A Writer's Tale

I believe there was a general caution to keep your material no longer than about twenty pages. But the rule was sometimes ignored. Time and again, we would be bludgeoned into agony and despair by a seemingly endless story or multiple chapters droning on forever.

Oddly enough, these adventures in monotony were very rarely interrupted. The group could be harsh, but it could also be compassionate and polite.

Some of us would read our own stuff to the group. (I always did.) Others would ask someone else to read it. Women frequently got drafted into this job. I recall Carol Law, Patricia Matthews and Marilyn Granbeck often reading not only their own material, but that of various guys who preferred to sit back and listen.

While each piece was being read aloud, we would sit there sipping our drinks and smoking and listening and trying to concentrate. We were politely silent except for an occasional wisecrack or laughter if the material happened to be funny.

On one occasion, the whole group (or at least all the guys) went nuts, laughing hysterically, many of us in tears. Dan Marlowe was reading a revenge story that he’d written for a biker magazine. To get back at a guy who had wronged him, this kid put horse laxative into a fellow’s drink. There sat Dan, this soft-spoken, gentle, elder statesman of crime literature, looking a bit like Larry “Bud” Melman, reading to us about poop exploding into the fellow’s pants, describing the stench of it, the texture, the agony of the man as he raced around the tavern, his pants around his ankles, slipping and sliding and falling down on the oozing brown lake… and we fell apart.

It was a night I’ll never forget.

There was also the night when, as we all sat and listened intently to a reader, the host’s little doggie brushed its little butt against the leg of Ann’s slacks leaving a brown smudge. But that’s another story…

Usually, things were not so eventful. We sat and listened in relative silence until the reader would come to the end of his story or chapter.

Then the fun ‘would start.

Just about everyone would pitch in with comments, criticism, and advice.

This was very much like several creative writing workshops I’d encountered in high school and in various universities. But it was different in a major way.

This wasn’t the blind leading the blind.

The Pink Tea was a bunch of tough pros. These were guys and gals who, for the most part, had been getting stuff published for a good many years. They had no patience for artsy pretensions.

They were down-to-earth, direct, and sometimes a bit mean.

They didn’t talk about the richness of your themes or the depth of your symbolism.

They talked about characters and motives and plot.

They discussed, “Does it work?”

And if not, why not, and how can it be fixed?

And where can you sell it?

If anywhere.

Every so often, the recommended remedy for an ailing story was the fireplace.

The Members

Here are brief portraits of some of the main members.

Clayton Matthews was the godfather of the Pink Tea. A tough, wiry Texan, he was gruff and a little scary. But he always had a sly twinkle in his eyes, and a sweetness in his soul.

He once told me I should just burn one of my stories.

He also once told me, in secret, that he thought I had a very large talent. Clayton Matthews was my mentor. From the very start, he took me under his wing and helped me.

He not only gave me great advice and encouragement, but he fixed me up with his agent, Jay Garon.

Matt was a no-nonsense pro. He’d sold stories to the mystery magazines, had authored several novels (some under pseudonyms) and would later collaborate with his wife Patty.

Patricia, Mart’s wife, was cheerful and warmhearted and always treated me as if I were a sweet, innocent little boy.

She ‘wrote some good supernatural and fantasy stories. On the advice of Jay Garon (the agent), she and Matt collaborated on a series of historical romances. They became rich and famous.

Instead of moving to a new house, they bought the house on the hill below their home, built a swimming pool in the middle, and a lot of walkways and stairs. They threw some great parties.

Warner Law had been a story editor for television, and sold stories to such magazines as The Saturday Evening Post and Playboy. He won an Edgar for one of his short stories. He was the intellectual and artistic heart of the group sophisticated and witty. Always puffing on cigarettes, adjusting his glasses, giggling, nitpicking and encouraging.

Warner’s wife, Carol, was one of the regular readers. She was nearly always drafted to read Gary Brandner’s stuff. She sold mystery stories and children’s books, and spent a lot of time writing a historical novel about an opera singer. She worked in advertising, and did a great job when I hired her to create an ad for The Woods Are Dark. The ad ran in Fangoria before the days when I started to boycott that magazine.