Perhaps there is no lesser store of evil in the world than there has been before. But its impact seems diminished, for modern technology only serves the will of mankind and spreads some share of good to every heart. Christmas is dominated by generosity, joy and love.

  Revise and Invent

  As I have mentioned, the theme of this collection is the problem writers have with editors. This is no new attitude on my part, as can be seen by this story, which I put together in 1967. I tried it on seven markets without success. Editors just didn’t appreciate it. Well, read it and find out why. Don’t be fooled by its format; this is a story, not a letter column. Normally editors return stories with uncommunicative rejection slips, but sometimes they do comment—and that can be mischief too, for the writer who is unwary enough to pay attention. After I had done four versions of a single story for an editor who kept making suggestions for revision, but kept bouncing the result, I wrote “Revise and Invent” and sent it to him—and he bounced it too. I knew he would; I just couldn’t resist the temptation.

  Revise and Invent

  Dear Editor, PACIFIC LITERARY MAGAZINE:

  Enclosed is a short story, “Frustration,” for your consideration. Any comment you care to make will be sincerely appreciated.

  Yours Very Truly,

  Jonathan B. Hoskins

  Frustration

  by J. Benjamin Hoskins

  I pushed open the swinging door and stood with my back against it, holding it for Bettye; and she passed through, the cold outwashing of the air-conditioning brushing back her dark hair and molding her elegant dress to her elegant form. We trod the deep soft carpet, marching up to the low thick tasseled cord crossing the hall like a power line, and I stood there with her hand on my arm, waiting, while the gentle music issued from the background and our eyes adjusted to the quiet lighting. And the waiters moved among the tables before, bringing domed platters, and from time to time the conversation ascended above the music: now a word, now a phrase, sensed for a moment, then forgotten, as a fish leaps high before sinking back into the ocean.

  And he approached at last, from the far side, a big man in the portly splendor of his uniform, the maitre d’. And the buttons shone and his hair was gray, just so, at the temple, and his bearing was assured and he was a handsome man. And his skin was the color of burnished walnut, so rich against his pale wide lips; darker, much darker, than my skin; and he stood against the cord and he looked at us and he said, “We don’t serve Negroes here.”

  Dear Mr. Hoskins,

  Thank you for considering us as a market. While your story shows promise, both your title and your treatment are too obvious and somewhat dated in the light of recent legal decisions. I suggest you change the title and adapt the story to fit something a little closer to your own experience—perhaps an incident in your own house that gave you some special insight into the nature of racial or aesthetic prejudice.

  Please be on guard against the overuse of the word “and,” particularly at the beginning of a sentence. And be careful of irrelevant metaphor; a fish in water hardly matches the mood of civil-rights conflict.

  Sincerely,

  Brian Thurgood, Editor

  Dear Mr. Thurgood,

  Thank you for your comment on “Frustration.” I had intended the fish as part of the larger allegorical framework of the story, wherein the conversation rises above the ocean of music but, like a fish, soon falls back; the whole foreshadowing the rising hopes of the protagonist, who also must fall back into frustration. The irony was that another Negro had to be the one to clarify just how deep this ocean of indifference was. But I’m sure that your points were well taken and that the story was too obvious, and have accordingly retitled it “Beauty” (as in “Eye of the Beholder") and changed the setting to a private residence. I hope this meets your approval.

  Jon Hoskins

  Dear Jonathan,

  I’m sorry to inform you that your revised story, “Beauty,” is still not suited to our needs. It may be that a well-qualified yardman is sometimes refused employment because of the color of his skin, and certainly the housewife who turns him away after placing the ad is of questionable integrity—but this is not, per se, a story. Perhaps it would be better to make the entire episode figurative rather than literal, so that no element of our readership will take offense.

  I might also mention in passing that a story without the relief of any dialogue whatever soon becomes tedious in inexpert hands.

  Dear Brian,

  I really appreciate your helpful advice. I have rewritten the story to make it figurative and to include dialogue. I hope you like it this time.

