1.
When I was eight years old, I wrote short stories on tablet paper, drew colorful covers, stapled the left margin of each story, put electrician's tape over the staples for the sake of neatness, and tried to peddle these "books" to relatives and neighbors. Each of my productions sold for a nickel, which was extremely competitive pricing -- or would have been if any other obsessive-compulsive writers of grade-school age had been busily exercising their imaginations in my neighborhood. Other children, however, were engaged in such traditional, character-building, healthful activities as baseball, football, basketball, tearing the wings off flies, terrorizing and beating smaller kids, and experimenting with ways to make explosives out of ordinary household products such as laundry detergent, rubbing alcohol, and Spam. I sold my stories with such relentless enthusiasm that I must have been a colossal pest -- like a pint-size Hare Krishna panhandler in a caffeine frenzy.
I had no special use for the pittance that I earned from this activity, no dreams of unlimited wealth. After all, I had taken in no more than two dollars before savvy relatives and neighbors conducted a secret and highly illegal meeting to agree that they wouldn't any longer permit trafficking in hand-printed fiction by eight-year-olds. This, of course, was at least restraint of trade, if not a serious abridgment of my First Amendment rights. If anyone in the United States Department of Justice is interested, I think some of these coconspirators are still around and available for prison.
Although I had no intention of either investing the nickels in playground loan-sharking operation or squandering them on Twinkie binges, I knew instinctively that I must charge something for my stories if I wanted people to take them seriously. (If Henry Ford had launched the automotive industry by giving cars away, people would have filled them with dirt and used them for planters. Today there would be no federal highway system, no drive-in burger joints, a gajillion fewer chase movies than Hollywood has thus far churned out, and none of those aesthetically pleasing wobbly-headed dog statues with which many of us accessorize the ledge between the backseat and the window.) Nevertheless, when the local fiction-consumer cartel tried to close me down at the age of eight, I continued to produce stories and gave them away without charge.
Later, as an adult (or as close as I have gotten to being one), I began to write stories that were published by real publishers in New York City, who didn't bind them with staples and electrician's tape and who actually produced more than a single copy of each tale. They paid me more than nickels too -- although, at first, not a lot more. In fact, for years, I wasn't convinced that it was possible to make a living as a writer without a second source of income. Aware that second occupations for writers need to be colorful in order to make good biographical copy, I considered bomb disposal and hijacking airliners for ransom. Fortunately, my wonderful wife's earning capacity, frugality, and awesome common sense prevented me from becoming either a resident of a federal penitentiary or a pile of unidentifiable remains.
Eventually, as my books became best-sellers, the nickels piled up and one day I was offered a substantial four-book deal that was lucrative as any airliner hijacking in history. Though writing those four books was hard work, at least I didn't have to wear Kevlar body armor, carry heavy bandoliers of spare ammunition, or work with associates named Mad Dog.
When word of my good fortune got around, some people -- including a number of writers -- said to me, "Wow, when you finish this contract you'll never have to write again!" I expected to deliver all four novels before I turned forty-two. What was I then supposed to do? Start frequenting bars that feature dwarf-tossing contests? That is exactly the kind of aberrant and socially unacceptable activity that guys like me are liable to slide into if we don't keep busy.
More to the point, I had written most of my life, undeterred when the pay was poor, unfazed when writing didn't even pay nickels, so I was unlikely to stop when, at last, I found an audience that liked my work. It isn't the money that motivates: It's the love of the process itself, the storytelling, the creation of characters who live and breathe, the joy of struggling to take words and make a kind of music with them as best I can.
Writing fiction can be grueling when I'm on, say, the twenty-sixth draft of a page (some go through fewer than twenty-six, some more, depending on the daily fluctuation in my insanity quotient). After endlessly fussing with syntax and word choice, after having been at the computer ten hours, there are times when I'd much rather be working as a stock clerk in a supermarket warehouse or washing dishes in a steam-filled institutional kitchen -- jobs that I've held, though as briefly as possible. In my worst moments, I'd even rather be gutting halibut in the reeking hold of an Alaskan fishing trawler or, God help me, assisting space aliens with those proctological examinations that they seem intent on giving to hapless, abducted Americans from every walk of life.
