat, creatively.

BE: Any examples of how this worked?

CAN: Well, in Three Parts Evil the only thing I knew before writing a word was that a man's wife is killed, gangland style, while in her own bed. Chapter One presented hero and wife in bed together. Conversation re-vealed they had been high school lovers, though a long ten year period had taken place while she went to Hollywood to try to make a career for her-self. On her return home they renewed their friendship, fell in love and married. In the conversational exchange we learn she's pregnant. They, of course, make love. Then, afterwards, there is a noise on the other side of the house and the hero goes off to investigate. While in the kitchen he hears the sound guns firing in the bedroom. He rushes back to find his wife's blood splattered dead body in the bed. Now, of course, he has to discover why she had been killed, whodunit and get revenge. By the time he learns the truth he has fallen for another women. Ah, the fickle fate of true love!

BE: I was wondering about that. Kinda casual of him. One love dies and....

CAN: He's back into action again. That's the way of the fictional world of adult books. You gotta have other women around to toss in and outta de bed. And fall in love with.

BE: Are they all that....

CAN: Casual concerning love and sex? Well...sometimes. I guess. Take Blues for a Dead Lover. If you must. It developed from the question: What would happen if a man's lover dies in a plane crash.

BE: I'll bite. What happened?

CAN: He dives into a bottle of booze. Booze, sin and babes. The open-ing pages of the book told of his relationship with the woman; her death; then his dive into the babes and booze. I complicated the plot design by making him an up and comin' jazz musician. That offered a lotta naked broads. You gotta have a fling that'll end in recovery and romance.

BE: Is this how you always set up a book?

CAN: Well, usually I needed a simple idea complicated by some re-sistance and the opening sex scene to get the reader's attention. Plus fol-lowing that rule of a sex scene every twenty pages. It worked out fine and dandy. You could talk about anything. You name it: morality, religion, pol-itics. The settings could be worldly or other worldly (though I always felt that sex and sci-fi were not a very commercial mix at that time). You could do Westerns, Detective, Contemporary, Sci-Fi, Horror, Adventure, whatev-er. I did a lot of "Hollywood" stories, since I had lived in Hollywood and knew something about "show business." But, the field changed. More sex-ual content was demanded until it was hard to find a place to develop the "plot" lines.

BE: At what point in time did that take place?

CAN: By the 1970s it had become hard core. From then on I thought of it as being: "Start with an orgasm on the very first word and then let it build—erotically speaking—for the next 200 pages."

BE: A neat trick, I assume, if you can do it.

CAN: You either found a way or stopped selling books. Before this time, the sex was not as graphically detailed as it was in the romantic fic-tion that took over the publishing world in the '70s. What we did in the '60s was tame compared to what was served up to the female readership of so-called "gothic" novels and "historical romances." In this these books, the woman was, many times, raped on the very first page. This kind of sexual abuse continued throughout the book until they found true blue romance and love with the man of their life. The graphic details in these books were more highly developed than the "sex" scenes of the early 1960s "Adult" fiction.

[There was a break to turn the tape around and we got involved in a private conversation. When the recorder started again, we picked it up in this manner.]

BE: You were just telling me something about plot.

CAN: Yes, about what Larry Maddox said concerning how he plotted by way of page number. Since most magazine stories ran around twelve pages it was necessary to start bringing the story to an end by page ten.

BE: That's cool, cold or at least...cut and dry.

CAN: He was very professional. And he hacked it out pretty fast, too. He was the first author I knew who cranked out 10,000 words a week—and that was published words.

BE: For most people that would seem difficult to believe.

CAN: At the time it seemed impressive. And: I could hardly let him top me. So I learned how to write faster.

BE: How fast?

CAN: [with a wink] That would be telling.

BE: Can't you just give us a hint, here? A kind of tease?

CAN: Well, there is a difference between what you can do in any ONE day and what you can do over a period of a year. What is the average out-put per day, over a year?

BE: I'll bite.

CAN: For me it turned out to be seven pages a day, 365 days a year, minus two weeks. And that makes it around 10,000 a week, average. Which brings us back to the original number of words. I've done that much in a day, and more. But you can't keep up this kind of output each and eve-ry day of the year. Of course this wasn't, sad to say, all first draft, finished copy. Sometimes you had to do a lot of rewriting. Plus there are always the creative dead periods. But, remember, doing 10,000 words in a week would mean—

BE: Fifty-two times that.

CAN: Well, we author types kinda like six-month vacations—

BE: Yeah, yeah. Twice a year. Right?

CAN: Right. But the point is made: when you are putting out that many words you have to use pen names. We're talking about, what is it...let's see....

BE: 520,000 words a year.

CAN: Or at least ten books a year. Or over 150 short manuscripts. You need a list of pen names. Sometimes Forry would offer me titles. Once, at a Saturday party, he wrote seven titles on a cocktail napkin [i.e., "Sinning in the Rain," "Suddenly Lust Summer"—pun titles, for the most part from films]. With the blatant confidence of a young crass writer I left him with: "Well, see ya Monday morning. Seven titles, seven stories." I nailed myself to the typewriter until I'd finished seven stories. Monday morning I hand delivered them. It was this quick, professional, knock-it-out-fast attitude that caused Forry to call me a few weeks later and announce that a publish-er was desperate for a novel, but needed 20,000 words by next week. Since I'd delivered on the seven stories, would I be interested in trying a novel. Only a mad fellow would have said yes. Hell, I'd never written a novel. The book had to run something like 160-200 pages. Well, I acted as if a book was series of scenes ending up with a short story. In other words: the trick was to devise a series of scenes that lead to the climax of the novel. This Climax was, in effect, a "kinda" short story. The idea of a series of unfinished short stories (scenes) seemed easy enough. A short story at the end, as the climax, was almost a "done deal" since I'd finished some 100 such exercises in the past year. I had learned how to do 10,000 words a week, and more. Thus I began what became: Hot Cargo by John Davidson. My working title was Blacky Jenson's Girls. I wrote thirty to forty pages a day. I used every trick I could. A kind of "style" developed where short statements are isolated into a single paragraph. Even a mere word could be paragraphed. Like this: "But." This kind of "trick" served two purposes: l) it quite obviously made such a word seem VERY important; and 2) it was a great way to "pad" the book. After all, this was my first attempt at any-thing longer than a novelette. And the deadline was, of course, quite impossible. Each evening I'd deliver my unread, unedited first draft pages to Forry. When I asked him:" How am I doing? "He'd say something like: "Just fine. Keep up the good work." By that process I finished the first draft in a week. David Zentner accepted the novel; though I ended up doing a second draft.

BE: You sold several books to him after that, didn't you?

CAN: Quite a few. But other doors opened as a result of my Zentner experience. I actually did some "editorial" work for him, and learned a lot about cover lines, flyleaf copy and such. That's where I met Bob Pike, who at the time was the editor of Epic Books.

BE: Pike of Pike Books?

CAN: Right. When Bob left Zentner's to start Pike Books, he ap-proached me for a book. I suggested having my Dad do the cover. Some months later Bob said I should go directly to his distributor to package books, since I was just about doing the whole thing anyway. Thus, Scorpi-on Books was born.

BE: Generous of him to encourage you, wasn't it?

CAN: Bob was a nice guy. I learned a lot from him, too. Scorpion Books, though, didn't exist until after Bob was working as an editor for another publisher.

BE: A lot of jumping around. But how about Pike Books? You used several pen names there, didn't you?

CAN: Alec Rivere for Lost City of the Damned.

BE: Where'd that name come from?

CAN: The Alec is an alternate for Alexander, my middle name. Rivere an alternate from Stu Rivers. And I still don't remember where I came up with the Rivers name. Probably just looked good with the name Stu. I'm not certain about the name Stu. But there was a sci-fi writer by the name of Stu Byrne, whom I had admired as a young fan.

BE: Other pen names for Pike?

CAN: Yes. Of course. My old stand-by John Davidson for Appointment with Terror, a second book on assignment. Then when Three Parts Evil came out the name of Hal Lambert was developed. This was a creation of Pike's.

BE: I notice bit of annoyance in your voice.

CAN: Actually, at the time, I was a bit annoyed. I'd submitted it under the byline of John Davidson. Bob simply didn't want to run too many books under the same byline. So he plunked on a new byline without con-sulting me. Anyway, that byline was used again for Julie, with Dad's cover. I was, of course, selling to other publishers, too.

BE: We're jumping ahead too fast. What about Scorpion Books? You used several pen names there, didn't you?

CAN: Jay Davis for Wild Spree, an obvious change from John Da-vidson. I used Stu Rivers for Hollywood Nymph and Sex Queen. Alec Rivere for Wantons of Betrayal, David Johnson for Jungle Nymph, Fred MacDonald for With Passions Burning and Alex Blake for Nobody Loves a Tramp. They are all pretty logical and obvious. Take Alex Blake, which was originally used for Love Me to Death (Epic Books). The Alex for Al-exander, of course. And Blake as an old family name, on my mother's side. The Fred MacDonald name Larry Maddox tagged onto a liquor article I wrote for him.

BE: I notice one name, Rex Charles, for Nympho Models.

CAN: The publisher created that. I guess they got the Charles from my first name: can't guess about where Rex came from. I didn't re-use that name. Some years later I revised the book for Powell Publications as Sex Bash by Jack Donaldson [Bill Hughes did a great cover for this book]. That was the only time Rex Charles was used.

BE: In Books Are Everything, Vol. 6, No. 1, Whole Number 25, Lynn Munroe's interview with you lists some of your pen names and books....

CAN: All of them. He was out here several times and is a very knowl-edgeable fellow.

BE: Then I'll refer to his list. The first Nuetzel pen name is: Mark Allen.

CAN: That was for Zentner's Bee-Line books. Hot Pants Karen. An in-teresting little story goes with this. Dave was my first book publisher when he was in Hollywood. Now he was in New York and I'd lost contact with him. Well, when I submitted a book to Bee-Line, I got a letter from Zentner opening with a: "Remember me?" Well, I had sent some seventeen pages of what would become Hot Pants Karen. David wrote after his first opening statement a furious letter saying he'd take the book, but that I was NEVER, in the future, to submit anything short of fifty pages and an out-line.

BE: Was he always such a stout, friendly fellow?

CAN: Actually there are a lot of funny stories about Dave Zentner. Just about every professional in the field has gone through his "offices" insofar as either working directly for him or selling stuff to him. He was for some very difficult to work with; for others simply a problem to work around. He was tough. He helped a lot of people become professionals. I learned a lot from him. I owe a lot to him.

BE: To get back to the list: how about Blake Andrews?

CAN: Just a name I used. A play on Alex Blake. I used it on the book I released as Come to Me Baby. It is obvious.

BE: Which reminds me: I wanted to ask you about the book On the Make by Alex Blake. Cute combo.

CAN: Almost embarrassingly so.

BE: How's that?

CAN: I didn't catch the way it sounded until after it was published. Make and Blake and....

BE: Yes. That's what I meant. Then it was an accident?

CAN: An accident. I must admit. Guilty as not charged.

BE: Jack Belmont was used for your Take Me, I'm Yours.

CAN: I don't know where the name came from. Probably the Jack came out of John. Who knows where the Bel or the "mont" derived. Though I might point out that the cover, by the above mentioned Bill Hughes, was the first cover he did for me. I had met him at another pub-lisher's party. Bill had done a lot of covers for this publisher. I learned that he was a science fiction fan. We exchanged phone names. At the time Dad was doing covers for me. So when he got ill I called Bill. I went to his of-fice in Woodland Hills (just about twenty minutes from my home) and we talked, he did a pencil sketch and I Okayed it. I had his cover art by dead-line. I then had Bill do his first sci-fi cover, the one for Science Fiction Worlds of Forrest J Ackerman & Friends. When Dad couldn't do any more work for me, I let Bill take over the duties.

BE: Sounds like you were really swinging along.

CAN: I was. But that's another story. I think you wanted to keep to the pen names.

BE: You're right. Well, back to the list. I'll skip over the ones we've covered. I notice you used a Fred Davis and then a Jay Davis....

CAN: Davis is obviously from Davidson. The Fred from Fred Mac-Donald. The Jay from "J" for John.

BE: Where did George Fredrics come from?

CAN: Originally from Larry Maddox. I had sold him a couple of liquor articles and he, for some reason all his own, decided to use different bylines than the ones I had picked. But Larry [a pen name, by the way, for a nice fellow] figured other publishers used the names, so he simply created new names. Fred MacDonald, which I used, as noted, quite a few times. George Fredrics became an alternate "quality" pen name.

BE: Could you explain that?

CAN: Well, I saved my own name for "better" stuff. Meaning non-adult fiction. But. The problem was still there: too many things published at the same time in the same market place. So. Pick a name. Please.

BE: You have a Howard Johnson as the replacement for Fred MacDon-ald when you re-released it for Powell as Jean. How'd that happen? I mean, it's the name of a motel chain....

CAN: Believe it or not, I didn't realize that at the time. Or did it exist then? I don't know. Johnson came from John Davidson. The Howard...who knows?

BE: You were a bit casual about pen names, weren't you?

CAN: Casual might be the wrong word. You are creating a new "real" person. And...well, you pick them, sometimes, to fit the books. Like I picked Fritz Jantzen for Berlin Beds. That was set in Germany. My wife, Brigitte, gave me the background material. She was born in Germany. She also helped me figure out a pen name.

BE: Though you didn't use it when you republished the book as: Kris-ta—there you used Fred MacDonald, again. Any reason?

CAN: Not that I can remember. I simply had to pick a byline.

BE: What about Jay West? Rita Wilde. That last is a—

CAN: Wild name. Well, to cover West, first. I used that as a reprint name for one of the publishers. The Rita Wilde I believe was a result of the publisher being a Rita...the name was picked by the publisher. Not me.

BE: There are some thirty-one pen names credited to you. Is that all of them?

CAN: There was one other that I will not reveal.

BE: Oh?

CAN: Just call it one of those things. And if I did tell you I'd insist that you didn't reveal it publicly. So.... I don't have a copy of the book.

BE: And there were no other pen names?

CAN: I don't think so. Not published, anyway. There were some manu-scripts I sold to a publisher that were never, as far as I know, published.

BE: Didn't get paid?

CAN: Got paid. They simply didn't release them. I don't really know what happened to the books. And, quite frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn.

BE: Why? What happened? What was wrong with them?

CAN: The question is wrong. You should have asked: what was right with them. This was towards the end of my writing career and the adult field was getting really bad...I did these books for fast, secure bucks. Easy sales. Dull, boring, hard writing because the "adult" material totally domi-nated the plot material to the point where there simply wasn't much room for a real storyline.

BE: Certainly you had been doing a lot of porno type writing, especially in the Carson Davis books.

CAN: That was different. The style of the writing and the form of the books let you editorialize, and make direct points. In a novel, which opened with an orgasm and built for 200 pages...it was different. No editorializing. Even "Carson Davis" drew a line in the sand, so to speak. Beyond that point "He/I" would not go.

BE: Where, generally, then, was that line?

CAN: Well, I never felt comfortable with sex between adults and chil-dren. This was a no-no unless you could use it to make a moral point.

BE: Like?

CAN: Crime and punishment.

BE: Yet in these Carson Davis books you deal with all kinds of sexual situations.

CAN: And in graphic detail. The way these books were conceived was the assumption that people talked to Carson because he was non-judgmental. Well, he was, but he would help people who wanted it or needed help. He would suggest the direction they should go to get that help. Like to the local head shrink. Their case history thus became an example of an issue and a suggested method of dealing with that issue. Thus it made a moral point. The more detailed and graphic the sexual content the more "lecturing" could be slapped into place. That kind of balancing act pleased the legal eagles and it certainly appealed to the moral side of, at least, this writer. In fact I think the Carson Davis books are the best of the lot—from the writer's point of view, that is. The fiction books that followed, the ones I'm talking about that were not published, weren't interested in moral lessons.

BE: Should they have been?

CAN: Not from the viewpoint of the reader or the publisher. The pub-lisher wanted to please the reader; the reader wanted to feel good—to put it nicely.

BE: Rather very nicely. I'd say. You're talking about masturbation.

CAN: No. I'm talking about the alternate of seeking out a prostitute. Or the chance of abusing some other person. Regardless of what some blue noses might think, porno doesn't a sex crime make. The idea that people read sex books and then run out and commit all sorts of perverse sexual crimes is, in itself, a perversion of reality. Sure, some people act out their sexual fantasies on other people; they do terrible things. And some of these perverts read "adult" fiction. But to connect the reading of adult fiction to sex crimes is like saying everybody who eats tomatoes dies, thus conclud-ing that eating tomatoes kills people. It doesn't make sense; it is nonsense. And the subject of a totally different discussion. Nonetheless, it is obvious what happens when people are exposed to erotically stimulating material; they are erotically stimulated. Each and every consumer of the product will, quite obviously, have a different response to it. Some might, even, turn to their marital (or non-marital) partner to share one heck of a hot erotic expe-rience—of one kind or another. Mutually shared; mutually enjoyed; mutu-ally desired.

