By Wil Forbis
In the first installment of this series I noted that authors of the literary genre known as pulp fiction were famous for writing fast. In order to feed the hungry hordes demanding stories starring heroes such as The Shadow, Tarzan and Doc Savage, pulp authors had to come up with several tricks to get the most out of their writing time. I previously examined one such tool: Erle Gardner’s plot circles with which the Perry Mason author quickly created compelling story structures.
We turn now to author Michael Moorcock. Moorcock might seem out of place in a discussion on pulp writing. As a science fiction and fantasy writer who began working in the late sixties and is still publishing today, he’s lived far outside the epoch of classic pulp fiction (1920-40s.) But Moorcock is definitely a descendent of the original pulp authors. He came on the scene in 1957 as editor of the magazine Tarzan Adventures. From there he edited the British neo-pulp magazine New Wolds ("Fiction for the future.") Since then Moorcock's work has turned more towards high art, particularly novels featuring his character Elric, but he has expressed a continued fondness for classic pulp authors such as Edgar Rice Burroughs and Robert E. Howard. Most importantly, it is during Moorcock’s tenure in the world of pulps that he developed a process for writing a novel in three days.
Writing a novel in less than half a week sounds like either an impossibility or a process for creating absolute dreck. Even Moorcock admits the process has limitations but it did allow him to quickly produce some salable and even lauded work. According to Moorcock, one of the secrets for creating a novel in three days is realizing that it takes longer than three days. The three days in Moorcock’s method are spent doing actual writing---pounding the typewriter (well, computer) keys---not working on plot and structure. Prep work is vital. As noted on the blog Ghostwoods, Moorcock advises:
First of all, it’s vital to have everything prepared. Whilst you will be actually writing the thing in three days, you’ll need a day or two of set-up first. If it’s not all set up, you’ll fail.
And…
The whole reason you plan everything beforehand is so that when you hit a snag, a desperate moment, you’ve actually got something there on your desk that tells you what to do.
What has to be worked out in advance? Again, I defer to Moorcock himself.
Prepare a complete structure. Not a plot, exactly, but a structure where the demands were clear. Know what narrative problems you have to solve at every point. Write solutions at white heat, through inspiration: really, it can just be looking around the room, looking at ordinary objects, and turning them into what you need. A mirror can become a mirror that absorbs the souls of the damned.
Once the writer has their ducks in a row they dive into an almost trancelike state of writing. The trick to it is to not get bogged down searching for the perfect word or ideal exposition; keep the ball moving. Remove all distractions from your life, at least for the three days, in order to devote yourself entirely to the process.
The full collection of guidelines and tricks Moorcock utilized for his three day stories have been written about on a number of sites so there’s no need to duplicate them here. I refer you to the following pages.
Some may still have ambivalence about the idea of so quickly churning out a novel. A nagging voice in your head may ask, “But shouldn’t writing take time? Isn’t this cheating?” It’s an understandable objection as the notion that good things require a wait is built into Western culture. (Consider our fondness for well-aged wine and cheese.) There are, however, a couple points to consider. One, Moorcock was not attempting to create high art, but something good enough. Two, while creating on the fly seems anathema in writing, in other artistic disciplines it’s quite popular. Much of the 20th century was spent pontificating on the idea that man’s subconscious was capable of complex processing and even complex creation. In that spirit, musicians began improvising the dense melodies and harmonies that define jazz. Painters began experimenting with intuitive, spontaneous techniques such as Jackson Pollock’s action painting. Over time, the idea that great art (or at least interesting art) could be created by sidestepping the conscious mind was accepted. Moorcock’s process would seem to follow a similar tact. And he’s not the only author to take it. Consider the words of Raymond Chandler.
“The faster I write, the better my output. If I’m going slow, I’m in trouble. It means I’m pushing the words instead of being pulled by them.”
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