Xenograffiti (22 page)

OR, THE PERILS OF PULLULATING PSEUDONYMITY
(2003)

In a previous life I was once (true confession time now, my kiddie-cats!) just a whit more ambitious than I am in these latter days of post-near death experiences; and I was then much more eager to do that which was necessary, whatever
that
might be, to achieve my (self-perceived) overdue share of literary fame and fortune.

O tempora, o mores!
What a foolish creature is made of a little literary f(l)op.

And so I allowed myself to be seduced by the dark side of the farce.

When a well-known writer asked me to create a detailed background for his fictional world, I was flattered enough—and oh so willing, for I saw therein the many possibilities-to-be—to perform like the trained monkey that I had now become; and I produced in quick-quack time a set of somewhat marvelous (or so it seemed to me) vignettes and stories and creative schtuff in general, all for the use of this individual who was much better known in Literary-Lollipop-Land than lowly
moi
(but not for long, I knew, oh, not for long!).

And then I was asked by this same individual to put to paper a full-length fiction set in this same
milieu
, which
le grand auteur
would peddle under our joint bylines (his having primacy, of course), and for which he would inhale half of the mucho moolah that would soon miraculously appear (since it would be his name and his agent selling the novel)—but, but, my career would suddenly blossom beyond my wildest imaginings (and they were pretty wild, let me tell you), and well, well, further possibilities were certainly possible, weren’t they?

Alas, dear readers, that it didn’t happen that way. Mr. X. failed to finish one of his own projects on time. The house of cards abruptly collapsed, and my reams of work suddenly became worth no more than the cheap paper it was printed out on.

For years thereafter, the fiction was maintained between us, that something, maybe something
great
, would work out—eventually! Perhaps
this
project would finally go, or
that
one would finally be issued by a major publisher, or maybe the writer’s career would be resurrected—maybe this, maybe that, maybe not!

So I continued to pen materials in this
milieu
, to the tune of some 600,000+ words, I continued to allow my ambition sway my better judgment, and I wasted seven years of my authorial career trying to become a clone of Mr. X.

There’s a lesson here for all would-be writers. Develop your own style in your own good time,
ma ou
mon
littérateur
prétendu
, and avoid all authorial collaboration at the potential cost of your literary soul, unless, of course, unless you control the terms. I didn’t.

At this late date I surely do not wish Monsieur X. any ill. He’s gone his way, I’ve gone mine. He’s managed to revitalize his career to a certain degree, for which he deserves full credit. I don’t think his more recent books are as well-conceived or -executed as some of his earlier fictions, but that’s just my two cents’ worth. Others would disagree, I’m sure.

For myself, I did learn from this experience something of the craft of fiction, and I did finally come to understand the serendipitous nature of New York publishing. Talent is rarely enough; indeed, talent is sometimes contraindicative or even antithetical to achieving widespread distribution in the real world. Dumb, dumber, dumbest seem to be the operative words.

No matter.

My books will continue to be published professionally, as they always have. I’ve never yet penned a volume that ultimately failed to sell. I’ll continue to write for as long as I’m physically and mentally able, and I’ll continue to do the best I can to make my books interesting, readable, perceptive, and halfway intelligent. That’s who I am. That’s what I’m about.

As long as I remain vitally interested, I think my writing will itself stay interesting—to someone. And if I ultimately have no readers, well, there’ll be no one left to say boo, will there?

(2003)

I’m no Stephen King or Terry Brooks, to name two well-known authors who have published in recent years little memoirs about their writing lives (
On Writing
and
Sometimes the Magic Works
). I’m not even Jack Dann or George Zebrowski. I don’t have their reputations either as a fiction writer or as a nonfiction hacker. In fact, I’m not all that well known outside of a very small group of devoted fans and curious academics.

Still, I’ve been writing professionally since 1970, and during that three-and-one-half decades have sold millions and millions of words for hundreds and hundreds of thousands of dollars. It was never enough, I thought, to provide a consistently good living, and I’m rather glad at this point that I have a state pension to fall back on in my rapidly approaching (g)olden age; or perhaps I merely lacked the courage to plunge into the occupation of literature on a full-time basis.

Whatever.

I’ve paid my dues, have nothing left to prove, and have lost most of my ambition to the after-effects of a near-fatal heart attack (it’s amazing how a near brush with death can reconfigure one’s priorities). So why spout off now? Why talk about this particular topic at this particular time?

Precisely because....

The prospect of one’s potentially imminent passing concentrates one’s mind wonderfully, to paraphrase an old saying. I have a few things to say, and no one has ever been able to shut me up before. They’re not likely to start now. So bear with me, if you please.