BE: But you are morally justifying your writing—

CAN: No. I don't think so. What I'm trying to say, bluntly, regardless of my personal involvement (or lack therein), is that "sex books" don't do the social damage some radical people think they do. There are always the crazies. Let me put it this way. The society in which I grew up, in the '40s and '50s the pre-Kinsey Report days, was a bit different from today. The publicly acclaimed moral ethic and code, at that time, was: be a virgin until the wedding night; sex was only for babies. And if you followed all the laws in all the states at once, it meant man on top, wham-bam hope you're satisfied and pregnant, mamma. Where's the baby? Gotta wait nine months, honey.

BE: Okay. The religious right would, today, say that's the only way to live.

CAN: And you can be too "right" also. It is obvious from the last few years how the so called TV religious leaders were not as holy as they so claimed to be. They preached one thing and went out and got prostitutes or robbed the "bank, "so to speak. Let's not get into that. Preaching one moral ethic while practicing another is wrong and immoral. That is what creates confusion and social problems. In a repressed society you have real perverts and a lot of sexual problems. In an open society you don't have that kind of repressive problem. At least you don't have the lie. I don't want to go into this part of the issue. I covered the subject completely in the Carson Davis books. That's why I liked him. But in the "fiction" books any went...all kinds of sex...no holds barred, from normal to S&M. There wasn't ANY counterpoint to suggest some kind of healthy balance.

BE: What happened to your non-judgmental POV?

CAN: Maybe the term non-judgmental is a bit strong. It is one thing to say that certain moral attitudes are right, quite another to say anything goes all the way to dismemberment. The kind of line you draw is a realistic moral ethic for adults.

BE: Meaning?

CAN: In the private, between consenting adults. Be that one, two, three, four or more. As long as everybody is consenting and adult. Or even better consenting, responsible adults.

BE: Responsible, meaning?

CAN: Able to be responsible for the results of their acts. This means they have to be educated and knowledgeable and willing to take responsi-bility for their actions. They are able to care for any baby making results, too. But that's another issue that does not fit in the subject matter of adult fiction—which is sex fantasy—and—what is reality. In these books it was, for a "fantasy" purposes just about impossible to get pregnant. No babies; no responsibilities. Sex without any results other than PLEASURE, man, PLEASURE, woman. Pleasure without punishment. Play without pay. All of which makes sense. We were in fantasyland. Fiction is make believe. And the best kind of sex is sex without punishment; sex without any possi-ble chance of ending up with a baby, with the greatest levels of erotic pleasure. Good, clean fun. So to speak. And that was the purpose of these books. But for a writer, who wants to say something.... Well. Point made. I better get back on track.

BE: But then, it all does strangely enough tie in. doesn't it?

CAN: Well, for me it did. I stopped writing, thus creating pen names, when the field became unmanageable. When it was impossible to insert a message now and then. Plus: quite honestly, in the Carson Davis books I was able to say so much. I think I had said everything I had to say on the subject. When it was impossible to underscore a kind of moral message di-rectly or indirectly into a book, I quit.

BE: That would be an interesting way to end the interview, but....

CAN: You want something more?

BE: Well, there was one more pen name we didn't cover.

CAN: I was wondering if you would bring that up.

BE: I notice you used a Ewing byline. How'd that happen?

CAN: Oh, yes, the Frank Ewing. Not sure about that. Probably your brother.

BE: Sure. Interesting, though I don't have a brother by the name of Frank.

CAN: Maybe your pen name.

BE:I don't believe in using pen names.

CAN: Are you certain? Any writer using a pen name would hardly ad-mit to the truth at the moment of using it. Would they?

BE: Perhaps you have a point there. Anyway, that name stuck out, for the obvious reason.

CAN: Some names just develop out of thin air. I don't know where the Frank came from, either, unless it was from Franklin/Franklyn. Probably from that. Frankly speaking. But I don't know where the Franklin name came from other than Larry Maddox's signed it to that article.

BE: So, perhaps we might bring this to a conclusion. Unless you have something more to say.

CAN: Well, I think it would be fitting and proper to reveal something about you.

BE: Me? Why would you want to do that?

CAN: Well, wasn't the purpose of this article to reveal something about writing and writers? To reveal the how and why bylines come about?

BE: Yes. I suppose so.

CAN: Martin Hawks asked for an article concerning Adult Pen Names and what I might be able to reveal concerning the field and especially con-cerning my own personal involvement. Well, I got to thinking about that and considered a direct article and then reconsidered that. Right?

BE: Well, yes. You did point that out to me at the very beginning when—

CAN: I figured the interview style might work better for several rea-sons. One was just the general form, the flow, the movement from subject to subject. The ease of reading. Whatever.

BE: Whatever.

CAN: Then I suggested that you might be a perfect interviewer.

BE: Yeah. That's what you did say to me. You know me best, was what you said.

CAN: Something like that.

BE: You insist on going further with this?

CAN: Why not? I could do it as a footnote. But that would be cheating, now wouldn't it?

BE: Well, I don't think it matters one way or the other, once the truth is out.

CAN: Probably not. So before all that happens I want to express my thanks for your having taken the effort to do this interview. It has made it much easier for me to make my points.

BE: So you say. Well, you also said a lot of other things. Like what a kick in the head if you'd do it, Bill. What a way to make the final point and illustrate by action the reason for pen names. Or, at least, some pen names.

CAN: Yes, not bad. Why not swallow hard and just admit the truth.

BE: I guess you want me to say I really am Frank Ewing's brother.

CAN: Not really. Come on. Spit it out.

BE: Oh, gosh, oh, golly gee. Whiz. I know you always liked the name of Bill, ever since you were a kid with that dern imaginary friend. You drove your parents bats by insisting they act as if he was really there. You named him Bill. So I picked that name.

CAN: Not bad for a start. Now come out with the rest.

BE: Well, quiet obviously you couldn't interview yourself. So Bill had to do it.

CAN: Right. Thus Bill Ewing, you have served as a very special pen name for me, and I want to thank you for inventing yourself for the purpose of this article.

BE: I thank you for inventing me.

CAN: Say good-bye, Bill.

BE: Good-bye and thanks for a great interview.

DE MOUSE WENT WILD!!!

This is a page that is designed to reveal even more information about my writing career. Within the following material is a lot of personal data and information that may interest some, and be of little interest to others.

But if some of you enjoy reading amazing detective stories, may I draw your attention to the article by Victor A. Berch, "The Books with a Sting." It blew me away. In the publishing field there simply is no way to keep a secret, no matter how you try. Somebody, a fan or collector will find them-selves intrigued by a bit of minor information and be drawn into a search for more details. This will lead them down a path that strips away the shad-owy dark from places the object of their interest might wish never saw light. But it was this article which led Lynn Munroe to seek me out and do a taped interview that spanned two days. That was the first time that I went "public" about my total efforts as a writer. What followed were other interviews with people like Charles A. Gramlich. [All of which are offered on this website—easily found on another page.] Much of what follows is "dated"—insofar as it was written quite a few years back. There has been no attempt to update or edit it. I simply scanned the original pages and pasted them onto the page. [As of 2006, a couple of alternations have been offered here.]

4. SOME BIO OF SORTS

edited by

Robert Reginald

Charles Alexander Nuetzel—born November 10, 1934 at San Fran-cisco, California. Son of Albert Augustus and Betty (Stockberger) Nuetzel—married to Brigitte Marianne Winter: October 13, 1962—no children. "One-time would-be professional singer of pop music. The normal run-through of jobs of little importance, including some work in the motion picture industry for Studio Film Service, Pacific Title, General Film Labs. Have sold some 100+ short manuscripts under various pen names, as well as over seventy paperback novels. Was Publisher/Packager of eight books (my own); currently Packager, with total control, of Powell Sci-Fi, a paperback line publishing one sf title a month;" Free-Lance Writer, 1960-DATE—Member: Science Fiction Writers of America.

Mr. Nuetzel provided the following background material on his life—it has been edited slightly to conform with our usage and space requirements:

"Met Ray Bradbury in a second hand book store, and consequently learned about fandom (and met Forrest J Ackerman [Mr. Nuetzel's agent—ed.]). In my fan years became a very close friend of E. Everett Evans, and still have many manuscripts inscribed by him to 'my no. 1 fan.' Through his help and that of his wife, Thelma, I learned something about writing: a story should have a sub-plot. I did for a while publish a fanzine better for-gotten. Was a great Edgar Rice Burroughs fan, and have what was called by ERB's secretary the last books he autographed: no other proof but the shaky hand-writing. I'm told that my grandfather, editor of a local newspa-per at the time ERB had his Tarzana ranch, knew him casually; again, no proof.

"My father, now semi-retired [died June 18, 1969—ed.], was a com-mercial artist all his life, working for the motion picture industry. To please his son, he did sf covers in the fifties for several magazines, including F&SF, Amazing, and Fantastic. All of which might seem to have little to do with myself as a writer. Not so!

"As Forry Ackerman is now saying (probably to please me): 'Ray Bradbury burned his first two million words; Charles Nuetzel sold his.' To which I silently add: maybe I should have burned mine too.

"But the point is that a writer can do one of several things: write just for the fun of it, and never even try to get published; write and write and write until you're good enough to get published in the good markets (burning all the crud, like Bradbury did); or write and write until you're just good enough to be published in the lowest crummy market possible, and keep writing as fast as you can, learning on the job. My father taught me that an artist can sit up in an attic and paint for himself—and starve—or he can use what talents and abilities and tricks he has, and direct them to a commercial market to make a living.

"Thus: my first year of professional writing was done in the following manner: I took a title, put it on the top third of the page, picked a pen name, and then wrote until the story was finished. Most of the time I never read what I wrote, but sent it to Forry Ackerman, who suffered through something like a hundred manuscripts that first year. Needless to say, he didn't make much money as my agent, even though he did give me a pretty fair sales record for a first year pro writer. I was told by Forry not to write for sci-fi markets, since this was not the 'pulp' field. Thus the stories were on subjects I'd sooner say nothing about. I used over a dozen pen names.

"Thus: being a great lover of the way Edgar Rice Burroughs made his money (to say nothing about the man who created Perry Mason) , and lov-ingly calling them 'hacks,' I consider myself a professional 'hack,' and wish to God I could be as much of a 'hack' as the two above-mentioned writers. Not that I expect this to happen—but we all have our dreams.

"Every science fiction writer and fan has heard Ray Bradbury say over and over again: 'Write, write, write, until you get all the bad words out of your system...don't slant...write about what you hate and love violently....' A quote, in Mr. Bradbury's defense, deriving from my very weak memory. And while I very much admire the Ray Bradbury type of artist-writer, I disagree with him on one basic point: do slant and do write to sell as much as possible, and most importantly, attempt not only to write all the bad words out of your system, but also all the bad plots. You can use pen names to hide behind when the writing and/or subject matter is such that you don't wish to take credit for it. Save your own name for things you wish to think of as 'quality.'

"My own preferences in science fiction are for the adventure-romance (i.e., ERB) and social satire; this is fairly evident in my two recent books, Swordmen of Vistar and Images of Tomorrow, each of which shows a total-ly different side of my writing nature. The Swordmen of Vistar has been updated and offered an Epilog, never presented in the pocketbook edition, which finishes off the storyline of Thoris of Haldolen. Swordmen of Vistar and Images of Tomorrow were almost totally revamped as separate e-books.

"I am very strong on the first few words of a story. 'The beautiful mountain' is not at all as interesting as 'If the beautiful....' Words like 'if' and 'but' are far more 'grabbing' than words like 'the,' 'a,' etc. I also be-lieve of course that the immediately following words (right through to the end of the story) have importance. What they say must contain plot, sub-plot, theme, conflict—in other words, a damned good story. But those first words should cause the reader to start reading, should get him interested in what follows. And then it is the responsibility of the author to keep him or her hooked, until hopefully the reader will throw down the finished book, and say, 'God, that's one hell of a story!'

"My future plans are very simple: to be successful and to make a lot of money. I'd like to do more than simply write and package books for pub-lishers—I have nothing at all against cutting out the middle man, and pock-eting the remainder. I enjoy seeing books filled with words that came off my typewriter—for a few moments, at least. I enjoy seeing translations of my work. Like many writers, I have a big ego in that direction. It's gratify-ing to be told that there's someone out there who likes what you write. The other day Robert Bloch dropped me a short note in which he was kind enough to say that he spent an enjoyable rainy Sunday afternoon reading Swordmen of Vistar: that's the kind of ego boost writers truly delight in having."

The above material was originally edited from letters I sent R. Reginald (the professional name of Professor Emeritus Michael Burgess), who published it in Stella Nova: The Contemporary Science Fiction Authors (his first book—of over one hundred!), compiled and Edited by R. Reginald, Unicorn & Son, Publishers, 1970.

5. Scorpion Books—

THE BOOKS WITH A STING

by Victor A. Berch

In a groundbreaking "Towards a Bibliography of Erotic Pulps" article (Journal of Popular Culture, Spring, 1982), Professor Daniel Eisenberg describes some of the problematic areas which confront the present-day bibliographies and will confront future bibliographers of erotic "pulps," as Eisenberg so designates paperback books of this nature. Perhaps one of the most problematic areas that does and will present itself to researchers is that of Publication information provided by the many "fly-by-night" publishers. Most of them tended toward the sparest of publication information for rea-sons, which are rather obvious.

In fact, Eisenberg points out that "...the more respectable a publisher the less important it is for our purposes [of study], and the most interesting publishers, bibliographically speaking, are the fly-by-nights, which offer difficult and sometimes insoluble problems of identification. It is the Pur-pose of this article to examine the short-lived publishing venture of one such fly-by-night publisher in an attempt to arrive at an identification. Clues have been presented by the publisher, inadvertently or not, and I shall attempt to show how these clues can help to establish the identity of the publisher. The books I shall deal with here are eight in number, called Scorpion Books, published by N.A.C. Publications from June 1964 to Oc-tober 1964. A checklist of the books is presented as follows: the book number, the title, the author, publication, number of pages, price and the distributor's logo. The cover artist on all was Gus Albet, a pseudonym to be dealt with later. There is no indication as to where the books were pub-lished.

101 Wild Spree, by Jay Davis—June 1964

102 Wantons of Betrayal, by Alec Rivere, June 1964,

103 Hollywood Nymph, by Stu Rivers, July 1964,

104 Lovers 2075, by Charles English, August 1964,

105 Sex Queen, by Stu Rivers, August 1964,

106 Jungle Nymph, by David Johnson, October 1964,

107 With Passions Burning, by Fred MacDonald, October 1964,

108 Nobody Loves a Tramp, by Alex Blake, October 1964.

The first hint of where the books were published can be ascertained from the distributor's logo, GSN, the initials for Golden State News, a California-based distributor.

Let us now turn to an examination of the authors of the books. From Contemporary Authors it was learned that Alec Rivere and Charles English were known pseudonyms of Charles A. Nuetzel, a somewhat prolific author in the fields of science fiction and soft-core pornography. In an un-published checklist of another soft-core Pornography publisher, Pike Books, I knew that Nuetzel had used, besides the Alec Rivere name, John Davidson. The John Davidson name is an important clue to uncover be-cause it leads to the possible identification of David Johnson and Jay Davis as variations of the Davidson pseudonym. The Davidson pseudonym also shows up on the title page of an Anchor Publications book, WL110, Sex Cult Murders, on which the cover and spine carries the name of Fred Mac-Donald. That leaves us with only Stu Rivers and Alex Blake to be account-ed for.

It then occurred to me that N.A.C. Publications represented the initials of Charles A. Nuetzel reversed and that Nuetzel himself was most likely the author, as well as the publisher, of all the Scorpion Books, and that Stu Rivers and Alex Blake could be added to the author's repertoire.

As to the artist's name, the biographical account of Charles Nuetzel in Contemporary Authors showed that he was the son of Albert Augustus Nuetzel and Betty (Stockberger) Nuetzel, which added up to the artist's pseudonym, Gus Albet. Thus, in the final analysis, it appears that Scorpion Books was a small family-run cottage industry operation out of California.

[Author's note: The manuscript of this article has been in my files for the past six or seven years. Since that time, the article on Pike Books was published in BAE #18. One day last year, during a chance conversation with Lynn Munroe, I brought up the subject and asked if he could check with Forry Ackerman, since he was Nuetzel's agent, whether any of the above could be verified. Better than that, Ackerman passed on Nuetzel's phone number to Lynn.]