  Jon

  Beauty

  The slime rose up to criticize the work of art. “There you sit,” it said, “serene and content in your ebony gloss—yet utterly useless. You think you are beautiful, but you are only a molded husk. You are glazed, but you are brittle and shallow. Where is there any softness in you? Where is that fine slippery resiliency that is the heritage of the commonest blob of grease? Where the rippling undulations of fluid motion, the flexibility and warmth of dishwater? You lack the variety of size and shape and color that glorifies the contents of every garbage can. You cannot take flight in the soft air in the free manner known to every particle of dust swept from the floor. You cannot appreciate the refractive art of the dirty window-pane in the sunlight. You can never immortalize your substance by leaving a stain on the wall. And never, never will you bring that worthy satisfaction of a job well done that every human being feels from cleaning up rubbish like me.

  “You are not beautiful—you are a monstrosity.”

  The work of art listened and was ashamed. It fell off the antique table and shattered on the floor. The slime looked on as the housewife swept up the myriad fragments, all shapes and colors and sizes, and dumped them sadly into the waste-basket.

  “Now you are beautiful,” said the slime, and vanished down the drain.

  Dear Jon,

  I regret to inform you that your story has become a fantasy, and we do not publish such material. I suggest you try it on one of those oddball magazines that print the latest from H. G. Wells and Samuel Butler.

  With best wishes for success elsewhere.

  Brian Thurgood, Editor

  Dear Editor, PARSEC SCIENCE FICTION:

  You were recommended to me as a market for the enclosed story, “Beauty.” Any comment will be appreciated.

  Yours Very Truly,

  Jonathan Hoskins

  Dear Jonathan Hoskins,

  Some promise here, but suggest you read a copy or three of our magazine before submitting here again. Meanwhile, this particular ms might be more suitable for the slick femme mags. Make it more immediate and personal, involving men and women, not jars and gunk, and for God’s sake stop lecturing the reader!

  Futuristically,

  S. F. Parsec, Editor & Pub.

  Dear Fiction Editor, HOUSEWIFE:

  Enclosed is a short story, “Beauty Revised,” for your consideration. Happy to have comment.

  Very Truly,

  J. B. Hoskins

  My Dear Mrs. Hoskins,

  This is a very interesting story, I’m sure, but hardly for us. Your portrayal of the protagonist as a rigidly moral, unbending colored man who is shattered by a cruel remark by a voluptuous but depraved white siren seems more appropriate to the confessional market. And “Slimea” is a rather odd name for a woman, don’t you think?

  Regretfully,

  S.L.K. Femme, Fiction Editor

  Dear Editor, CROSS-MY-HEART TRUE CONFESSIONS MAGAZINE:

  Enclosed is a story.

  (Mr.) Hoskins

  Dear Contributor:

  We at CMHTCM pride ourselves in giving the most careful attention to every manuscript that comes in. Your entry, “Beauty Revised,” has possibilities, but there will have to be some rewriting. As you know, we pay an extra penny a word if you do the revision yourself. First, your title is inappropriate; it should express the horror of sin and agony, not beauty. What we need are good, solid, realistic stories of human experience. Our handbook on effective plotting is enclosed. You should forget about miscegenation and concentrate on basic human values. Put yourself in your story—first-person viewpoint is an absolute must—and give us your most immediate feelings. You are a man (we do accept some male viewpoint pieces); you meet a typical American girl, not too pretty but compulsively attractive to you; what are your very first, real-life impressions?

  Next time you submit fiction here, please accompany it with the signed warranty-of-accuracy form (enclosed) for our files.

  Encouragingly,

  Story Editor #3

  Dear Story Editor #3,

  I have revised my story as you recommended and changed the title. Fortunately it is based on a personal experience, or I would not have felt free to sign your affidavit. Do your readers really believe all the stuff you print is true? I know it’s a sinful world, but—

  Fiction Writer Hoskins #1

  The Wind of Love

  I saw the trees waving outside and knew that a wind was rising. On impulse I stepped out the door, wanting to feel the soft air on my face, to enjoy the oncoming coolness of the evening. I had been working indoors all day, and even a brief change would do me good.