I’ve been writing since about the age of four or five, when I started copying the names and words off my mother’s kitchen appliances in our old, two-storey, rented gothic in Fairfield, Massachusetts. I’ve been making up stories for about the same time.

I remember getting up well before my parents at the initial hint of sunlight, sneaking down the stairs, and carefully opening each blind, first looking about very carefully (of course) for all of the monsters that I knew were lurking in the shadows. It wasn’t really safe until all the windows were open.

Then I’d create continuing serials featuring myself and Superman or one of my favorite western heroes, and play them out over days or weeks. This was oodles of fun for a little kid of five or six. It was how I entertained myself, even at that young age. Not much has changed.

I write these essays—and pen my stories and novels—for much the same reason now. I haven’t grown a bit in that sense: there’s still a rambunctious rapscallion lurking somewhere down in my subconscious, always clamoring to be let out. Writing for me is occasionally a catharsis of sorts, and sometimes hard work, but mostly (at least these days) it’s just plain fun. I write because I want to, because I need to, because NOT writing would somehow represent a little death to me.

I don’t care any longer about sales or markets or money or fame or any of that crap. Read my stuff or not, as ye choose. Laugh or cry with me or not, as ye choose. Agree with me or argue with me, as ye choose. Criticize my ramblings and call them crap or praise the hell out of them, as ye choose. It signifieth not, as the prophet sayeth.

I write to please myself first, and no one else, with one caveat. If I don’t also please Mary, my one true critic, then I know for certain that there’s something’s wrong with my story, my precious prose, my plot, my whatever. I do pay close attention to what she says; or, rather, I ignore what she says at my authorial peril. She’s too intelligent to miss very much, and she always has my best interests at heart.

Otherwise, though, I write exactly what I want to write these days, without much of an eye as to where it might sell or how it might appear. I’ve never had any problem finding outlets for my schtuff. Everything I’ve ever written of any worth whatever has been published professionally.

This doesn’t mean to say, o thou would-be writers, that I completely ignore the realities of commercial publishing, or that I fail to seek contracts first before beginning long projects on which I would like to work—or at least have some good idea of where such lengthy books might be placed. I dislike wasting time, particularly
my
time, which has become especially precious to me in these my latter years. And yet....

I penned three books on behalf of another writer between 1996-2002 (see “KO’d at the OK Corral; or, the Perils of Pullulating Pseudonymity”), and only one of these was actually published, despite numerous promises to the contrary. Fair enough. There are very few certainties in the publishing world, and one takes one’s lumps and failures along with one’s successes, swallowing the pills of bitterness and learning from the experience. One of these books has now been completely rewritten, and will finally appear in ‘04; the other still needs recasting into a different
milieu
. All will eventually be published, but only after considerable extra work on my part. I will not lend my creativity to another author ever again.

Nor should I have done so initially. I should have known better than to agree to do what I was asked to do, without a contract clearly defining and delineating exactly how and in what way and with whose permission my work could be employed by this other entity in developing his fictional universe. I was ambitious. I was wrong. I wasted a great deal of effort and energy for almost no return.

I like what I’m doing now very much better. I piddle around with my own creativity, and there’s no one to say yea or nay or even maybe save myself—and Mary! I’ve written a half-dozen essays this past week as capstones for this second edition of
Xenograffiti
, just because I wanted to, and because I felt that I had something to say—about myself, about my life, about what I’ve done and where I’ve been. If someone else obtains even a modicum of enjoyment from these musings, well, so much the better. And if not, whom I have harmed, dear friends?

I write what I see. When I’m gone, in the not-so-distant future, these words will remain behind, small signposts that I once lived, that I once thought, that I once felt, and that I made all of these hoary things, in and of myself—and no one else did them or could have done them in quite the same way. This is who I am.

In a few words, in a very few words, we wordsmiths draw pictures in the minds of other men and women just like ourselves—those currently living, those yet to be born, those inhabitants of some distantly unfathomable future civilization. This is time travel in its truest form: I communicate directly with you, I talk to you, not just now, but for as long as these words continue to exist in some form. I give to you my wisdom, my ideas, my self.

And you talk back, although I rarely hear your responses.

You see and hear Robert Reginald and Michael Burgess and Boden Clarke, and all of those other personas that I have worn as a writer. You see whatever face I choose to put on.

In a few words, in a very few words, you understand.