[I, Charles Nuetzel, am compelled to write here that I'm continually amazed beyond words at the detective work that this man did. It is amazing how well he picked out the clues and put them together. As to the reasons for the Scorpion Books being a "cottage" industry: it was Bob Pike, of Pike Books, who suggested that I should package my own books, since I knew how to do cover lines and my father was able to do the covers—why did I need a "publisher" like him? A point well taken. So I took advantage of such chances to do more than just write books, since I wanted to get work for my father, too. It turned out nice for both of us; and especially nice insofar that we were collaborating on such projects together. Super-powerful stuff for a son. The end result was the packaging deal I made with Powell Publications, where I could supply or buy the manuscripts and have Dad or another artist do the covers.]

[The following is based, in part, on material published in Contemporary Authors, Volume 105, which can be found in most local libraries.]

Author of more than one hundred books under dozens of pseudonyms. Publisher/packager of more than forty-five books. Contributor of short sto-ries and articles to numerous magazines, including Jade, Cocktail, Vertex, If: Worlds of Science Fiction, Spaceway, Famous Monsters of Filmland, Knight. Editor of Powell Sci-Fi series (pocket books); also did my stint do-ing some graphics for several magazines covers. I have sat on both sides of the editorial desk, both as author/editor.

In these different roles I have learned a lot about how each side looks at the issues and problems involved in putting out a publication. As au-thor/editor/publisher I have discovered there are more reasons for accepting or rejecting a story than quality—sometimes it can be length, theme, or even how cheaply you can get the story; for some other big named writer will demand a higher price-tag for their words. Budget, in other words. Deadlines can have a lot to do with what you buy and from whom. Some-times you favor one writer or group of writers for many reasons, such as their need to make a living—and you need to depend on a good source of professional material delivered on time. Sometimes a great story will be rejected because the publisher already has bought something much like yours. There are other situations when the publisher is simply a closed-shop, buying only from a few writers or agents—and nobody else. So go the breaks.

I started writing in 1960, willing to do whatever was necessary to get published in the commercial marketplace. That first year I wrote some 100 short manuscripts, selling about two a month. In 1961 my agent, Forrest J Ackerman, called and asked if I could give him some twenty thousand words in one week (half a short "novel") for a possible pocket book sale. I started writing almost immediately upon hanging up the phone, developing an approach to novel-plotting that I used many times since; a novel is a se-ries of incidents leading up to a short story. I did from thirty to forty pages a day and finished the first draft in one week. I ran the novel through the typewriter at the editor's request, though only after his acceptance of the book. That was my first novel sale.

The above is not to suggest I deserve gold stars; only that writing, at least for people like myself, must be entered into as a hard-nosed business. I learned about plotting, sub-plotting, character development, etc., with the help of some writer friends and by reading a few books and taking the Palmer Institute of Authorship course. Then by writing a lot of words. I was told that quality came with quantity. The important thing is to get to a point where you can sell stories to publishers. Writing is a business; it must be approached as such. This is hardly a romantic concept of writing, but it is basic fact for writers like myself. I'm still learning my craft and will con-tinue to learn every time I put a piece of paper in the typewriter.

I believe that it would be foolish of me to miss this chance to say a few things about writing as a career. As a career it is a combination of ecstasy and hell—demanding, difficult, pestering, brain-bashing, and at times very exciting. The number one trap to avoid is the Number Game. Oh, how easy it is to fall into the trap of saying, "My, I did X number of words today, now if I can do that many each and every day...." It takes years of writing to discover through painful experience just how many words it is possible to rush through the typewriter per day, week, year. Only then is it possible to set realistic goals and to approach deadlines in a manner that is not des-tined to totally ruin one's heath and nerves. You learn to accept the daily payoffs of writing to offset the negatives. "You don't gotta work eight hours a day"—you can spend more time in activities that are of interest to you. (Don't feel guilty about enjoying your spare time, because even these activities are of value to your professional output. The author can draw up-on ever experience, physical, mental, emotional.)

I will do everything I can to talk the beginning writers out of trying to become professional, full-time authors. I suggest they learn all they can concerning grammar and English and about writing itself. If they have not been turned away from the insane idea of writing, I used to say (pre-computer days) go buy ten reams of paper (500 sheets per) with the idea of filling them with words. The more words you write, the better writer you become. (That don't mean you will become a great or even a good writer. But the only way to improve is to write, write, write.) I would say, for the most part, stay away from writer's clubs. (Sure it is nice to be with other writers, to have people listen to your tales, even give you feedback, and place to talk, talk, talk writing. The feedback, for a raw beginner, can be nice—later it becomes counter-productive. The business of becoming a published writer is putting words on paper and having those words printed in a place that reaches as many people as possible. A writers club or friends and relatives is just too limited an audience. And if you talk out your sto-ries, you dull the need to progress to the point where you write or finish them and submit them to editors. Keep the fire for the creating and finish-ing of the story—hold your ideas close, and spew them onto the white page/surface and then polish them. And make them ready for the editor's eyes.] Writer's clubs can serve, in the beginning, as a support group, but in the long run the only thing that matters is the keyboard (be that a pc or a typewriter) and the white substance (pc screen or paper) you put the words to. And go about working hard to impressed only THE EDITOR. That means the fella that will see to it you get accepted for publication and, hopefully, sent a check for the rights to publish your golden words. With-out THE EDITOR you have nothing but paper—which has been, for all useful purposes, ruined by the ink you have managed to press onto its oth-erwise clean surface. We buy paper cheap and we mess it up with ink and then we try to sell the paper to THE EDITOR for more money than we paid for it. Pure business, in the end. [Unless you are into it for ego. Then get a website and use that to "publish" all the writing you wanna "publish"—and hope somebody finds it and reads your lovely, wonderful, golden, jewel-like, immortal words.]

If I sound harsh, difficult, cold-blooded and not romantic, well, so be it. The business of writing is not romantic. The business of creating can be. The necessity of writing from your guts makes the difference between crud and an interesting and vital manuscript. And the joy of writing comes when you are involved in the creative process, when you shout or you laugh at something you have just typed. [I have been frowned at and finger-wagged at by my wife, a more serious soul, for laughing like an insane madman while writing. She can't understand why I'd laugh at my own stuff.] The point is, of course, if it don't entertain yourself there's very little chance it will entertain somebody else. Even when it entertains you, that don't mean anybody else will do more than moan and groan in total boredom.

Writing is hard work, at best, sometimes thrilling and exciting. But the business of getting published is a totally different story. You revise at edi-torial demand, willingly and happily. That is if you want that editor to buy your words, pay for and publish them. And the end-game is to get pub-lished so you will be communicating with the general public. Communica-tion is the point of it all; and the larger the audience the more communica-tion. Simple as that.

The harsh, personal reality of writing is that we do create for the pure pleasure it can bring to us and for the hoped for pleasure it may give some others.

CHAPTER THREE

INTRODUCTIONS ARE SHAMELESS ADS

Herein the author presents, without modesty or embarrassment a group-ing of Introduction he did for the Wildside releases of his books, at the re-quest of Robert Reginald who was responsible for putting these books to-gether for the publisher. It was fun and a delight to offer up this material. And I offer it here as an obvious promotional matter of fact.

And for better or worse this is an extra added "attraction" for the read-er, at no extra cost to his or her pocketbook. Well, not at this point, in any case. If the reader finds something here that intrigues their interest, they can get most of these books in printed editions or as ebooks.

ADAPT OR DIE

I've never been an over-sensitive writer; I have been fairly practical concerning publisher's requirements and/or policy needs. I used to consider writers who complained about having their stories ruined by the editor as being somewhat childishly unprofessional. But there are times when a pub-lisher goes too far.

This book was originally published in hardcover as Last Call for the Stars, which was not my title for the novel. It was also butchered by the editors who cut it by one third to fit their length requirements. They deleted very important background, and even, to my horror, much scene-connecting material. It was as if the editors had taken an ax to the manuscript and aimlessly chop-chopped! What was left was a badly connected comic book of action, without any real inner guts left.

The theme of the book came out of the concept of Deep Freeze: have your dead body deep-frozen to be thawed when science found the cure to what killed you (and any damage caused by the deep freezing process it-self).

So I approached it this way:

What would happen is a man, whom I called General Hal Grant, went into the Frozen Death before he turned senile? It would be his last grand adventure. What would the future Earth be like? How many years would have passed since he was deep frozen? Assuming he survived Deep Freeze itself.

If a body could be cured of all illnesses that led to death, then Immor-tality was a very realistic promise.

And what were the implications of Immortality? Just consider one sim-ple thing like: is it possible to stay in love with another person for eternity (forgetting ideals and/or religious belief systems)?

Nothing turned out as Grant had expected!

Upon revival he and some twenty-plus other men and women, from varied time periods on Earth, were faced with the challenge of adapting to unexpected harsh realities or dying!

The title was obvious, and has been now reinstated along with over 20,000 missing words. The original manuscript had been written in the late 1960s, so some updating was required, plus new material added to more fully develop other characters. I think it is a far better book than the original novel would have been if not brutalized by editorial cuts.

I got some very good, tough advice from an internet friend, Heidi Gar-rett, who had read the hard cover edition and asked to see the revised ver-sion as soon as it was finished. I sent her a copy of the first full draft via e-mail, and over a three-day weekend she not only discovered typos and lines that were questionable, but pointed out redundant material, which needed fixing. All this was done via continual e-mail exchanges during that furi-ously busy weekend. I agree with her claim that Adapt or Die is a totally different story from Last Call for the Stars—and far better!

THE ERSATZ

The Ersatz was originally published as a paperback novel under the title, Lovers: 2075, and then later in a slightly improved version as part of Images of Tomorrow, a collection published by Powell Publications in 1969.

Now I offer it to a new set of twenty-first-century readers in this new updating of the original text.

Ersatzes exist in a world where universal peace, population control and boredom drove people to the edge of violence. The Ersatz was the ideal solution to such social rage!

Angry at your boss—take it out on your ersatz. That's what they are for!

Nagged by your wife—whack your ersatz instead of her!

Have a husband who is cheating on you—blow your ersatz's head off!

That's what they were made for! And there was an endless supply of these android creatures! Even in an over-populated world. Ersatzes could be recycled! Mindless, soulless inventions of human science, they were the ultimate solution to man's problems.

Only the National Organization FREE spoke to change things. FREE = For Rising Ersatz Equality!

Only FREE was mad enough to believe that ersatzes might offer much more to its masters than simply an outlet for its violent nature.

It was a losing cause, until....

Benny arrived!

"The Talisman" is a new and original story that I found in my files—lost until now. If I remember right, it came out of my dislike of door-to-door salesmen, but then it quickly became something totally different. It was written some years ago and simply filed away. I gave it to my friendly editor, Heidi Garrett, who loved it and encouraged me to put it with The Ersatz. And so it is here presented.

SLAVES OF LOMOORO

This is a special book for me, on several different levels. For one, it was my first SF book. And when it was published I used my late brother's name as a byline, instead of my own. The reason for that is, in itself, a simple sto-ry.

But to get to the very beginning, before bylines were even a considera-tion, even before the time when I actually became a writer.

As indicated elsewhere, I have long had an interest in the literary worlds of Edgar Rice Burroughs. That started when I was thirteen or four-teen, if memory serves me right.

My folks lived in West Los Angeles, which is, in effect, something like a small mountain range distant from Tarzana. When we moved in 1948 to Encino (in the San Fernando Valley), just one town slightly "northeast" of Tarzana, I found a local bookstore where I could continue buying Bur-roughs' books, wholly unaware, at the time, how close I was to the actual living, breathing author himself!

Well, the owners of the store ended up not only telling me about Edgar Rice Burroughs living nearby, but that they could arrange, at no extra cost to me, to have some of my books autographed by the man himself. It isn't hard to guess what happened next.

Sad to say, I never met Burroughs in the flesh. But I still have a couple of the books he signed, right within sight of where I'm sitting right now. I was told later by his secretary that these were the last books he ever signed. And the handwriting is somewhat shaky, to be sure. He was ill in the hospi-tal at the time, and not long thereafter he died at home.

It wasn't until sometime later that I actually discovered Edgar Rice Burroughs, Inc., located in a small, Spanish-style building on the south side of Ventura Boulevard just a few miles away. This is where I found many surprising things, including a long list of unpublished ERB stories. I also, of course, got to see some of the original book cover paintings that were hanging on the walls. The most thrilling event for me was being escorted into the writer's private office, seeing his desk and the wall full of books of the published editions of his works.

I was more than impressed.

During this period of my life I was a young fan and collector of Bur-roughs' works, which even then were becoming next to impossible to find. This was before the publishing boom of the 1960s, which brought much of the master's novels back into print. I was able easily to locate the Mars novels, the Tarzan books, and very little else. Secondhand bookstores be-came my usual Saturday hideaways. I eventually tracked down all of ERB's published works, outside of The Lad and the Lion and Back to the Stone Age (although I had the latter in serial form). One of the Burroughs' secretaries eventually found me a copy of Lad. She was a lovely person, generous and very friendly to a young fan. I still have pleasant memories of her.

Slaves of Lomooro is my personal tribute to the writer, and while it doesn't approach the master's work, I hope it will satisfy the fan. The orig-inal manuscript was too long to fit the size requirements of the publisher, so it was trimmed quickly by a friend; the original version has long been lost, and I resisted any attempt to restore it.

When the book was published in 1969, I wanted to keep it separate from Swordmen of Vistar and the two Noomas books, so I used the byline, Albert Augustus, Jr. My father (Albert Augustus Nuetzel, Sr.) had died shortly before this, and so my choice of a pen name constituted both a trib-ute to him, and to the memory of my infant brother, who had died shortly after birth.

The novel had the following dedication:

To my mother, Betty, this first

science fiction book is lovingly dedicated.

When I was very young, I started calling my parents by their given names, Betty and Al; for some reason, they thought this was cute, and al-lowed me to continue doing this. Some folks were shocked by the casual-ness of our family, but to me it was simply a reflection of the deep affec-tion, love, and closeness which have continued throughout the years—and still remains with me.

I hope the book finds a new audience in its second print edition. I've made a few corrections and I've tweaked a few scenes, but not very many. And I hope a few of my young fans and readers will take the time to ferret out the works of Edgar Rice Burroughs, and try them for themselves.

LOST CITY OF THE DAMNED

Lost City of the Damned was my first adventure novel. I have always had a soft spot for it. It was written as a result of an editor asking for an original book to publish, which I didn't have at the time. So I rushed to my trusty typewriter desperately searched my mind for an inspiring idea. And I then remembered my love for the books of writers like H. Rider Haggard and Edgar Rice Burroughs. Well, now, thought I, those stories were really fun. Maybe it would be a thrill and a half to write something along those lines.

I could offer up a lost city adventure set in the deep jungles of some mysterious location to....

The idea instantly inspired my mind! I simply had to try one of those thrill-packed romantic adventures! I could take the reader into the very depths of the South American continent to watch two desperately compet-ing teams race one another in search of ancient treasure. Now I'll admit, not a starkly original concept, but what the heck!

Well, it sounded really appealing to me. And, in fact, I was on instant fire, as excited as I could get, frantically whacking at the typewriter key-board!

Well, I actually got excited when I wrote:

The valley waited, like it had been waiting for thousands of years—in silence and mystery—awaiting the touch of modern man.

It was a small valley, aged and savage, rugged and virgin except for the crumbled ruins at one of its further ends, under the lonely high snow-capped mountain. One large-peaked building was surrounded at every turn with rubble that may have once been a great city. Now it was waiting, like a magnificent monument of a dead age.

Nobody knew its origins; only legend and myths hung around it like some invisible mist clouding the long lost details of its wonder and glory.

The legend claimed that anyone who entered the sacred temple would die a horrible death.

All that needed to be added were a mere few items so that the PR de-partment could write:

Murder, danger, suspense haunt their trail as they search to discover the remains of an ancient civilization that may even have predated such leg-endary places as Mu and Atlantis. The promise of riches beyond imagina-tion drove them to face unimaginable dangers in the lost city of the damned.

Well, that would get me to read the book!

I hope you'll enjoy this literary excursion into the past, written near the beginning of my writing career.

GOLD LUST

This is one of those adventure stories that have always fascinated me. The first one I wrote was Lost City of the Damned and I wrote a number of others, some of which are coming out in Wildside editions. They all were influenced and inspired by my early love of the Edgar Rice Burroughs nov-els.