  There was just a touch of moisture in the air, not quite a promise of rain. I walked down the street, letting the tensions of the day be blown away in the wind. There was something about an evening like this that made me want to become part of the elements; to drift over the ground like a dry leaf, coming to rest wherever I might.

  I saw her standing beside an oak, windblown, smiling gently, holding out a small hand as though to feel the rain. She was not beautiful, but she seemed to be made for this scene; somehow she blended with the mood of the outdoors. I was attracted to her immediately.

  “It won’t rain,” I said, coming to stand beside her. “It usually just spits a little and stops.”

  She turned to me with a quick smile that brought an unexpected thrill. “I know it,” she murmured, and her voice was low and sweet. “I noticed the wind, and I came out to enjoy it. There’s something about it that makes me feel so—so elemental. It makes me want to sail up into the sky, like a kite, following the breeze. I’m being silly, I know.”

  I took her hand on impulse. “I feel the same way. It’s such a refreshing change.”

  We stood there, hand in hand, though we had never met before. We shared the wind.

  “Do you wonder,” she said, turning her deep brown eyes upon me, “do you wonder what happens to a little gust of wind like this? I mean, it blows across us, loves us, now, then it goes on, divides, joins other winds, changes—do you think it remembers us?”

  “We remember it,” I said, acutely aware of her, so close. “That’s what really matters.”

  Dear Jonathan,

  This is better, but you still don’t understand about titles. “The Wind of Love” is not a phrase to compel our reader’s attention or seduce her imagination. However, we can take care of that editorially. You must also concentrate on plotting. There should be more opposition; the man must overcome some genuine hurdle before he achieves contact with the girl. Only then is the reward worthwhile and satisfying to our readers. Also, there should be some solid sin in it. Take care of these details, and give your characters names, and we should have a suitable story. Be sure to enclose your affidavit for the new title.

  Story Editor #3

  Dear #3,

  How’s this?

  Jon Hoskins, sinner

  Seduced by a Busy Signal

  I never could get Bea alone. It was that damned phone. We’d be sitting there in her apartment—she refused to trust herself to mine—and I’d put my arm around her and she’d put her head on my shoulder and I’d put my other hand on her knee and get ready to sin and then the phone would go off. Ten minutes later I’d get hold of her again and have a whole five minutes before the instrument rang off the round prematurely—again.

  I had to put that phone out of commission if I was ever to put Bea into commission.

  I called her. “Make yourself pretty,” I said. “I’m on my way.”

  “Sure, Joe,” she said. “Is that all you called about?”

  No it wasn’t, but I didn’t tell her that. After she hung up, I didn’t. I set my receiver on the table, turned up the FM, and left the music playing into the line.

  Bea was beautiful, and I was amorous. But first I lifted her receiver, heard my music coming over, knew that all was well, and hung up again.

  Maybe she had counted on the phone to chaperon her, as it always had before. She listened for it as I lifted her skirt and she cupped her ear as I unbuttoned her blouse, but it never rang. The only connection that evening was the one I made, and it was positively sinful!

  You can get around any hurdle if you put your mind to it, be it mechanical or distaff.

  Dear Jon,

  I’m afraid we’re simply not making connection. He enjoys his sin, while our readers insist upon remorse and agony. I don’t understand how he put her phone out of commission, and in any event this is technical rather than emotional, which wasn’t the kind of hurdle I had in mind. Perhaps one of the “Male” magazines would be interested; they seem to think sex is fun.

  Thank you for thinking of us,

  #3

  PS—I wonder if that could be the reason my phone . . .?

  Editor, FIST:

  Story enclosed.

  J.B.H.