But understand: Writing fiction is also intellectually and emotionally satisfying -- and great fun. If a writer isn't having fun when he's working, the stories that he produces are never going to be a pleasure to read. No one will buy them, and his public career, at least, will soon end.
For me, that is the secret to a successful, prolific career as a writer: Have fun, entertain yourself with your work, make yourself laugh and cry with your own stories, make yourself shiver in suspense along with your characters. If you can do that, then you will most likely find a large audience; but even if a large audience is never found, you'll have a happy life. I don't measure success by the number of copies sold but by the delight that I get from the process and the finished work.
Oh, yes, from time to time, a rare disturbed individual with a public forum does measure my success by what I earn -- and gets really steamed about it. The fact that people take pleasure in my work becomes an intolerable personal affront to this odd duck, and he (or she) periodically produces long paragraphs of execrable syntax in support of the proposition that the world is going to hell simply because I am in it doing all right for myself. (I'm not talking here of genuine critics; critics are a different group, and ninety percent of them like what I do; the other ten percent manage to dislike it without implying either that I have deadly body odor or that I'm an undiscovered serial killer.) Although the work of brilliant medical researchers is routinely reported on page twenty-three, if at all, and although millions of acts of courage and gratuitous kindness go unreported every day, one of these crusaders nevertheless fills astounding amounts of newspaper space with claims ipse dixit, that I am the literary Antichrist.
I'm not the only target of such stuff, of course; every successful writer is stalked by such weird fauna on occasion. In our house, being a charitable bunch, we kindly refer to these folks as "spiteful malcontents" or "humorless scum." (In more enlightened centuries than ours, they were correctly seen as being possessed by demons and were dealt with accordingly.)
My point -- have faith; one exists -- is that writing for the sheer love of it is even a defense against unprovoked assaults by the spawn of Satan. What these occasional ink-stained stalkers never understand is that even if they were to get their wish, even if no publisher on earth would issue my work, I'd be compelled to write, to make my little books with staples and electrician's tape if necessary -- and give them copies to annoy them. There is no escape from me. Be afraid. Be very afraid.
2.
Most literary agents advise young writers to avoid writing short stories. Spending time on short fiction is widely considered dumb, unproductive, self-destructive, the sure sign of a hopeless amateur, a reliable indicator that the writer is the progeny of a marriage between first cousins.
This prejudice arises from the hard fact that there are very few markets for short stories. Most magazines do not use them, and annually only a handful of anthologies are published with all-new material. If Edgar Allan Poe were alive today, his agent would be constantly slapping him upside the head with tightly rolled copies of his brilliant short stories and novelettes, yelling, "Full-length novels, you moron! Pay attention! What's the matter with you -- are you shooting heroin or something? Write for the market! No more of this mid-length 'Fall of the House of Usher' crap!"
Furthermore, existing markets for short fiction don't pay well. Generally, a short story will earn only a few hundred dollars. If the writer manages to place the piece with Playboy, he might actually make a few thousand bucks for it -- and for the extra compensation, he will happily delude himself into believing that at least one of the magazine's millions of oglers will, in fact, read it. Nevertheless, a short story can take two or three weeks -- or two months! -- to write, so even with an occasional Playboy sale, any author concentrating on short fiction will eat a lot of rice and beans -- and even, from time to time, less costly food like hay. After mercilessly pummeling poor troubled Poe with the manuscript of "The Tell-Tale Heart," his agent would no doubt shriek at him, "Novels! Novels, novels, you moron! Writing novels is where the money is, Eddie! Listen, take that weird 'Masque of the Red Death' thing, shorten the title to something punchier like 'Red Death,' pump it up to at least three hundred thousand words, make a doorstop out of it, and then you'll have something! We might even get a film sale! And will you write in a role for Jim Carrey, for God's sake? Couldn't this Red Death character be a little less solemn, Eddie? Couldn't he be a little goofy?"