I have always been fascinated by lost civilizations and have managed to actually visit some ruins in Mesoamerica, seeing the Mayan, Aztec, and Inca sites on our side of the world, and recently the pyramids of Egypt. It can be an amazing experience to walk among these ancient structures and imagine what kind of people might have lived there. The memory of their existence is fairly well lost in time, yet one can let their minds imagine all kinds of fanciful visions of a people long gone.

Touching the stones, walking the pathways, or even up the magnificent pyramids themselves, is breathtaking, and inspiring in ways that stay with you for a very long time. And you begin to wonder....

Gold Lust is the story about three people who get involved in a nasty triangle of lust and greed, and a search for ancient treasure on an island in the South Pacific where the remains of an ancient civilization protects a mysterious temple and its idol of gold.

Steve Floyd, the hero of Gold Lust, is a somewhat lost soul, barely sur-viving day to day by chartering his small seaplane to anyone needing a joy ride. When Virginia Donovan came into his life, offering a couple thousand dollars to take her to a distant island that very night, he was instantly in-trigued. Not since the death of his wife, years before, had he found any female so visually exciting. Most men would sell their souls to take her into their arms.

But Virginia comes with a nasty partner, who must be her lover. Yet she makes no attempt to hide her interest in Steve. She could be had for the taking. Or was she playing him for a fool? He could never tell if she was a Goddess of Love or a demon from hell. And there was no question that the woman was dangerous, willing to do anything to get what she wanted!

Yet he fell totally under her spell and re-discovered feelings he had thought long dead.

Virginia Donovan leads him to a golden Virgin Idol locked away in the ancient temple ruins of a lost civilization. A curse was supposed to have protected it for at least a thousand years.

Now, tell me, what could be more normal? Love, passion, betrayal, vio-lence, an ancient ruin and a mysterious curse all packed up in the promise of riches beyond a normal person's wildest nightmare.

Well, that's the kind of stuff that dreams are made of, as they say in cornball movies and novels. And one can almost believe such things could happen after you have touched an ancient stone, climbed up the side of an ancient pyramid and looked across the expanse of ruins left for hundreds and thousands of years for anyone to marvel at.

I'm a romantic, I suppose. And I will never stop being fascinated by such places, such visions, such stories of adventure in distant places.

TROPIC OF PASSION

I don't mind admitting that Tropic of Passion was just a bit shorter than I expected and so you, the reader, are offered not only this novel, but a nice little adventure short as a bonus: "Amazon Gold Fever."

The major story in this adventure duo was one of my early novels, which has been somewhat altered here to make it "even better" than before! Actually, in re-reading the book after so many years I had a different take on the subject and offered up some basic improvements, but not too many as to change the fun of it all.

Here we have a man down on his luck that gets a chance to improve his life when a woman named Ruby offers him an adventure and riches beyond his wildest dreams. (That sounds just about right! Even intrigues me!)

As it says on the cover: They came for ancient treasure only to discover death, destruction and love....

Well, okay, we've all been there time and again, and continue to return to enjoy the adventure and the excitement and the intrigue!

So, I'm an all-day sucker for those ancient relics and ruined remains of lost civilizations. There's a kind of romantic ecstasy to be discovered in such places. The imagination just runs wild. What kind of people lived back there, what were their passions all about, what drove them to do what they did? Why did they insist on offering young virgins to their lusty, passion-hungry gods of old?

Such questions can drive the mind to the very edge of madness!

Well, this ain't no Time Travel sci-fi flick or novel. So such questions are left unanswered. This is just your basic adventure, a walk down a color-ful jungle passageway into the arms of....

Stop! You don't want me to give it all away right here and now, do ya all?

But I loved these make-believe worlds in my youth and still enjoy re-visiting them from time to time. It is back to yester-year when the wonder-ful worlds of Edgar Rice Burroughs flamed in blood to hot fire and raced young minds into adventures beyond the mundane boredom of every day life.

Okay. Life can be sweet. Lovely. Rich and passionate. Today's world offers up the computer and the Internet and cable television and so many other wonderful electronic toys that sometimes it is simply difficult to keep up! So in such moments we can, if we so desire, step backwards make a graceful turn into the adventure zone!

And to add to the fun and games, I've inserted "Amazon Gold Fever," which almost seems too real to believe! Or rather it is difficult not to be-lieve it actually happened to that poor fella who, for all I know, is still down there in South America seeking.

No! I won't say more! Let his story reveal his nightmares for all to en-joy!

OPERATION: DOUBLE-CROSS

This book was written during a time when the world was, after World War II, locked in a Cold War between the two super powers: USA and USSR. This was radically changed under President Reagan. In 1989 the Berlin Wall was torn down and the USSR was shattered.

But during this period the world was held in a strange kind of balance, one that is now restructured under the terrible threat of a new kind of war-fare. Huge armies don't need to face one another. Today a war can rage by the simple use of madmen willing to blow themselves up for the promise of a heavenly reward—or merely the belief that their families will profit by such violent acts. They see themselves as heroes! And since history is al-ways written by the winners, they may be considered that or monstrous fools.

The world religions all seek answers, and offer moral lessons; they all are powerful forces that have shaped civilization.

Islam is as spiritually uplifting to its faithful as the Christianity is to its believers. Both major religions are based on the same historical elements that formed early Judaism. All are a result of very ancient teachings handed down from generation to generation. And each had their own Prophets that inspired the major religious movements that are now in a hostile state of anguished conflict.

Enough to say, without in any way taking sides, that these power-blocks are pretty much after the same limited resources the planet offers us all.

History is filled with claims of Religious Ultimate Answers driving na-tions and empires into violent conflict. Are we, today, in any better posi-tion? Rome fell, as did the ancient lands of Mesopotamia. National bounda-ries fluctuate to satisfy the needs of their populations, and they are endless-ly redrawn.

So we come to today's nightmare of horrors, conflicts between reli-giously dedicated power-blocks. Death comes fast and easy, life comes and goes like the flow of ocean waves. And the soldier or patriot or terrorist will give up their lives in this endless struggle for dominance.

The world of terrorists since 9/11 has changed how we all live, and has affected everything for this century. And in this book, I've managed to up-date the setting and time-frame to fit into this twenty-first-century reality.

MURDER TIMES 4

To me what is interesting about this book is that it was the first detec-tive story I ever wrote. I was somewhat concerned and even shy about the fact, and highly pleased when the publisher/editor commented on how much he liked it! In fact, David Zentner was very complimentary about the novel.

I found the writing quite intriguing, and the novel was a mystery even to myself right up to the end. I had a couple of alternative choices for a conclusion, and just sat back and watching what the characters did. If memory serves me correctly, Mr. Zentner actually suggested the solution used in the text.

Writing can be fun at times, but most of it consists of thinking and working and thinking some more before putting the words actually down on paper. In those days of eld I was using a typewriter, of course, and any major changes or revisions to the work resulted in sometimes painful retyp-ing of large portions of text. That made us penmen very hesitant to under-take any large-scale recasting of the manuscript. Today word processors enable authors to rewrite and re-edit almost at will. What a wonder!

So, when things ran smoothly and the thoughts flowed like the raging waters of the River Nile, it was either a great deal of fun or (occasionally) a terrible mess.

I started the book with the idea of examining the crime of rape. Does rape deserve the ultimate penalty of death? I originally didn't believe that such an assault, however brutal it might be, ought to be punished with a trip to the gas chamber. My thoughts then were young and savage and rather innocent, I have to say. Life was much cleaner and clearer to me in those days.

Now, of course, I've changed and evolved—in fact, did so to some de-gree even in the course of penning this novel. The book was originally called The Rape Artist in ms. form, and was actually published as Love Me to Death under the pen name, Alex Blake.

Here it is again, revised slightly and updated a bit, to be read by a new audience.

SOFTLY AS I KILL YOU

This book was written as another one of those early mysteries, done somewhat with the typical style of the times. But there is more to the story than just a mystery.

The title comes out of a series of events, which I might as well offer up here and now, in this Introduction that didn't appear in the book. The one used was part of the story itself. So, here, now, is offered a few words con-cerning the book's title.

Who knows what the original title was. I don't remember. A working title to sell the book to the publisher, who changed it to Two Timing Tart, which seemed a bit too "tarty" to me! And no lemon, either! Hate being late for a date [can't ignore a pun from time to time!], social or business. And as to the other kinds of tarts, of the pastry type, well, this wasn't a book about timing the cookin' length of some pastry delight, real, imagined, dessert or female! And, of course, the publisher was playing a game with the womanly tart that was a two-timer! And not of the bakery type. And had nothin' ta do with the prison kind of timers.

Now that we're done with the lighter side of such matters, let me get down to the title I ended up picking when letting it be republished the se-cond time around by Powell Publications.

As noted else where in this book, Dad was doing the covers for these books and that was the deal made with the publisher. Only thing was, he got a bit on the seriously ill side, in fact something he was not about to sur-vive for very long. Cancer of the spine. And no disrespectful pun meant here: a killer.

Dad was not to survive for long. And his cover painting days were stopped after the last cover he did for my Images of Tomorrow!

I happened to have an uncle by the name of Louis DeWitt, another full-time professional artist who had always wanted to do cover illustrations and so I offered him up to fill in for Dad, while Dad was hospitalized. He willingly did a cover for the book (used in part on the Wildside edition).

Not having liked the original published title I decided to come up with something better.

Which I did by going to a song book I happened to have and looking for possible title to pun around with and I discovered one that proved a winner: "Softly As I Leave You," a lovely song which I'd always loved.

And with a little twist of a pun we got Softly As I Kill You. Which was a fitting title on several levels. Dad was dying. We knew that. And I dedicat-ed the book to the doctor who was taking care of these matters. Which gave it another implied meaning. So this book became a kind of tribute to my father insofar as the title was concerned and the timing of the publication of that version of the novel.

The novel itself? Well your normal mystery novel, illustrated by the back cover lines here now quoted as a teaser:

When Dan Benton learned that a long time friend was in trouble, he cut his weekend vacation short in Las Vegas and flew back to L.A.

From that point on he became involved in one of the most intriguing cases in his career as a trouble-shooter and private investigator.

A mystery that keeps the reader guessing until the final series of twists that leaves one electrified to the chair in shock.

Well, shocking at that might sound, give me a break: it is promo-material attempting to lash the reader into their chair, strap them down tightly in place and electrify them if they try to get up before finishing the book! Anything to keep the reader locked in tight 'til the last period.

The front cover offers:

Called off vacation, Dan rushed to the aid of a friend to become tangled in a mass of killing without any apparent motive!

That works for me, and is a nice closer for this introduction written es-pecially and only for this present book!

MISTRESS OF THE DAMNED

&

DEATH IN HER ARMS

This book is two short novels in one; more bang for the bucks, so they say in promo copy. Well, each was too short to make a full-size edition, so I said: double up, for fun for all concerned.

Both books have seen print previously in different forms. They are, in the present edition, somewhat modernized and "run past the author's eyes" for a last revision. Ah, how wonderful that can be. In a case like this, it is a chance to look at things from a different perspective, from a more "mature" point of view.

Authorities on writing have said time and time again: revise, revise, re-vise. Writing is rewriting. Do your first, second, and final draft on a story and simply file it away for another day. Let it mellow and simmer down, and let your mind climb out of the state of mad ecstasy that made it possi-ble to set down on paper your golden words. And what horrors you'll dis-cover the next time you pick up your "great artistic masterpiece."

Sure, nice advice, and certainly a necessary part of the creative process. But what does one do when under the demands of making a living at the writing game and meeting hard to deal with deadlines? You write, doing the best job you can and send it off in time to meet publisher's demands.

And you have to live with the end result.

Well, it is either that or endlessly sitting before the typewriter and hammering over every word of the opening line until one is satisfied that it is in the very best possible condition!

Of course, under those circumstances, ya put it in the drawer and pick it up a few days later when you're in a cooler creative mood, and darn if those "golden words" don't need total revision, or maybe even a total cut forever more.

Thus writing is a continual matter of making decisions one has to live with for the rest of their lives, like some condemned criminal!

Well, sometimes fate takes a turn and offers up a second chance and the writer can start fresh—within the given limits of deadlines to meet publish-er's demands!

And so they are now presented.

ANY ONE CAN DIE

Some stories simply surprise the author, many years later. Many times one will cringe in horror and wonder how it was possible to have written such tripe. This one was a surprise in a nice sort of way

It was originally published as Appointment with Terror by John Da-vidson, which wasn't at all a bad title, but later it was altered somewhat for its second run (after a normal translation in Europe) as the first half of Con-sider Yourself Dead by George Fredrics. Such a shady history to a suspense thriller.

Now, this time around, it is totally revised and expanded. But still the story of people caught in a horrible nightmare with a crazed killer who has just escaped from prison. A lifer with nothing to lose!

Sometimes a writer develops a villain who is totally without redeeming qualities, who one instantly learns to hate. I learned fast and was sucked into the story almost from the start, stunned by some of the antics that took place in that mountain cabin where a dozen people were snowed in and held captive by a sadistic madman. They did what he told them or died. In fact, chances were, they would all soon be dead! It was just a matter of when they died and in what order.

To some extent, the location was, to me, kinda based on my personal exposure to Big Bear Lake and Lake Arrowhead, not far from where I live in Southern California. We don't get snow down here in the lowlands, which are, in reality, more like a kind of desert that runs right into the blue Pacific! Desert is all around Los Angeles, even if broken by low mountains that become richly green in winter, and yellowish brown in summer. To see snow one has to seek the real higher mountains and there you have our "lo-cal" ski resorts and German style villa-type motels and country eateries. This is a lovely place to visit, and really a nice setting for this suspense novel.

It is somewhat interesting to revisit a story like this, even if it could turn into a nightmare of a different sort. Writers tend to either love or hate what they have set down on paper. Once printed it is too late to make changes. But not always! In this case I found myself quite pleased with what I dis-covered and even more pleased with how this revised version turned out.

MURDER MOST TERRIBLE

Story ideas come from strange places and circumstances. Not always full blown; and sometimes only with a vague concept, a setting, a seed. It can come from nothing but a visual impression, a moment in time that would normally have passed as nothing more than a nice, pleasant morning.

I remember the beach, ocean reaching out to the horizon, the sun baking bright and hot over the town of Santa Monica, California. And for some reason I thought about those islands out there, just peaking up from the blue ocean. For some reason it struck me as a neat setting for a book. Now, there must a story there somewhere! But beyond that feeling, there was nothing; no germ of an idea. But certainly this was a beginning.

So, like any dutiful writer, desperate for an idea for a story, the next time I sat down at my monster typewriter I fed it with paper and typed: CHAPTER ONE, went down a few spaces and wrote:

"Very few people have head of the small island off the California coast."

And I was off and running. Well, sorta. It took a little more than the cute little "bikini-clad girl in her early twenties" to spark more than a mild interest in what kind of cutes she might offer up to my main character.

Well, truth is, I came up with a Murder Most Terrible, involving a young woman and her brother....

A man I named Bill Johnson.

Well that was a better start. Now I had two characters. What next? Let's see. Where's he going in this small boat with this cute bikini-clad girl and why are they going there? Questions and questions, but no answers. Well, this young lady is sexy—to boot. And he's not about to boot her into the ocean! Rather pull her into his arms, protectively, natch! Of course! Sure. If you believe that you'll believe anything!

Hmmm...well, we have a sexy little issue here. So maybe the island they are going to is a place of Eros...well we'll just call it Eros Island.

My, how ideas fly in an author's face like the wind blows across the ocean waves. Well, okay, not his, but ol' Bill Johnson's who happens to have a sister....

Gosh I don't want to get ahead of the game and give the story up be-fore it has even been read!

But we can tease you with the fact that he discovered that the island is involved in a cult devoted to Pagan Rites. Why, as our hero soon discovers, some people actually lived there year around, while others just came on weekends for wild parties, no holds barred.

Actually ideas were flying wildly in my head, and I was imagining all sorts of wonderful and exciting things that had little to do with Murder Most Terrible! So it was time to complicate matters.

There is far more to things going on here than just a seedy swinging club of wild people on a weekend orgy.

Suddenly things began to get interesting, as the real secret of this cult was exposed followed by another murder, most terrible.

THE SEX CULT MURDERS

The hard-boiled detective has been a literary standard for decades, reaching a highpoint with Mickey Spillane's Mike Hammer in the 1950s. I never met Spillane, although I shared an autograph session with him at a trade show—I mention this simply because Spillane died this week.

What I recall most of the Hammer books was how the ladies flocked to his standard, at which point he'd turn into a wild man, slam on his hat (those were the days!), and go rushing out of the place with his tail on fire. All of this seemed great to a young reader, although it was pretty tame stuff by today's standards.

His books inspired me to develop several hard-boiled mysteries of my own during the early and mid-1960s. The Sex Cult Murders was my third such venture, if I recall correctly.