  Dear Writer:

  Nice try, mac—but FIST likes to sock ‘em with real he-man stuff. Show us more action.

  Editor 007, Slushpile

  PS—Watch that stuff on phones. Want to ruin a damn fine system? If my gal ever caught on—

  Dear Editor Slushpile,

  Enclosed is a revision of “Busy Signal” with he-man action, as you suggested.

  J.B.H.

  JBH:

  Look, mac—having him seduce her at gunpoint is not exactly what I meant by “action.” FIST gals are always very nubile and very willing. Either put in the sex or try another market, like a mystery mag. And fix it up with a better title, like “Gangbang” or “Stickup"—something with guts.

  007

  PS—Sorry about jumping on you. My gal at the Confess office found out about the phone bit somehow and I’m hard up.

  Editor, VIOLENT DETECTIVE MAGAZINE,

  Enclosure enclosed.

  H

  Dear H:

  “Stickup” returned herewith. Your opening is good, but the ending is unsatisfying. If he isn’t planning to murder the girl, why does he go to all that trouble to jimmy her phone? Here at VIOLENT we aren’t too interested in women, anyway. Maybe he should stick up a bank, instead. Only not with a gun, of course—that’s passé.

  Dick Violent, Editor

  Dear Mr. Violent,

  Here is the story revised to apply to a bank, no gun, as you recommended

  H

  Stickup

  It isn’t too hard to outsmart a machine. Any machine. All you need to do is figure out its weak spot. You can put a phone out of commission by dialing a number and never hanging up, since only the originating instrument can break the connection in a local call. What is a computer except an overdeveloped phone?

  The compu-teller at the bank was supposed to be foolproof, so there were no guards. I walked into a booth, set up my apparatus, clipped two leads to the alarm wires and pushed the button for service.

  The screen came on. DEPOSIT OR WITHDRAWAL? the words flashed, after I gave my account number.

  “Withdrawal,” I said. “One hundred thousand dollars.”

  ACCOUNT INSUFFICIENT, it flashed. Sharp, that machine.

  “Listen, wirebrain,” I said. “I have affixed a 20,000 volt electron bomb to your alarm terminal. Now you either spit out the change in thousand-dollar bills pronto, or I’ll set the bomb off and do half a million dollars worth of damage to your circuitry. Activate your alarm and that will trigger it automatically. So which is it going to be—one hundred G to me, or five hundred G to the repair contractor, who’s a bigger crook than I am? Remember, you’re programmed for economy. You have five nanoseconds to decide.”

  Sure, they scotched that dodge after that, but I was long gone. When I need more dough, I’ll figure a new wrinkle.

  Dear H:

  This is close, but the accent is on cleverness rather than action. Have you tried it on the literary market? They sometimes appreciate cleverness, provided they don’t understand it. Use an irrelevant title for them.

  D.V.

  Dear Mr. Thurgood, PACIFIC LITERARY MAGAZINE:

  “Swell Foop” enclosed. No comment necessary.

  Yours Very Truly,

  Jonathan Hoskins

  Dear Mr. Hoskins,

  Good to hear from you again. This idea of having a beginning writer be obliged to revise his story so often that it eventually changes completely is intriguing, but hardly credible. I would recommend you try fantastic notions like this on the oddball fantasy market.

  Care should be taken on titles. I like this one, but surely it should be “Fell Swoop,” and I’m still not certain of its relevance to the story.

  Brian Thurgood, Editor

  There the story ends, completing its circle. The several parts of it have histories of their own. The title is a parody of “Advise and Consent.”

  “Frustration” I wrote in 1965 as a comment on what I saw when I moved to the south from the north. Racism exists everywhere, but in the north folk are more likely to be ashamed of it, while in the south they can be proud of it. I tried “Frustration” on NEGRO DIGEST, where it was bounced with a rejection slip. I showed it to a black writer I know, and he made no comment. What do I know about racism, having been brought up in a non-racist environment? It disgusts me.