In spite of the risk of being pummeled by our agents and being seen as fools-dreamers-amateurs-geeks by other writers smart enough not to waste their time on short fiction, some of us still manage to squeeze in a short story or a novelette from time to time. That's because ideas come to us that simply will not fly at a hundred and fifty thousand words or more but that haunt us, won't let go of us, demand to be written. So we get out our tablets, our staplers, our rolls of electrician's tape. . . .
This book contains fourteen pieces of fiction shorter than my usual novels. Many of you would probably prefer to have another novel, and one is coming along later in the year (remember, there is no escape from me), but in the meantime, I think you'll enjoy this collection. Actually, a lot of you have been asking for it. Anyway, I had as much fun writing the stories herein as I have writing a novel, so if my aforementioned theory is correct, you'll have fun reading them. I sure hope so. You are the reason that I have a career, and when you lay your money down, you have a right to expect some fun in return. Besides, I don't want any of you to feel that you have to smack me upside the head with this volume; it must weigh a couple of pounds, and if I'm smacked with it too often, I'm going to wind up writing even stranger stories than I already do.
3.
Of the stories herein, two actually are novels, since a "novel-length" work is usually defined as anything at least fifty thousand words long. The first of those -- the title story, "Strange Highways' appears for the first time here. It's one of my rare ventures into supernatural fiction: At novel length, the list of supernatural tales on my resume includes only Darkfall, The Funhouse, The Mask, Hideaway, and maybe The Servants of Twilight . Although as a reader I love such stories, I tend not to write about vampires, werewolves, haunted houses, or house pets that die and then return from the Other Side with a maniacal determination to wreak vengeance for having been forced to eat out of a bowl on the floor all those years instead of at the table with rest of the family. "Strange Highways" was an idea I couldn't shake however, and I've got to admit that a certain inherent power in stories of the supernatural makes them terrific fun to write.
The other novel-length piece included here is "Chase." A version of this story was published by Random House, under the pen name K. R. Dwyer, when I was just a puppy. As Dwyer, I also wrote Shattered which has been available under my real name for years. When I reread "Chase" for possible inclusion in this collection, I blushed and groaned nonstop because it had "beginner" written all over it -- also "meandering" and "sloppy" -- although it had been well reviewed in many places at the time of publication. The character of Ben Chase still intrigued me, however, and the basic story still had power. So, before packing it up and sending it off to Warner Books, I revised it. The revision resulted in the cutting of at least twenty-five percent of the original text, the addition of new scenes, and a thorough cleanup of the prose and dialogue. As always happens when I revisit a work from early in my career, I was tempted to change the entire intent of the story, the style, the characters, the plot -- and turn it into a piece that would read exactly as if I had written it today. That isn't the point of collecting previous work, of course; a book like Strange Highways is supposed to show the author's range of interests and various approaches over the years. Consequently, I restrained myself. "Chase" is straight psychological suspense, with no hint of the supernatural; it's also character driven, relying almost entirely on the character of Benjamin Chase for its effect, so if he doesn't intrigue you, I'm in deep trouble. One warning: This is a fairly dark piece, and some of Ben Chase's moral choices may startle you, Gentle Reader -- though they're virtually the only ones he could have made.
I won't write notes on each story in Strange Highways. If you want to be bored by literary analysis, you can always take a college course. A few pieces, however, require a word or two:
"Kittens" is the first short story that I ever sold. It was written while I was in college, won a prize in an annual fiction competition for college students sponsored by the Atlantic Monthly, and then earned me fifty dollars when it was bought by a magazine called Readers & Writers. As I recall, Readers & Writers went belly up soon thereafter. Over the years, I have had books released by the following publishers that also went out of business: Atheneum, Dial Press, Bobbs-Merrill, J.P. Lippincott, Lancer, and Paperback Library. I informed Warner Books of this unsettling fact, but brave souls that they are, they accepted Strange Highways with enthusiasm.