The writing was a voyage of discovery—I had no better idea of the out-come when I started than the reader did. As the tale developed, I learned where it was going when the characters moved in that direction, and dis-covered the solution to the mystery just before my fans did.

A plot line runs across the pages of a book. You start with a premise, and you see where it takes you. I always had a pretty good idea of the wordage with which I was allowed to work (paperback publishers in those days had very strict size limitations), and I tried to pace the story accord-ingly.

But the final climax where the hero and bad guy (note that I'm being PC here!) clash for the last time in a life-and-death struggle—well, that was a mystery until right up to the very end. I gave my hero the lead, and he ran with it, asking questions and pushing witnesses until he (and I) got some answers.

So blame it all on Mickey Spillane and Mike Hammer!

THE CASTING COUCHERS

Well, I had my personal introduction to show business on several levels. But we won't reflect on that—this isn't true confessions time—yet! I'll simply say that my father was a commercial artist who worked for a com-pany that made the titles (screen credits) for most major motion pictures at the time (the early 1940s and '50s). If you look carefully, it is still possible to find "Pacific Title" in the credits of some new flicks. I did my time at one of these small firms (Studio Film Service), working as a cameraman and discovering the complexities of the sound stage and set and other related items. As for the biz itself, well, I even worked a short stint there. But that's another story.

When I wrote Whodunit? Hollywood Style, the book that became Hol-lywood Mysteries (also published by Wildside Press), it gave me some background information on the history of life behind the scenes and behind the stages of the movie-making capital of the world. I later expanded on this by penning a series of novels with Hollywood and motion-picture pro-duction settings, and also by doing further research on the business and its usual practices.

I now know quite a bit more about the world in general and Hollywood in particular then I did forty years ago. Among other things, I was given a kind of guided tour into the life of the performer by a real-life professional singer, who has a minor walk-on in the present version of this novel. Its new theme derives partially from some of the background data and anec-dotes she supplied.

The Casting Couchers was originally published under the pseudonym of Stu Rivers, which I employed fairly frequently in my early days as a writer, together with his companions, John Davidson, George Fredrics, and Fred MacDonald, among many others. Maybe someday I'll write a piece about the joy of being a pen name.

BODIES 4 SALE

I suppose the best place to start would be at the beginning. And supposin' again, that would be Frozen Smiles and Glad Hands. Plus a little bow to the fact that this was one of my very first novels, and certainly the first to touch on show business, even in a vague manner of speaking.

Okay, it all started in a piano bar sometime in the mid-twentieth centu-ry, when steak houses were famous for offering, of all things, steak and po-tatoes as their main course at fancy prices. Well, by today's consideration, paying a little under twenty bucks for a couple of top-rate dinners, includ-ing cocktails and all the trimmings, plus live music to inspire a romantic mood and...well, they just don't make 'em like they used to. Thank the gods, wherever they may be.

I'm getting off the point.

I had written a short story about a man who played piano in one of the fancy eateries, and had to bang out songs like "Sweet Adeline" so the drunks could try to sing the lyrics in slurring voices that couldn't keep on key. But what he wanted was a break, to become a singer, and when the story opened he was expecting a big named agent to come and listen to him sing a few songs, and maybe sign him up for a Vegas gig. This could be his big break. Of course things didn't happen that way. He was glad-handed and offered generous frozen smiles and ignored by Mister Big, even though the audience was generous in their applause.

I had simply wanted to tell the story of the man's pain and the anguish. You know, an inside look at the horrors of show-biz and the terrible cost in human emotions and—well it wasn't a very commercial bit, but locked in my memory and heart. So, when I was asked to write a novel under some pressure and deadline, I didn't have time to waste, and out came the manu-script Frozen Smiles and Glad Hands as a starter. That gave me Manny Anson. All I had to do, now, was to set up some main character and give him some desperate goals and background, then let the characters tell their story.

I picked an actor who had once been on the fast lane of success, only to have it yanked out from under him. All I needed then was your standard every-day females tossed into the plot! The stew was beginning to boil hot!

Just like that I had the beginnings of Bodies for Sale, which takes a bold look at the seedy side of show business, the Hollywood parties, the prosti-tutes and big money managers.

Jim Norton knew show business from top to bottom. Once he'd been on top and now was at the rock bottom. He never knew what really happened.

And that's where I picked up my characters and started to stir them around.

It was published by Epic Novels back in 1961, and then translated in Europe. Now updated, it tells the story of what it is like to be famous in a town that cares about nothing other than success, big bucks, and fame means knowing the right people to keep you on top! Even if they might have had underworld connections.

Okay, to say more would simply spoil the plot. It all starts south of the border, down Mexico way....

ONE SUMMER OF LOVE

This was a special book for me. I'm not quite certain, for sure, why it became so important. It was, after all, designed to meet certain requirement of the marketplace at the time. But, for some reason, I couldn't cheapen it up to the "lowering standards" that publishers were demanding—not in this case. I actually took a little more time with it than usual.

It was the theme that hooked me.

We all have some person in our past which lingers, haunts, and stays locked up in our memories as "unfinished business" and it stays with us for the rest of our lives.

We wonder what if things had happened differently. What might have happened if we'd made a right turn rather than a left, at a number of possi-ble moments, events that were turning points in the relationship.

In simple terms, there are those past relationships that never entered into intimacy for one reason or another; usually for moral or ethical or simply "by chance" being diverted from becoming acted on.

Or, perhaps, it was a raging affair where something went wrong or where the needs of one person was countered with the needs of the other, and it was impossible to continue on. And things just simmered out, in-complete, leaving haunting memories to feast on in lonely moments, across the years that tended to idealize those past events into something they may never have really been.

We seldom get a second chance to fix things. Life isn't a landscape that generously offers the ability to go back in time and alter events.

But sometimes, magically, events can come up to give a person the chance not only to look back, but to finally face up to what really existed, what still exists, and get a chance to pick things up and let them become totally satisfied and completed, once and for all.

That's what One Summer of Love is all about.

It ended up being published under the byline of Fred MacDonald, in a somewhat shorter and different form than it is now being presented.

I have, for this expanded version of the book, returned its original title.

It is now the story I always wanted it to be. One Summer of Love has truly become a study of lost love, rediscovered.

PARLEY IN PASSION

This is another one of those looks behind the scenes, an exposure of the film making industry as seen through the eyes of a fella putting words to paper. As noted elsewhere, especially in my Hollywood Mysteries, it can be a tough town on those struggling young actors and even for the big named stars.

In this book I take a man I named Joe Dickerson and run him through the paces of the film-land survival course, a jungle of woman begging for parts and willing to do what is necessary to get them. And I added a super star who is Big Time Trouble for the studio. Your standard mix of players, including the lovely young actress desperately attempting to get her first break in films.

I don't know, but these kinds of complex little jaunts into the California sunset have always fascinated me. Having lived in Southern Cal all my adult life (and since I was eight years old) has given me some sense of the landscape, the scene, so to speak, and a feel as to how things truly are. I've even worked in the business as a young man. All of which makes the set-tings rather comfortable and intriguing. I have been here a number of times in real life and in fictional creations of my own making.

This story, perhaps, takes a closer look at the passions involved and the hungers that drive people to take one another out on romantic interludes and even develop a few meaningful relationships.

Ah, the wonder of romance! We all seek it; and the Industry feeds on our longing for love and our need for fascinating people and places.

So, why not offer up another rendering of the ol' tune of love and pas-sion and intrigue—Hollywood style?

It looked as if Joe Dickenson was going to make it in the film-land jun-gle. But there were nasty roadblocks. Mainly: he had to bring Carole Clem-ent into line for the studio. Then there was the problem of tearing lovely, sweet Ann, whom he had fallen in love with, from the clutches of the lust-ful Mari—and he knew it would take a master of emotions to pull it off....

Enjoy the sin of it all!

MIDNIGHT LOVERS

The jazz world has always fascinated me, and in recent years I have been really enjoying a rather interesting experience, swing dancing every week with a big swing band supplying the music (seventeen top-flight mu-sicians who have been in the business all their lives, having worked with all the major big bands in their youth—and continue to make great music in their elder years). It has been neat getting to know these men on a personal level. Their stories many times reflect my own experiences as a young man nosing around in the show-biz field.

While these musicians are all quite dedicated and serious about their music, and many happily married, there are some who "don't have a life" outside of the music. It can be a tough world to survive in, and many of their friends have been dragged down by drugs and booze. Others have been highly successful and are now rich in their semi-retirement. Music still is their center, the dedication, and their passion. Otherwise why would they still be blowin' like crazy?

I mention the above only to illustrate a point: the following story (as well with my Blues for a Dead Lover) offer up a true sense of how it is for many people in show-business.

This is a story of a musician struggling to make it at the beginning of his career. It tells what it is like to take a gig in a small town and how, well....

Glen Fletcher had worked hard to make it in the jazz world, where cas-ual relationships had been an ideal way to survive loneliness—and Ivy Turner, the combo's singer, served up "night lunches" after the last set.

For Glen the music was everything until he met Lynn Bennings. Then things changed at light speed! Sparks flew both ways. If it wasn't love at first sight it was dangerously close.

Lynn loved jazz and for some time she had had a secret crush on Glen. In fact she arranged for his combo to be signed up at the local night club in the small town her father just about owned.

And big trouble followed, for Mr. Earl Bennings would do anything to protect his daughter from fortune hunters. This was a man nobody dared to cross—for his reputation threatened deathly violence!

STAR BITCH

Hollywood has its fascination for all of us. And a quick look at some of my books being released by Wildside Press will underscore my own interest and fascination with the town as it was, as it is and as it might be.

I have lived in and around the town since I was eight years old, when the folks moved down from San Francisco to Los Angeles. Even before that I was a dedicated movie fan, since my father was able to get us in free of charge at any Fox West Coast Theater. He worked in the business and in Southern California he became even more involved while working for Pa-cific Title, which did the special effects and title credits for almost all of the major films being released in the 1940s-60s.

As a young boy I was influenced by his experiences, and then later ended up working in the Industry for a while before becoming a writer. All of this helped to influence my writing output and thereby I did a number of books located in this business, including Hollywood Mysteries, a fact book on some of the major stars at the beginning of the town's history. (This is one of the Wildside Press releases.)

As I admitted in the introduction to Sex Queen, some stories get retold; a common factor in a writer's life. Some are so fascinating to the writer that revisiting such storylines is kind of enjoyable and pleasant. But, more im-portantly, in that revisit it is possible to take a new look at things, to see the characters differently and to write a totally different take, a different story. Every book creates itself on its own terms.

This time I considered the following:

Getting ahead in Hollywood demands good looks, talent, connections, timing and youth. Missing any of those spells failure. For the established Stars the Youth Game is serious business. There are endless young actors eager to grab the starring roles.

And so I started creating my list of characters:

Take young Gloria who uses her lush body to get parts in films. She gets Joe in her sights, and is determined to have him as her agent.

That's a beginning. Now to complicate matters:

But Joe's main job is to make sure everything runs smoothly for the agency's top client, Karla, who plays men like the casting couchers play young starlets. Her game involves total domination; and she demands that Joe be her special joy-toy. She has already been making trouble at the stu-dio, so he either plays along...or else!

Sounds good.

To make matters worse, Joe is falling in love with Karla's personal as-sistant: the virginal Carol, young, innocent and anxious to get her break in show-business.

That just about lines it all up. The now the story follows.

SEX QUEEN

Sex Queen has an interesting history insofar as it involves a short event with Robert Bloch, who, among other things, was the author of the book Psycho, which Hitchcock made into the hit film by the same name.

I was at a party being given for professional writers by the editor of Galaxy Science Fiction Magazine, who was visiting Los Angeles at the time. People like Bloch and Ray Bradbury were among the guests.

We were all taking about, of all things, writing. For some reason I had the inspiration to share the statement that I was somewhat frustrated by the fact that I'd finished off this book Sex Queen in very short order. Robert Bloch's statement has stuck in my mind ever since: the trouble with that is we tend to think we should be writing books at that same rate all the time!

WOW! What a revelation. Sounds simple, and obvious. But not really.

Which brings us back to the book itself. It was something that I actually very much enjoyed writing, dealing with characters that I had fairly well-rounded in my mind. Writers do tend to re-use plots and characters. Edgar Rice Burroughs literally admitted to having written the same book seventy times (more or less). So I'm not giving any confessional that isn't fairly common with most highly productive writers.

In any case, this book wrote itself, almost. I couldn't type fast enough; I couldn't keep away from the typewriter until I had finished it off in a fury of creative energy. (I refuse to admit for publication the exact length of time it took to do the first draft!)

Of course there was a price-tag to pay for such a rapid pace of flushing words onto paper. That's a normal part of writing, too. A lot of times words won't come; which is the dreaded dry spell. The fact is: you can squeeze the well quite dry. You need time to regenerate the flow and energies and the ideas.

But sometimes the ideas just race into your mind like a dam bursting apart and flooding the valley below. Your brain just becomes overwhelmed and runs wild. Once the flood has ebbed away, it takes time to recharge itself. And that's the time of tortured hell.

If only a writer could continue racing from story to story, fanatically filling pages without stop. If I'd done that I might have written one heck of a lot more stories, but at the same time I might have dropped dead from exhaustion many years ago.

Instead, we take our lingering moments of healing rest. And sometimes we even let ourselves embrace a long retirement from the demands of full-time writing.

But no matter what we might do, there are moments in our writing ex-perience which stand out. Sex Queen is the tragic story of one woman's de-scent and another's rise. The standard Hollywood story, told again and again. People come to the town to seek stardom; all the lovely young peo-ple, eager for fame and riches. But those who make it seldom can keep it for very long.

This is a book that looks behind the scenes of the Hollywood glamour pit and exposes some of the nightmares fame and fortune can create for all the contenders for Hollywood Stardom.

KRISTA

This is a book about a young woman who lived in Germany back in the 1950s, and carries a bit of factual background offered up by my wife.

A little "historical" explanation:

Wars come and go, and they all bring their savaging elements that stay with the survivors. What does this have to do with the present book?

Well my wife is a product of the Second World War. She was a young girl born and raised in Prussia, now a part of Poland. She is German. This book probably would not exist except for that reality. Brigitte gave me the background and the sense of what Germany was like during this period. The Berlin Wall didn't alter her own lifestyle, but it was a very ugly symbol of a Germany split into East and West.

The story of Krista takes place during these early years, in the harsh af-termath of that savage time when Hitler and his gang of Nazi monsters had driven a cultured, advanced nation down the tubes into total destruction. The country was over-crowded and was still rebuilding itself from the crumbling ruins brought on by the war.

For a young woman, survival was a tough business. And because of that, Krista had been forced to continue living in her mother's home, even after the woman's death. She wanted a place of her own, but couldn't af-ford one.

Then one night alone with her step father, Krista was taught the brutal truth about life, men and sex. Now no longer a virgin, she was forced to survive on her own; even if that meant using her body like a high-class whore in the flashy modeling business.

It is, also, a romantic story, almost a Cinderella tale of a girl who finds a way up through the nasty sink-hole around her and into the arms of the one man who has the power to....

Oh, sure, another one of those romantic fantasies. But it was written for a publisher who was releasing original books that were supposed to have been written elsewhere in the world. Apparent translations.

Now that's a horrid professional confession, a look behind-the-scenes of the writer's life. If you want to make a living putting words to paper you find a way to get them arranged in such a manner that pleases the publisher and those readers who buy the book.

BLUES FOR A DEAD LOVER

Blues for a Dead Lover was written early in my career, and based on a nightmare idea!

It all started when I was engaged to my future wife, and she returned to Germany to visit her family. It was our first real separation. What if she never returned? After all, marrying me would mean living in America, iso-lated from her family. It was a serious move. What if she decided to stay there, and never come back to me?

That haunted me. I ended up considering it a great concept for a book. Well a germ, anyway.

Just shows you the evil twist of a writer's mind. Even nightmares turn into story ideas. Heck, writers use every sense and awareness and experi-ence as basic food to mentally digest into story plotlines.

Well, back to the nightmare.

What if Brigitte never returned to America?

Of course, said my ego, it wouldn't be because she didn't want to? So, of course, she would want to return.

But: what if it was beyond her control? What if...what?

Well. She might be killed! Why not consider that kind of nightmare possibility?

Are there no limits to the imagination? No shame? Apparently I'd rather have her dead than happily somewhere else in the arms of another man!

Yes. Come to think of it. I suppose that was my attitude. Better dead than thrilling to another lover's touch!

Horrid thought, that!

I needed to write a book about it all. Get the bitter images out of my mind! And so I did, somewhat scrambled and changed and all that. Naturally. I wasn't about to create real-life events, I wasn't interested in offering up some kind of bio-material to the vast public at large.