ON BEING A PSEUDONYM
(2003)

Once upon a time there was just one of me, a scrawny high school kid of sixteen who was living in Spokane, Washington in the fall of 1964. His name was Michael Burgess. And one day, while perusing the paperback racks, I encountered my name splashed all over the lurid cover of a “nonfiction” sex guide published by the soon-to-be-defunct Monarch Books.

This “Michael Burgess,” as I later discovered, was the pen name of an historical novelist named Noel B. Gerson (ironically, I encountered many years afterwards a portrait of Gerson on one of his hardcover romances; he looked remarkably like the author, complete with curly hair). Gerson had been writing a series of what passed in those days for soft porn books for such “B” pb imprints as Monarch, Lancer Books, Midwood, and others, sometimes under the MB name, sometimes under the joint pseudonym of “Ann-Marie and Michael Burgess.”

I was stunned, utterly stunned.

Already I had harbored certain aspirations of possibly becoming a writer one day, and here was my byline, being used and abused over and over again on stuff that (at best) was utter trash. It was then that I started signing my name with my initials, “M. R. Burgess,” or even “Emar Burgess,” and it was then that I started looking for some unique moniker of my own. I couldn’t possibly employ my real name on my own writings ever again.

I had been reading the complete works of “Saki,” the byline of H. H. Munro, who, together with a great many other British writers of his generation, had been killed in the trenches in France during World War I. Saki’s work appealed to me for its wry humor, ironic situations, and clever plot devices. One of his major story cycles featured a very sophisticated Brit, “Reginald,” and so I thought highly appropriate the appropriation of a pen name’s fictional character as my own pseudonym. I added the initial “R.” in front of Reginald, thereby making it a complete byline.

Of course, I immediately started getting inquiries as to what the “R.” stood for. Folks just naturally assumed that it was taken from my middle name. But I had actually been named for my grandfather, whose forename I regarded as rather old-fashioned and wholly unsuitable for the image that I wished to project, and so I employed “Robert” instead.

Eventually, of course, Gerson died; he had long ceased using the name “Michael Burgess” by then, and as the books in questionable objection faded from public view, so did my objections to employing my real name as a byline. Unfortunately, by then I had already established a reputation under my pen name; indeed, far more people in the publishing business knew me as “Robert Reginald” than they did as “Michael Burgess,” and while I never made a secret of the connection, neither did I much advertise it. Also, for many years my writing career was regarded as an impediment to my advancement in academe, and so I kept the two spheres of my life completely separate, being careful to work on my writing and editorial projects only on my own time.

I established a joint bank account in both names, both to pay and receive, had stationary printed under both names, and eventually added “Boden Clarke” and a few other one-shot-ers to my long list of
noms de plume
.

Now, I suppose psychiatrists would find some deep significance in the fact that I shadowed most of my creative life under the aegis of a pen name—and still do, for that matter—but the truth is, I was a very shy lad as a teenager. My parents consistently pooh-poohed my interest in science fiction and fantasy literature, and rarely expressed approval of any kind of my writing, a pattern which continued into my adulthood. There was always an aura of disdain surrounding my literary efforts, as great as they were, and I lacked the confidence to plunge boldly forward where no man had gone before, at least until I left home in 1969.

So the adoption of a pseudonym was perhaps my teenage way of saying, “foo on you” back at them, while trying to establish my own unique personality and to find some imagined country where I felt comfortable within my own skin.

At any rate, once I had established a career as “Robert Reginald,” it was too late to turn back the hour hands again. “Rob Reginald” I had become, and “Rob Reginald” I shall remain, until the end of my days.

And, truth be told, when I’m writing as Reginald, I’m a different person in many respects than “Professor Michael Burgess,” the respectable and respected and rather stuffy academic librarian. One of my colleagues, after reading the introduction to
Katydid & Other Critters
, my short story collection, proclaimed rather perplexedly, “Why, that doesn’t sound like you at all!”

Of course not! When I write, I think differently and act differently and communicate differently than when I talk, and I’m still a far better writer than I am a speaker (that shyness again). It’s as if I put on a cloak of creativity, and associations and stories and anecdotes miraculously appear through my fingers and are dispersed upon the written page. I don’t know how the process works, but it does work.

Within myself, there is no conflict. One part of my life enriches the other—or so I hope. My experiences as a librarian, and the knowledge that I have gained thereby, have added appreciably to my worth as an author, and I trust the opposite is true as well.

But there are times and there are days when I feel like the schizoid man, divided into two incompatible halves, one creative, one practical, one impulsive, one calculating, one plus one plus one....

Most of the time, though, being a pseudonym just doubles my pleasure and doubles my fun, with enough occasional confusion for anyone!