"Bruno," a science-fiction parody of a private-eye story (!) is just meant to be a hoot. I revised and updated it from the original text and had a darn good time with it. As you know, virtually all my novels since Watchers have included substantial comic elements. Since most of the stories in this book do not have comic elements, I was itching to balance the tone with some flat-out silliness, and "Bruno" seemed to do the trick.
"Twilight of the Dawn" is my personal favorite of all the short fiction that I have written -- and the piece that has generated the most mail in spite of appearing in a relatively obscure anthology. I think it appeals to people because it is about faith and hope -- but is not the least sentimental. The narrator is a cold fish for most of the story, and when he is eventually humanized through personal suffering and tragedy, his grudging admission that life may have meaning is effective. At least it was for me while I was writing the piece.
Finally, "Trapped" originally appeared in an anthology titled Stalkers, with an introduction that some readers say they enjoyed a great deal. So here's what I said about it then:
A major national magazine, which shall remain nameless, asked my agent if I would be willing to write a two-part novella dealing with genetic engineering, scary but not too bloody, incorporating a few of the elements of Watchers (my novel that dealt with the same subject.) They offered excellent pay ; furthermore, the appearance of the piece in two successive issues would reach many millions of readers, providing considerable exposure. I'd long had the idea for "Trapped." In fact it predated Watchers, and after writing that novel, I figured that I'd never do the novella because of the similarities. Now someone wanted a piece precisely because of those similarities.
Well, hey, kismet. I seemed destined to write the story. It would be a nice break between long novels. Nothing could be easier, huh?
Every writer is an optimist at heart. Even if his work trades in cynicism and despair, even if he is genuinely weary of the world and cold in his soul, a writer is always sure that the end of the rainbow will inevitably be found on the publication date of his next novel. "Life is crap," he will say, and seem to mean it, and a moment later will be caught dreamily ruminating on his pending elevation by critics to the pantheon of American writers and to the top of the New York Times bestseller list.
The aforementioned magazine had certain requirements for the novella. It had to be between twenty-two and twenty-three thousand words. It had to divide naturally into two parts, slightly past midpoint. No problem. I set to work, and in time I delivered specifications, without having to strain or contort the tale.
The editors loved the piece. Couldn't wait to publish it. They virtually pinched my cheeks with pleasure, the way your grandma does when she hears that you received a good report card and that you are not into satanic rock 'n' roll or human sacrifices, the way that other eight-year-olds are.
Then a few weeks passed, and they came back and said, "Listen, we like this so much that we don't want the impact of it to be diluted by spreading it over two issues. It should appear in a single issue. But we don't have room for quite this much fiction in one issue, so you'll have to cut it." Cut it? How much? "In half."
Having been commissioned to produce a two-parter of a certain length, I might have been justified if I had responded to this suggestion with anger and a sullen refusal to discuss the matter further. Instead, I banged my head against the top of my desk, as hard as I could, for . . . oh, for about half an hour. Maybe forty minutes. Well, maybe even forty-five minutes, but surely no longer. Then, slightly dazed and with oak splinters from the desk embedded in my forehead, I called my agent and suggested an alternative. If I put in another week or so on the piece, with much effort, I might be able to pare it down as far as eighteen to nineteen thousand words, but that would be all I could do if I was to hold fast to the story values that made me want to write "Trapped" in the first place.
The magazine editors considered my proposal and decided that if the story could be printed in slightly smaller type than they usually employed, the new length would fit within their space limitations. I sat down at my word processor again. A week later the work was done -- but I had even more oak splinters in my head, and the top of the desk looked like hell.
When the new version was finished -- and just as it was being submitted -- the editors decided that eighteen to nineteen thousand words were still too many, that the solution offered by a smaller than usual type size was too problematic, and that about four or five thousand more words would have to come out. "Not to worry," I was assured, "we'll cut it for you."