But in re-reading the book I realized I had used some real-life touches in the story. Brigitte was there in the opening passages; there are elements of real-life events. But, of course, hidden within the story background.

I had devised a leading character who was not a writer but a jazz musi-cian.

I focused the question in my mind: What does a person do when they lose the most important thing in their life?

This, of course, was the theme of the story.

Then I offered up the background and setting: A story of a man's jour-ney through hell to happiness set on a stage of show business and Las Ve-gas in the '60s. This was the town of the Sands and the Clan and the big swingers. Glamour USA!

Next came the details:

Bill Carter's life was the world of jazz, blowing a trumpet, and his ca-reer was blooming, and soon he'd be married. Everything looked wonder-ful, at last.

Then the accident happened, and his life was crushed, career, and eve-rything went down the tubes in a rush to escape the pain.

It is also the story of his rediscovery of love, and how he ended up re-building his life.

To me this is a story based on a romantic notion and a nightmare and a sense that life does, and must, go on in its own fashion to bring about the healing process. Life is full of blues for lost loves, for lost people, for lost elements that were and remain so very important to our living experience.

BORN TO BE LOVED

This is the story of a young man seeking a second chance in life; a new beginning. And when his uncle Ben offers him a job in Hollywood, he leaps at the chance.

That is basically the concept that I started out with in writing this book.

For some reason I especially liked the opening of the book. It is a scene where we meet our hero, and learn something about his background and attitude towards women.

The setting is a small motel at a tiny wayside gas-stop, in the middle of the California desert. There's a coffee shop and a lonely young waitress tossed in for good measure.

The young lady is a prime example of the girl trapped in a nowhere place, desperately isolated and hungry just to be held, cared for, loved.

What would happen when the two met?

Like I suggest, this is a scene that sets up the character of Johnny, our hero. Nothing more.

James Dean and the young Paul Newman were big in films around the time of the book's original writing. Not that the Johnny in this book was anything as dynamic as either of these actors in real or imagined life. But I kind of think that Johnny might have thought of himself in that way. Lean, attractive to women, young and old. He is, in reality, somewhat of an "es-cort" for hire, when the story opens. And he wants out of that gig!

So he comes to Hollywood to get a fresh start, after years of living off lonely widows as their paid lover. This was a new beginning; and he is de-termined to make the most of this chance for a new life, a new beginning.

But, of course, life isn't all that simple.

And so the complications begin!

Things might have worked out, if his uncle's young wife, Laura, hadn't wanted him as a lover. He instantly realized this was another trap!

Uncle Ben was a dangerous and violent man, with underworld connec-tions.

In desperation to break free of Laura, he becomes involved with one of the strippers working for the club, then more seriously with a struggling young actress who has made the wrong kind of films—for his uncle!

But Laura won't stop making demands on him, and all hell breaks loose when Ben discovers the truth!

A novel which exposes the terrible price that life can inflict on people desperate to have a second chance.

SEX IS MY BUSINESS

Small town, U.S.A. has been picked on and torn apart, rendered low-class, snobby, closed, narrow-minded, sometimes religiously conservative and sometimes called Hicksville by the city folk that looked down upon them.

I've done my subtle—and not so subtle—knocking at the edges of the-se types of closed societies. I've let some of my characters rave and rant about Small Town, USA, as they did in One Summer of Happiness.

In this book I offer a different view on middle America. It takes place in a town filled with social climbers.

Originally this story was left half-complete in my files, then one day I got a phone call from a publisher wanting a book and remembered this one, pulled it out and found myself captured and intrigued. It was all fresh, now, in my mind. I really wanted to find out what happened next. A prime quality of any story: the desire it inspires in the reader to move to the next scene in an effort to learn more about the characters and conflict and mystery of it all.

Ah, this was going to be fun to complete, I realized.

I had as a central character James Haden, who is trying to make it in Kilman Enterprises, run by the man who all but owns the town. People are willing to sell themselves out to the highest bidder and if necessary seduce those in power to help them up the ladder. Even marriages are calculated career makers. The only place love had in their lives was the power it brought into their hands.

And somebody is willing to do anything necessary to protect their own slice of success, even, perhaps, commit murder!

That's the background. The complication that starts things out is the discovery of the dead body in the Kilman home. It is a shock that shoots through the town like wildfire.

The police suspect foul play; and only the police are able to sort things out.

Against this background James Haden is in love with, and is deter-mined to marry, his boss' daughter, Janet Kilman. This budding romance is suspect, not only by her father, but everybody else involved. But other power players have their take on this matter and their own counter-plans.

The company manager, Gordon Fuller, for one, wants Janet for himself.

And the boss' new young bride, Irene, is determined to keep her place secured at all cost. And at the same time make a play for James as a lover. She had married to gain social status and power, and made no effort to hide that reality to anybody that got in her way. Ol' Man Kilman had wanted a young woman and she made her deal to be his toy-bride. And nobody dared to challenge that position. She was a very powerful player all on her own, and needed to be catered to, on her terms.

Sex is My Business exposes some of the wicked and damning things people will do to get to the top—and stay there!

SYNDICATE WOMAN

There are many ways of getting ideas for a story. Some writers wait for inspiration. Others find ideas diving in at them from all directions, drown-ing their ability to pick one idea over another. Some wait very, very long periods of time for that momentary instant when the mental light bulb pops brightly in their creative well and inspires another masterpiece.

That latter choice is not used by a full-time freelance writer. Well, sel-dom, anyway!

A very famous song writer stated that his answer concerning "where do you get your ideas" was when the phone rings. Meaning, simply: he didn't worry about such matters until somebody called to give him an assignment for a new song.

Well, the free-lance writer is in much the same position. When the phone rings it is best to be ready with a number of ideas. Or be able to in-vent one on the spot, based on the publisher's immediate needs.

I had a simple trick I used under almost all conditions when I sat down to writing: find a destination, a concluding point, then make a list of char-acters and then begin writing the opening scene. I would start with a couple of people who in their conversation and action reveal to the reader the basic plot issues that will drive these people down a road that won't end until the last period of the story. I started by writing a neat, well-rounded narrative hook, a paragraph or so that catches the reader's attention and hooks them with a cute little snapper.

In this case I had an opening that set things up and I knew exactly, gen-erally speaking, where I'd be heading and then I let my characters be pre-sented on the set—paper—and let them do their thing.

The woman had been murdered in her bedroom. And Robert Bradley was determined to find those responsible! He came to Hollywood to learn the truth.

To his shock he learned that the dead woman had said:

"Hollywood is a horrible snare for young women like us. If you get in the right crowd you sleep your way up to fame. If you get in the wrong crowd, you sleep your way down into the gutter. If you're lucky you get some permanent relationship like mine. And what happens? It's a trap, too. The worst kind of trap. Because you can't get out; you can't get what you came to Hollywood for in the first place. So I'm a high class little prosti-tute. That's what all of us are!"

Into this world Robert Bradley probed until he became a danger to powerful men. If he got too close they would kill him, too.

Murder, revenge and passion mix to expose the call-girl racket and strip it down to its raw bones—a nasty look at the beautiful, expensive young women and the price they pay as high-class prostitutes that only rich men can afford.

JEAN

This has a number of things I like. It was originally titled Illicit Beds and had a cover by my father on it. But that has nothing to do with my liking the book. This one had to do with a Mr. Winter, who is a character in the book. His name, first of all, is a combination of my wife's maiden name, Winter, and my uncle Carl's first name, given the German version of Karl.

It is common for a writer to use people they know as characters in their stories, altered enough to never reveal their true identity, even to them-selves. Generally I attempt to avoid basing my fictional folk on real-life people I know. But in this case it was too much of a temptation to capture something which was rather delightful and fitting.

A short explanation.

My uncle Carl was my father's older brother, and old enough to have been my grandfather, as it turns out, and in many ways he filled that role in my childhood. He was in his eighties when he died "the ol' man of the mountains" as he had once called himself. For many years he lived in Lake Arrowhead, a mountain resort not far from Los Angeles, which now and then would even get snowed in during the winter. It is a popular place for skiers.

That is of little import concerning my using him here. It just happens that I needed an elder man, who would be likeable and able to tell a very important story that was to become a basic element of the book's theme. It is about second chances and, even more importantly, not missing out of something important because of social pressures pushing you to do so.

So I devised this fella who told a story about his experiences as a young man in Germany. Why Germany? Because, like many others, I'm German by descent. And thus Uncle Carl was very Germanic. But more important-ly, fencing has always been a sport that fascinated me. German saber fenc-ing was at one time, and maybe even today in a limited sense, a standard challenge for some upper class males. In fact, they fought with naked blades with the idea of literally drawing blood—though not on a dangerous level. It was considered a kind of badge of honor to have a scar on one's cheek. A rather cheeky kind of honor, has always been my somewhat doubtful thinking concerning the matter. But that's the way it was. And I used this as a part of the story that Karl Winter told a bunch of eager young listeners. He was based a lot on my memories of my uncle, a charming, in-telligent story teller, very much like the one in this book.

I wanted to examine the following issues:

We all make the mistake of running from ourselves, or simply refusing to act positively on events we live through and end up losing the most im-portant things in our lives.

Escape had been Jean's life theme, and now she was running again, not facing reality, not facing what she was, not even knowing, for certain, if she was normal or....

It was ironic, Jean realized. She had gone to New York with the pur-pose of forgetting Al Gordon.

Three years in New York had become a worse kind of hell. Loneliness was followed by a sordid, perverted affair—and now she was returning home in a desperate effort to prove that love could come to the kind of woman she had become.

This is a story that probes deep into the torment of a woman's mind and emotions as she attempts to escape a past she wants to forget. She runs from one sordid affair into another kind of passionate web in the arms of a man she hardly knows!

NEVER IN HER ARMS

I just happened to like this title, for it implies so much. If the story lives up to those implications I don't know. But it was one of those books which kind of wrote itself.

What we have here is one of those contemporary tales about people try-ing to climb from nowhere to success. And it shows how there are different kinds of love. Some which are positive and others dangerous nightmares.

This is a study of how a woman can totally capture a man's hunger and feast on his soul to satisfy her own selfish needs.

Paula Martin becomes an obsessive object of desire to our hero, Peter Scott. To make things worse, she's his bosses' sister-in-law, and has the power to make or break his career.

To me, as a writer, that's interesting enough. I'll confess: I'd hate to have a lovely lady like this tossing herself into my arms and saying: I'm yours, luv, no questions asked. Let's have some fun!

One can't blame any man finding her attractive and desirable; and thus it is easy enough to understand my hero's attraction to her.

Never in Her Arms reveals how obsession can shatter relationships and create havoc in the lives of those it touches. It is, also, a story of romance and ambition, for it tells the story of an ambitious young man in love....

Peter, for the first time in his life, was facing great changes and chal-lenges. A new job, and what seemed a wonderful future with Joanne Nes-tor, a sweet enough woman he'd known for years. She was a nice compan-ion and caring lover and they planned on someday getting married.

But, of course, nothing is that simple.

Paula had ideas of her own. When she met Peter it was instant desire. The overwhelming attraction ran both ways. After their first night together he knew what had been missing with Joanne: wild, unrestrained passion. Paula was like an addictive drug, and a dangerously unstable female. And once her claws had sunk deeply into his soul he was lost in a whirlpool of crazed hunger that wouldn't let go.

Escape would come at a terrible price! And murder could follow!

When tragedy struck, Ann Fenneran, his secretary, became an excep-tionally caring person. And it was soon obvious she was in love with Peter.

Now tell me, what else does one need to read on?

THE BODY MERCHANTS

Maybe I shouldn't confess too much about this book. Other than, of course, admit it was my first novel. But there's a long story that goes with it, for the book originally came out one way, then another that cut some material and added some, and much of that was returned in this version. To say that much of those alternative editions had more to do with editorial policy than the author's personal desires should underscore that this edition could be called: the author's cut!

I've had a chance, after so many years, to approach the book with a fresh look and have literally done some much desired revamping. The story has not changed, just the telling of it has been smoothed out and become the book I wanted it to be, short of starting fresh and writing a totally dif-ferent book. But then, I'd have two books instead of one. A somewhat confusing detail that would have forced me to release each under a differ-ent title, for each would be, in reality, a different book.

It was easier, and to me far more desirable, to simply redress this one to suit my fancy.

Hopefully it suits the reader's fancy, too.

It is about a man name Barry and two women by the names of Joan and Ann. Plus a nasty little man who owned them all, body and soul. It is, also, the story of how they found a path out of the tangled mess their lives had become and...well....

They had all taken the easy road to quick money, only to be trapped in the terrible grip of the body merchants. And freedom would involve mur-der!

And here they are:

Barry: who took the job to make fast money, no questions asked—but piloting a hot cargo of call girls proved too much for him—especially when he discovered love in the arms of the wrong woman.

Joan: who was a professional photographer, over-sexed, craving drink and a man's caresses—any man's. She had been sucked in by the good life. Then one night she met Barry, the only man she could ever love.

Ann: the lovely blonde innocent. The image belied her role—mistress of a vicious mobster who needed women as toys and then as products to sell at top dollar as high priced call-girls.

Blacky: who was tough, heartless. He owned all of them, crushing their lives in his evil, cruel grip.

And on a wild plane ride they would finally clash in a dramatic climax to claim redemption and freedom—at a terrible price!

Well, that kinda sets things up.

HOLLYWOOD NYMPH

Okay, another tale of the Hollywood type, but with a bit of a different spin and approach. Sure, it relates how a woman climbs from the bottom rung of the success ladder and moves her way up to the top to get the gold ring. That's how stories are, generally, organized. A character with a strong enough desire to overcome all the hardships and roadblocks that slam down into place to defeat them! One can never tell, for certain, if the author is leading the reader down the road towards a downbeat ending or to a won-derful illustration of success! The not knowing is what keeps everybody struggling through the jungle of words to the last ones.

In this book I offer up a woman who comes to Hollywood and discov-ers a way to beat a system that devours talent like a hungry tiger. It is over-loaded with too many actors seeking the limited roles being offered. It takes more than just talent, or being at the right place at the right time. It is necessary to have the right connections to succeed in such a tough, compet-itive business. And sometimes it is necessary to do desperate things to cre-ate those connections.

Take Ruth:

She was the plaything of any man willing to promote her! But that was the price for Hollywood Stardom!

There are certain elements which make stars. A little guts, a little luck. But more than that. The willingness to do anything to get on top.

Ruth got there—at a price!

She was destined to conquer Hollywood, the hard way, up through the beds of important men. Hers is the story of a brutal woman who used her body; and who used men like most people drove cars—when one wore out, she picked another.

A frank, honest exposé which strips the silver from the silver screen, revealing the tarnished, perverted by-paths that demand full attention on the road to stardom.

That's the promo-copy, but in reality I was interested in studying some ideas based on a rumor I'd heard.

There is a very famous star of old, now long dead, who apparently made stag films long before her name was big enough to appear over the title of a film. Once on top it was not only desirable, but desperately im-portant to her, to get those films out of circulation and destroy the nega-tives.

At least, that's the story I was told as a young lad by my father, who had heard it whispered somewhat loudly. It was a rumor circulating in the film industry.

True or not, I wondered: what kind of woman might actually get sucked into this kind of ugly trap, and how would she get from that nasty beginning to stardom?

So, I wrote the following book.

FLUFF

A word of advice. This collection is called Fluff for a very good reason, which will become clear enough after a while. There is nothing really all that serious here. Just short things that got published for one reason or an-other a number of decades ago. They are illustrative of the so-called "adult" field of the mid-twentieth century.

This is a collection of light seductions published in what was in the 1960s considered girlie magazines. A lot of pictures of partly nude (from the waist up, natch) ladies of breasty development, surrounding stories of equally revealing subject matter. The editorial requirements were tales around 3,000 words that involved at least one lady being shown as bare as possible and then ravished in some way or another, to the delight of the he-ro of the story. In some cases there were short articles, serious and other-wise. But this was the pulp field for beginning writers or full time profes-sionals knocking out pages filled with swiftly typed copy.

And Alex Blake, John Davidson, Stu Rivers, Lex Lexington, C. A. Ning, Alexis Charles, are just a few of the pen names offered up as bylines to confuse and confound the massive audience who generally ignored the words in favor of the lovely visions of half-naked vamps of rather voluptu-ous development that stared out from every page in seductive invitation.

This is where I began my writing career. I offer these stories as an ex-ample of the times, and hopefully some very light fluffy reading for the reader. Most were written during my first year as a writer, for later, once I sold my first pocket book novel, I discovered longer stories were more ide-ally suited to my wordy style. I wrote very little short fiction after that, much of which is now being offered as a separate book by Wildside Press.

It was a grand way to learn how to write and at the same time getting paid hard cash for my efforts.

Here we supply a number of such stories, many of them merely pure seductive fluff, a few with a bit more meat to them. I promise little more than a momentary escape into the fantasyland of seductive females being chased after by desperate young men out to discover the thrill they can share together.

Ah, the magic of it all.

But, never the less, pure fluff.

DIMENSIONS: PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE

The following collection of stories is a result of a number of publishing ventures.

My book Images of Tomorrow was released by Powell Sci-Fi way back in the late 1960s; it contained most of my previously published sci-fi, in-cluding The Ersatz in a somewhat different version than is now being of-fered in book form by Wildside Press (this volume also includes an original story, "The Talisman").

In Dimensions I'm adding tales that take place in the Past, Present and Future, along with a number of never before published sci-fi stories for the section titled New Dimensions.

A casual glace at the titles in all these "dimensions" reveals my main interest as a writer was in the sci-fi world! But there are a number of other stories which are being offered up here as a cross-section of my writing ca-reer—and reflected by longer works offered by Wildside Press.

I started writing shortly after the pulp craze in the science-fiction world had died down. My agent directed me to what was, at that time, the new "pulp" field: the girlie magazines. Well the top of that line was Playboy, of course, which tended to ignore my literary talents. But I managed to sur-vive to get something like more than four million words in print over the following years. A small number of those words appearing in these maga-zines. (Fluff, also being released by Wildside, is a collection of some thirty such "treasures"—as a light-hearted illustration of how things were way-back-when in that "pulp field"!) I soon learned, in my second year of writ-ing, that I felt far more comfortable in longer lengths and did most of my writing thereafter in short novel from.

Much of my early experiences in writing and publishing are fairly well covered in the interviews on my website, Haldolen.com. In my Egomania page are the following comments concerning my career:

I was lucky enough not only in selling my work to publishers but also ending up packaging books for some of them, and finally becoming a "pub-lisher" much like those who had bought my first novels. From there it was a simple leap to editing not only a sci-fi anthology, but a line of sci-fi books for Powell Publications. Throughout these active professional years I had the chance to design covers and do graphic layouts for pocket books and magazines.

My father, Albert Augustus Nuetzel, was a professional commercial artist all his life, and he ended up selling a number of covers to sci-fi maga-zines such as Amazing Stories, Fantastic Stories, Fantasy & Science Fiction, Famous Monsters of Filmland, plus a number of pocket book covers. We became a team, selling art and manuscripts to publishers and finally being able to make our own deals, and package books. I have used his art on much of the work offered the present publisher.

Hopefully something here will be amusing and entertaining to the read-er.

INTROS THAT NEVER WERE

The following are Introductions done especially for the book "Pocket-book Writer: Confessions of a Commercial Hack" – Wildside Press).

In each case this is material which could not be placed in the books themselves, since each contained an fictionalized Introduction, which was part of the storyline.

So here they are, offering the inside storylines concerning the following books.

TORLO HANNIS OF NOOMAS

I need not tell the obvious about this book. The Introduction in the nov-el was, in reality, a part of the fiction. But of course any normal reader would swiftly come to that conclusion after a bit of reading. Introductions of this nature were common for these kinds of books, and still are to some extent. The illusion is to create a fantasy world around the story about to be related. Of course, the fiction is that my Introduction was fiction, after all, could I possibly allow a lie to be published as fact? Hardly. Natch. Of course. Truth is truth and fiction is fiction and never will the two meet ex-cept in fiction.

Or fictional Introductions.

Now to the factual one.

I was always an Edgar Rice Burroughs fan, as I've evidenced many times in this book. Maybe "always" stretches my point. Fact is, from the moment I picked up A Princess of Mars I was hooked and sucked in for the life of me, and still clingin' to those fab cliffhangers. Well, hangin' by my fingernails, anyway. Fingertips? Well, still hangin'!

There is a link between Slaves of Lomooro and the Noomas books. Un-abashedly, I'll confess all at this time.

The Lomooro novel was my first sci-fi attempt and it hung in limbo for a while. When I decided to allow it to be run to the printing office of Pow-ell Publications it was just after my father's death and I assigned my late twin-brother's name as a pen name to it and dedicated the whole thing to my surviving mother. All an inside kind of thing. But, perhaps, of some minor interest.

This all leads to the fact that there are some elements that were expand-ed on in Torlo Hannis of Noomas (originally published as Warriors of Noomas and Raiders of Noomas but was actually intended to be one story about Torlo Hannis and his romantic adventures that won the woman of his life). This story contained implications that at least a couple of additional books were to follow; which were never written at that time. Right now Slavegirl of Noomas is in the process of being polished off, to be presented as an original novel for Wildside Press release, at the publisher's request. It is the in-between book of what might simply be called "The Noomas Trilo-gy" since a third novel is planned in the near future to round out this series. Both of these latter novels are being done in collaboration with Heidi Gar-rett, a woman who has been a great help in converting many of these newly revamped versions of books lost in time, which Wildside Press has been reprinting. In the development of original material it became a total collab-oration and a delight to write with her.

But I think I've gotten off of the track.

The Noomas books took some elements from the Lomooro novel and in effect were a revamping and revision and reworking and out-right stealing of the material that became more fully offered up in this novel.

The desert raiders were a major bit of grabbin' for greater development. This is not to degrade the Lomooro novel, but merely to point out how a writer can take from the vast universe of literary works by all kinds of writ-ers and genres and even from himself (or herself, depending on the sexual dedication of the author) to be adapted in a new and hopefully fresh way.

I always wanted to finish the Noomas saga and am delighted that Rob-ert Reginald, who originally convinced me to do so, came across an ideal method of doing just that!

So Torlo Hannis of Noomas is now the first of the Noomas Trilogy be-ing offered by Wildside Press, and I think I'm gonna be delighted with the results.

The saga of Torlo was concluded in two books, written recently with Heidi Garrett: "Slavegirl of Noomas" and "Conquest of Noomas" – that latter a 500 page smashing closer to the Noomas Chronicles.

HOLLYWOOD MYSTERIES

Hollywood, oh, Hollywood, that down and dirty city of vice and sin made movie making famous the world over. The mysteries in this book were fashioned out of true-life murders in Hollywood that were never, real-ly fully resolved. The original version, titled Whodunit? Hollywood Style, was done on assignment for the short-lived publisher, Book Company of America.

There is a lot I could say about the book and the publisher, pro and con. It all happened as a result of a woman who knew one of those involved with BCOA and introduced my father to the publisher as a possible cover-artist. An interesting turn of events, as it developed. For Dad recommended his son as a writer! Well, talk about reverse recommendations! I'd literally been responsible for promoting all of his cover work, since the first sci-fi magazine covers right through to the final ones he would do for Powell Publications shortly before his death in 1969, one month, almost to the day, of man's setting foot on the moon.

I could run the previous Introduction to the Hollywood book here, since it was a true Intro, but figured it would be nicer to simply create this new one, in order to give some background material that is not evident in the book itself.

So, back to the story. The publisher offered me a contract on a book about Hollywood. They set the subject matter and theme. And thus this came about. There's a short publishing history involved with it.

First it came out as:

Whodunit? Hollywood Style.

Then it was released in Europe as part of a hardcover book (which also contained two fiction novels on Hollywood), in both French and Dutch.

Later, I had it republished here as Hollywood Mysteries, minus the Thelma Todd chapter.

Now it is called:

True Stories of Scandal and Hollywood Mysteries, fully revamped and updated, including once again the Thelma Todd section.

Always fun and games to play with things that were once polished off and now can be viewed with fresh eyes. Not everyone has this delightful opportunity to take advantage of a second (or third or fourth?) rewrite to make much-desired improvements.

And thus it is that one ends up tampering with projects from the past and making them even "better" for the present and future.

Hopefully so. Of course.

But the Hollywood book has a couple of extra little follow-up events after its original publication. I was still living in Hollywood—of all plac-es—at the time of its writing and publication, when I got a phone-call that was somewhat "unnerving" to say the least. The voice on the other end was furious!

This event related to the following:

I'd mentioned, within the framework of the book, that fans would many times rather have their heroes survive death, even if ending up as basket-cases hidden away from public view and/or awareness of their continued existence in such a terrible physical condition. Heck, even famous long-time surviving actresses, such as Greta Garbo and Marlene Dietrich, to name just two, who had been famous for their beauty in films tended to, over the years, fade away from public view. They didn't want the public to see ravages of age that had distorted their images of youth that had made them so famous on film. They wanted to preserve their reputation as young and lovely.

I told the story of Glenn Miller's reported death during World War II. His big band was famous previous to the war and ultimately its music be-came the very theme that represented those war years in the public mind. He had joined the Army in order to bring his music to the troops, thereby he'd organized a fantastic band of top-flight musicians who had either joined or been drafted into the armed services. This organization had the pick of musicians; many who survived to become famous on their own in later years! Glenn Miller was reported as missing in action. His body was never recovered. And the theories concerning his death have remained just that: a mystery. The generally accepted conclusion was he was shot down over the ocean between London and Paris by enemy or friendly fire—the latter being the most reasonably considered modern theory. But one of the popular theories over the years by fans who were in denial as to his actual fate, suggested the famous band leader was really existing somewhere, a basket case, hidden from public view, claiming death, rather than letting anybody know the truth. I reported this latter as one of those horrid distor-tions and offered it as a prime example of how people simply refused to accept such tragic deaths of their heroes. Instead they came up with these kinds of nightmarish concepts.

And then there was James Dean. Oh, that sad young man whose won-derful career was shattered short during the making of his third big film, Giant, when he was involved in a terrible auto accident, in Southern Cali-fornia. Of course, fans didn't want him to be really, actually, in fact, dead! Another basket case, I suggested, with tongue thrust sadly through both cheeks in a snide reflection as to the depths that fans will go in their denial of evidence to the contrary. And Dean's death had hard evidence; no body disappearing into thin air. But some fans will believe what they want to, regardless of the facts.

In the book I had been dealing with exposing such rumors.

Fair enough. Still, I got a phone call from somebody who was furious that I would claim James Dean was a basket case, and wanted to know where I got that information. I was more than shaken a bit. Nonetheless, I managed to explain what I'd actually said and was pointing out the habits of fans creating unwarranted rumors. I had a few moments when I won-dered if some gang of furious fans would turn up to pound me into the ce-ment of some dark and dank night alley. You can rest assured that I avoid-ed dark and dank alleys, even during the daylight hours. I wasn't about to take any chances.

There are a few other moments of interest involving the book.

I was told by a man who, I knew for a fact, had hard evidence that Marilyn Monroe had been calling Washington, DC the night of her death, and was attempting to connect with the President or his brother Bobby—and perhaps had. I knew a bit more than I recorded in the book, only adding there had been a call to DC. I'd been warned not to reveal any more. And this was years before such information became common public knowledge. I had, also, met Fatty Arbuckle's widow, Minta, at a private party given by my parents. But never interviewed her for the book, a bloody mistake, I suppose.

Such are the little items of business behind the scenes insofar as writing is concerned.

In this book, as an added confession: the publisher's demand was to leave each section with an "open-ended" concept, a mystery un-solved. Well, that wasn't very difficult in the long run.

In the present edition I updated much of the book and gave some new material to each section. So in this version it is far more complete and satis-fying as a story about the Hollywood of the early years when the town was the center of the movie industry.

Today, well, Hollywood is more of a symbol that represents the idea of film making, and has become more universalized over the decades to in-clude the whole world not only in location but also in creative efforts that bring movies to Planet Earth.

Still the "sins" of those early decades are evident even today, for hu-man beings are much the same, with much the same hungers and frustrations. If anything, the madness of greed and lust for ever more tantalizing pleasures has escalated to enormous proportions. The now fill all the newly creative forms of visual technologies of today, from mega monstrous screens to tiny pocket devices, penetrating all our living spaces both public and private, hardly anything left to our imaginations. Celebrities become not only larger than life, but a part of our living "family experience" on an every day basis. The news media of today has penetrated into the Internet and combined with nasty tabloids style gossip. All this feasts on the false rumors and distortions of truth and most of all invasions of privacy. For the long telescopic lenses connected to cameras aimed right into the celebrity's bedrooms seek out naked reality wherever it can be exposed. Without shame or concern for personal feelings. If one seeks fame their lives are on public display. That's the rationalization, coupled with: ya pay a price tag for fame, like it or not.

Rumor and facts never make any attempt to do less than blur reality. And those who are targets become victims of their own fame in ways never imagined possible in the beginning years. The rich and famous have always been a target of public imagination and interest, but today it has become such a tragic invasion of their private lives that it creates havoc not only for the film industry but for our political leaders, as well. Not to mention, ex-ecutive, spiritual, commercial, editorial, and cultural leaders—to name a few strongly influential power blocs that have a hand in shaping our world today.

There are few secrets that can't be distorted and lied about that the me-dia doesn't greedily seek to exploit.

So maybe I should step down off of my verbosely out of context soap-box and get back to the business of hacking books, my personal specialty.

What I'm trying to say is that this book is a sampling of how it was in the beginnings of the twentieth century, when the film industry was still quite young and developing into what ultimately has become a vast interna-tional net of complex media exploitation.

I have offered in Hollywood Mysteries some views of how it was and is and will continue to be worldwide for those who seek fame. For the public always has an inquiring mind that demands intimate, even if not true an-swers!

THE EPIC DIALOGS OF MHYO

I never, generally, went for the artsy kind of literary writing. At least that's been my claim. I never attempted to write literature beyond the commercial knock-em-out stories—as a "hack" paperback writer. Which, to me, meant, hopefully to write something that was entertaining and not expect more than offering the audience a few moments of enjoyable escape. Not certain where all that came from. Perhaps a bit of the influence my father had on me. He was commercial, commercial and commercial, favoring the use of his talent to reach the people with what they wanted, rather than attempt to be "instructive" or "artsy" in the so-called classical sense of the world. Though he had his moments when his artwork was hung in various collector's showcases and galleries. At least one found its way into San Francisco's Legion of Honor. But that wasn't his goal and this was drummed into me for as long as I remember. Dad didn't go for attic painting done to please a few, but rather using his talent to make a living and be commercially successful artist.

Well, be that as it may, it certainly put me on the commercial side of the creative fence.

Ah, but we all fall into traps and standardized holes even against our wills. To be truthful, I always tried to say something useful in my writing. Better me than the next fellow, who might not be as attentive in such mat-ters of pubic illumination.

I was, in life, many times affected by what a writer had to say. Even the Edgar Rice Burroughs books, which the author admitted to as being escape novels, had their strong effect over my young mind. There is very little that I have read which didn't feed me with some valued viewpoint or idea.

That's the very nature of writing—expressing one's ideas.

Expounding on my own ideas through my writing is self-evident, if you haven't noticed, by now. It is just about impossible to avoid expressing one's personal concept of the world when writing. Bringing it down to the basics, all we can add to a written story or article is something from our own experience or at the very least our own concept of life. Even in the most unbiased news article, the inclusion or exclusion of miniscule facts does not make it any more or less true, but it tells something about those who put out the article; what bias, what facts, they want the public to be informed about.

We develop ideas in the very act of living; and, in the process of writ-ing, such conclusions and concepts creep their way into our written words. Like it or not, we write what we are, nothing more, nothing less.

We all are obsessed with communicating ideas and, if smart enough, seek the widest possible audience to reach!

Simply put: writers tend to want to say something they consider im-portant, and they do it one way or the other. Editors may very well hack such stuff out of existence before it gets into print.

So, always beware, as a writer, to hide your precious hammer-headed life lessons or conclusions in way as to make them almost unseen. Or if seen, viewed only within the context of entertaining material which is so compulsively designed that the reader will absorb it all without realizing their minds have been so invaded by the writer.

The Epic Dialogs of Mhyo was one of my very few, if not, perhaps, my only, leap into any attempt to be "silly-serious" about my writing. Well, okay. Originally, the thematic ideas originated from notes I had made throughout therapy over a period of time many years ago. I put those notes into a question and answer form and then gave the dialog a bit more per-sonality by applying it to characters and expanding on that as a result of each character's character. Then, to make things a little more readable, I expanded it all out into a kind of fictional plot structure that allowed some humor. The original Q&A sequences were broken into scenes and then ex-panded. At the same time I found it necessary to cut, cut and cut some more in order to simplify complicated and convoluted and even redundant concepts which were plaguing the whole bloody thing.

After some 20,000 words I called it, for lack of a better title, The Wall Book—don't ask why, just a matter of giving it some working title. By that time, a concept of Talking Walls materialized.

But The Wall Book had become something of a wallflower tucked away in a dusty file and lost for around ten to twenty years, I suppose. I attended to it from time to time, gradually considering it such a wonderful masterful literary bit of business that I simply had to find some way to make used of it. But what? How? It had a lot of basically good material and a lot of quotable stuff. Enough to power countless stories and/or books. However, I wasn't interested in doing more writing, and certainly not a series of books. So it kept festering in the backwoods of my files and churning in my mind. What to do with it? Expand or contract? It was so complicated and convo-luted.

There is a lot more I could say involving the process from the earlier version to the final one, but it would all boil down to my decision, for bet-ter or worse, to simply go for one single story, and to condense what I had in the course of finalization of the bloody thing.

So I called it The Epic Dialogs of Mhyo and went about condensing and cutting and re-polishing and adding the sub-plot.

The final style of a "document found in a little shop in India" was a great "invention" which made it possible to convert everything into its pre-sent form. And more importantly make it possible to write the different pieces, with the computer word-processor I now had, simply jumping around and putting down what seemed necessary to make my points as di-gestible as possible. I could tongue-in-cheek it all, I could make a lot of short clips which worked for me, and never have to write something I didn't wanna bother with 'cause I could use the brackets to indicate miss-ing parts [...] in the crumbling document. All I had to do was make certain that what was actually written made sense as far as it went. I even had some fun in making a satire of porno, while at the same time sticking my mental pin into the balloon of high-minded censors! And also avoid having to write porno, which I wasn't in the mood to do, especially under my own byline.

And thus came out an "arty poo" fairytale designed for a more adult's mind than a child's with the following challenge at the front end of the sto-ry, now a part of the back cover lines:

This is an "adult fairy tale" concerning an ancient document discovered in a small shop in India. Or it is an ancient document discovered in a small shop in India, here published as an "adult fairy tale." Well, even the pub-lisher couldn't get that one right!

But most of all there are the Walls that Speak, including the most pow-erful, popular Wall of all: GODWALL; and the most deadly of all the Walls, DEATHWALL, itself!

Do you dare to continue?

SLAVEGIRL OF NOOMAS

The long awaited sequel to the Torlo Hannis story! How exciting that sounds in print. Even verbally spoken.

It has been, in truth, a long time in coming about, and would never have happened but for the suggestion of Robert Reginald! And I would not have gone about writing an original book at this time without some serious col-laboration. As it turns out, Heidi Garrett has been a great help in proofing a number of my e-books in the last few years, and has gotten to know my style of writing and thinking to such an extent that I felt totally comfortable in saying: "Hey, if you think something needs cutting or editing, go right ahead and do your thing!" And for the most part I never looked back, feeling safe with her work. I had been busy updating and revising and adding new material to a number of these stories, so I was quite busy. Her efforts on my behalf made things much easier.

So, when it came about dealing with doing a sequel to Torlo Hannis of Noomas I decided to ask for her help before committing to it. We had talked about doing some story together for a long time, and this seemed a very logical place to do just that. Heidi came up with so many ideas and suggestions in the development of the storyline that it was obvious we were in fact already collaborating,

Collaborations are done in a number of ways. Usually there's a top-dog and an underling. To make things very confusing, there are some basic rules concerning all this. If somebody hires a writer but wants to take full credit, then it is ghost-written and the real writer is not even listed. In the case where a writer is hired to do a book for somebody else, but given co-author credit, then their name is under the author's "famous" person's name. If it is written in collaboration between two writers, but one doing most of the work (or perhaps book is based on something that writer has previously done) then that writer's name goes on top. Perhaps. Maybe. Sometimes you just bow to alphabetical order of name. Or ladies first, perhaps? Now we are set with some confusion: is the bottom name the main writer or the secondary one? All depends, as we have seen.

Sometimes a new pen name will be invented to take into consideration both names.

Ah, the illusion of it all, and the confusion to boot.

In this case we've decided original author, first draft writer first. Now that might be because I'm an uncaring bully of a fella, or simply a matter of truth in action.

But it does not in any way reflect a lessening of influence or degree of creative effort or work on either of our parts. The fact is that the order of things, here, are obvious: I originated the series, so... thus it is.

Yet there is another factor involved. Heidi had to have her arm "bro-ken" to take on the byline credit, not being convinced as to her rights to such a status. And the truth is that her work on this book has been amazing-ly creative and wonderfully helpful in so many ways that it would never have been the same without her as a full partner.

All of this, of course, involves endless emotional, mental, and creative battles about micro points of order, to say nothing about major leaps of mu-tual faith.

In this case I think it would be fair to state we both have worked hard to design a book that lives up to the expectations of all readers and is a neat bridge to the final book in the Noomas Trilogy.

As to that last item of business, now titled Conquest of Noomas, con-tinued and finished the Noomas in a 500 page book, almost as long as the previous two books in this trilogy.

In an interesting way the following book and "Epic Dialogs of Mhyo" plus a few others, like "Lost City of the Damned" are indirectly connected to the Noomas series, insofar as Haldolen is a factor that ties into their his-tories. This is the same Haldolen which was first discovered in the follow-ing book.

SWORDMEN OF VISTAR

Boy have I gotten in trouble with this one; at least with the hard-core ERB fans. Not meant to. Just happened. My character's name Thoris is not based on the Edgar Rice Burroughs famous Princess of Mars Dejah Thoris, (at least not done consciously) but thought of as an extension of the God Thor! Be that as it may, I still wouldn't change his name. After all, he pre-dated any ancient Thor insofar as he was a warrior from 30,000 BC. Now try to top that if you can!

In any case, this was expected to be a series, but never went beyond the original book, even though I was encouraged by the publisher to write new stories about Thoris—alas, Powell Publications went under and so did any sequels. When AlexLit released it as an e-book, I suggested an Epilog, which, in effect, would offer a completion of the story, as best it could be told. After all, since it was the telling of an ancient warrior's life, translated from long lost scrolls, all related in the published Introduction (now re-leased by Wildside Press), I simply offered the extra material as explanation for a lack of any further stories. I was delighted with the results.

An interesting thing happened, right after the novel's publication in pa-perback form back in the mid-twentieth century. I got a furious letter from a reader, I believe in Canada, who was angry about my mentioning of the Mu books by James Churchward, which had been quite popular as hard-cover editions. Even I had read the first one; a rather fascinating suggestion that there had been a continent in the Pacific Ocean called Mu that ex-plained many ancient ruins and mysterious structures, such as those on Easter Island.

To put it bluntly: I expanded on his idea, through the story of a profes-sor who discovered an ancient text which predated anything that Churchward had told, and let him claim a different origin and explanation of all such matters in the telling of Thoris of Haldolen's story, published as Swordmen of Vistar.

Well this letter I got was raging against the claim in the Vistar book that Churchward was basically wrong. Well, to confound and confuse matters I simply wrote him a letter back pointing out it wasn't me saying such things, but the Professor's claim.

I supposed the letter-writer was somewhat annoyed by my answer, but never did I hear another word. At least he got the autograph of the writer in question.

Thus I would like to add to this: it was not my intention to be insulting to the Churchward books or the theories thereby presented. But I will sug-gest that serious modern science has pretty much put to rest such ideas as fanciful. The general acceptance of information concerning continental drift has moved from mere theory to pretty much solidified fact.

Ah, the ancient "universe" of Mu has been somewhat softened in its re-ality.

As to my Haldolen and its existence: Heck, there is so much hard evi-dence of its existence that I have a website under that very name, Haldolen.com! Now, tell me, can there be any better proof of its reality than that?

Enough to say, doesn't everyone believe everything they read on the web? And the recent version of Swordmen of....

STOP THERE!

I just remember one last comment concerning the title of the book, which was botched by the artist who did the cover. It was supposed to have been titled Swordsmen of Vistar, but Dad left out the S and in order to "save face" all around, I decided to adopt that as a re-titling of the book. [The reprinted version would have been called "Thoris: From 30,000 BC" and I have a printed copy of the cover to prove it!] This altered title has been retained throughout its publishing history.

And so it is offered up in this final print edition with the new Epilog in place, which presents all that is known about Thoris of Haldolen, from 30,000 BC.

CONQUEST OF NOOMAS

This is the last of the Noomas saga, the story of Torlo Hannis as told by him many decades after the fact. We don't know, for certain, exactly how much time passed between the telling of his first story "Torlo Hannis of Noomas" but the "Slavegirl of Noomas" and this one became a reality only a few years ago. What follows is the opening of the book:

INTRODUCTION

A word regarding Torlo and the Universe, in particular the planet of Noomas might be of interest. We cannot verify whether he lives in our gal-axy or elsewhere. Nor can we verify his exact age or the exact dates of our previous telepathic communications with him. For the gap between uni-verses is not based on earthly measures. Time is uncertain, distorted by space and our own perspective. We cannot compare our measures to those of Noomas. For what might be a season for us, could be a thousand years in another realm. We can say for certain that significant time has passed be-tween Torlo Hannis' advent on Noomas and transmissions relating Adt's adventures with Sarleni.

We will now let Torlo Hannis take center stage.

—CHARLES NUETZEL & HEIDI GARRETT

FORWARD

The experience is the reward.

Consider—The experiences between the beginning and the end of your journey might be more important than the actual destination.

—The Great Wizard from the Epic Dialogs of Mhyo

What I have to relate are the details of the war with the Muti Empire of Kamina, as I experienced them, and have since learned through historical records and from my surviving comrades and friends.

No war is finalized in one battle; but one battle can be dramatically pivotal to the outcome.

—Torlo Hannis
CHAPTER FOUR

AN ALMOST COMPLETE CHECKLIST OF MY BOOKS PUBLISHED IN THE UNITED STATES

BY PEN NAME

The following section offers a list of most of my books published here in the United States prior to the Wildside releases (which began in Decem-ber of 2006). They are arranged by pen name, and as can be seen I went out of my way to hide behind many such bylines.

I could have listed some of the translated editions [around half of them], such as those offered under the byline of Carson Davis, which were almost "original" for they contained some newly devised material especially for that six-volume hardcover edition of what I considered "The Best of Carson Davis" and released in both Dutch and French translations as "give away" bonuses for a book club in Belgium, called Sex dossier in Dutch and Rapport sur la sexique in French. The same publisher, Walter Beckers, had released the Hollywood Après Minuit in French and Hollywood Na Middernacht in Dutch hardcover editions, which contained Whodunit? Hol-lywood Style plus two novels on the Hollywood film scene. Nor does it make any effort to list many short stories and articles published in maga-zines.

It is enough, here, to simply offer, as best I know and can remember, an almost complete list of 103 of my books published here in the United States, by pen name and title:

MARK ALLEN

Hot Pants Karen

BLAKE ANDREWS

Come to Me, Baby

ALBERT AUGUSTUS, JR.

Gold Lust

The Slaves of Lomooro

JACK BELMONT

Take Me, I'm Yours

ALEX BLAKE

Family Mistress

Love Me to Death

Nobody Loves a Tramp

Orgy for 3

FREDRIC BLAKE

On the Make

J. D. BLAKE

Hollywood Stud

Neon Jungle

Passion Club

REX CHARLES

Nympho Models

JOHN DAVIDSON

Appointment with Terror

Blues for a Dead Lover

Bodies for Sale

A Date with Violence

Hot Cargo

Mistress of the Damned

Motel Mistress

Never in Her Arms

Parley in Passion

Passionate Trio

Sex Cult Murders

Sex Is My Business

Sex on Fire

Tropic of Passion

Two Timing Tart

Woman Trap

CARSON DAVIS

AC/DC

Bitches in Heat

Confessions of a Man of Pleasure

Confessions of Little Susan

Confidentially Yours

Diary of a Shrike

Extra-Marital Trap

The Lesbian Urge

The Marriage Trap

The New Breed

The Orgy Seekers

Plural Sex

Sex Files

Sex High

Sex USA

The Sexual Liberals

Suburb Sex Club

Taped Sex Histories

Tormented Sexuals

FRED DAVIS

Born to Be Loved

JAY DAVIS

Sin Society

Sinners Holiday

Wild Spree

JOHN DONALDSON

Sex Bash

CHARLES ENGLISH

Lovers: 2075

FRANK EWING

Baby-Faced Harlot

DONALD FRANKLIN

Playgirl's Stud

Show-Biz Stud

Spotlight Sex

Star Bitch

DONALD FRANKLYN

Blowout!

GEORGE FREDRICS

Consider Yourself Dead

Operation Nightmare

FRITZ JANTZEN

Berlin Beds

DAVID JOHNSON

The Body Merchants

Jungle Nymph

HOWARD JOHNSON

Jean

HAL LAMBERT

3 Parts Evil

Julie

One Hundred Dollar Girl

FRANK MACDONALD

Eros Cult

FRED MACDONALD

Bisexual Beds

Illicit Beds

Krista

Nympho

Red Light Campus

With Passions Burning

FREDA MACDONALD

Her Lesbian Past

Passions of Hate

CHARLES NUETZEL

Hollywood Mysteries

If This Goes On (science fiction anthology)

Images of Tomorrow

Jungle Jungle

Last Call for the Stars

Murder Times 4

Now the Time (with George Bendall)

Queen of Blood

(novelization of script by Curtis Harrington, Jr.)

Raiders of Noomas

Softly as I Kill You

Swordmen of Vistar

Warriors of Noomas

Whodunit? Hollywood Style (nonfiction)

ALEC RIVERE

Lost City of the Damned

Nymphos Be Damned

Wantons of Betrayal

STU RIVERS

The Casting Couchers

Hollywood Nymph

Hot Stud Lovers

Sex Kittens

Sex Queen

JACK TURNER

Executive Wife Swappers

JAY WEST

Bikini Girl

RITA WILDE

2-Way Street

Reprints and Originals Published Under

The Borgo Press Imprint of Wildside Press

(2006-2007)

MY SCIENCE FICTION AND FANTASY WORLD

Adapt or Die

Conquest of Noomas (with Heidi Garrett) (First Edition)

Dimensions: Stories of the Past, Present, and Future (First Edition)

The Epic Dialogs of Mhyo (First Edition)

The Ersatz; &, The Talisman (First Combined Edition)

Slavegirl of Noomas (with Heidi Garrett) (First Edition)

Slaves of Lomooro

Swordmen of Vistar

Torlo Hannis of Noomas (First Combined Edition)

MY SEARCH FOR ADVENTURE

Gold Lust

Jungle Goddess

Lost City of the Damned

Tropic of Passion; &, Amazon Gold Fever (First Combined Edition)

MY MURDERS, MYSTERIES, AND THRILLERS

Any One Can Die

Murder Most Terrible!

Murder Times 4

The Sex Cult Murders

Softly As I Kill You

MY LOOK AT HOLLYWOOD AND SHOW-BIZ

Blues for a Dead Lover

Bodies 4 Sale

The Body Merchants

Born to Be Loved

The Casting Couchers

Hollywood Mysteries

Hollywood Nymph

Midnight Lovers

One Summer of Love

Parley in Passion

Sex Queen

Star Bitch

MY MISCELLANEA

Fluff: A Modern Decameron of Lust and Licentiousness (First Edition)

Jean

Krista

Mistress of the Damned; &, Death in Her Arms (Combined Edition)

Never in Her Arms

Operation: Double-Cross

Sex Is My Business

Syndicate Woman

MY CARSON DAVIS FILES

Love Dossier

Plural Sex

Swingles

Taped Sex Histories

MY OWN STORY

Pocketbook Writer: Confessions of a Commercial Hack (First Edition)

SOME OF MY EBOOKS THAT CAN BE FOUND AT

http://haldolen.com/ebooks.html

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Charles Nuetzel was born in San Francisco in 1934, and writes:

"As long as I can remember I wanted to be a writer. It was a dream I never thought would materialize. But with the help of Forrest J Ackerman, who became my agent, I managed to finally make it into print.

"I was lucky enough not only in selling my work to publishers but also ending up packaging books for some of them, and finally becoming a 'pub-lisher' much like those who had bought my first novels. From there it as a simple leap to editing not only a science-fiction anthology, but also a line of SF books for Powell Sci-Fi back in the 1960s. Throughout these active professional years I had the chance to design some covers and do graphic cover layouts for pocket books and magazines."

Much of his work in covers and graphics are a result of having had a fa-ther who was a professional commercial artist, and who did a number of covers for sci-fi magazines in the 1950s and later for pocket books—even for some of Mr. Nuetzel's books.

In retirement he has become involved in swing dancing, a long time lover of Big Band jazz. But more interestingly world travels have taken him (and his wife Brigitte) across the world, to Hawaii, Caribbean, Mexico, Kenya, Egypt, Peru, having a lifelong interest in ancient civilizations. His website is full of thousands of pictures taken during these trips.