Fifteen minutes later, my desk collapsed from the additional pounding (and to this day, it is necessary for me to apply lemon-oil polish to my forehead once a week, because the ratio of wood content to flesh is now so high that the upper portion of my facial structure is classified as furniture by federal law).
Apparently, major magazines often fiddle with writers' prose, and writers don't care much. But I sure care, and I can't bear to relinquish authorial control to anyone. Therefore, I asked that the script be returned, told them that they could keep their money, and put "Trapped" on the shelf, telling myself that I had not really wasted weeks and weeks of my time but had, in fact, come out of the affair with a valuable lesson: Nota bene -- never write for a major national magazine, on commission, unless you are able to hold the editor's favorite child hostage through publication date of the issue that contains your work.
Shortly thereafter, a fine suspense writer named Ed Gorman called to say that he was editing an anthology of stories about stalkers and people being stalked. "Trapped" came instantly to my mind.
Kismet.
Maybe it makes sense to be an eternal optimist.
Anyway, that's how "Trapped" came to be written, that's why it contains elements familiar to readers of Watchers. and that's why, if you see me someday, you'll notice that my forehead has a lovely oaken luster.
Cruise down Strange Highways, Dean Koontz's collection of shorter fiction.
We are here to eat as many corn chips and as much salsa as we are able. When we have had enough, it is our time to go.
2) Will you ever write a sequel to any of your novels?
The only novel to which I've contemplated writing a sequel is Watchers, but even that might never happen. There are two good reasons for not doing it. First, new ideas grip me, and I am more excited about those than about returning to older ideas. Second, I wouldn't want to write a half-baked sequel because that would ruin everyone's memory of the first book. If there's going to be a sequel to Watchers, it has to be every bit as strong as the original. So, if one day the right idea hits me and I feel compelled to write the sequel, then I will. Otherwise, I won't.
3) Have you ever been abducted by aliens?
Yes, but it wasn't a traumatic experience. They took me to dinner in a fine French restaurant, to a Barbra Streisand concert where we had wonderful seats, and then home. They behaved like perfect gentlemen.
4) In many of your books, I see poetry from The Book Of Counted Sorrows What is this book, and where can I find a copy?
Frequently, when looking for just the right bit of verse to use in the front of a novel or at one of the part divisions to underline one of the themes of the story, I can't quite find what I need. When that happens, I write the verse myself and attribute it to The Book of Counted Sorrows, which is a nonexistent volume -- at least at the moment.
When I began doing this, it never occurred to me that so many people would like the poetry well enough to seek out The Book of Counted Sorrows . Now we receive a couple of thousand letters a year from readers who have looked long and hard for the book without, of course, any luck. Ten or twenty percent of that mail comes from librarians writing on behalf of patrons for whom they have been unable to obtain a copy. I feel guilty about all the time that's been wasted in these fruitless searches.
I do intend to have it published, once I've composed enough verses. I imagine this will be sometime in 1996 or 1997.
5) Do you believe that Charles Darwin's theory of evolution is correct?
It seems a little far out to me. But sometimes when I'm hanging from the entry-hall chandelier by my toes and eating bananas, I have to wonder.
6) Where in the world do you get your ideas?
I'm not really sure. I read widely in all forms of fiction and nonfiction. I subscribe to magazines covering a variety of sciences, medical research, business, economics, and many other subjects. I don't actually read them in search of ideas, but by packing the subconscious full of all this information, I am priming the pump. Weeks, months, or years after I've read about something, I'll suddenly get an idea that springs from what I've read. For instance, I read about the latest developments in resuscitation medicine perhaps a year before the idea for Hideaway popped into my mind. But I know that if I hadn't read that piece, the idea never would have occurred to me. I don't sit around consciously trying to come up with ideas, but then I don't really have to, because my subconscious provides me with more than I will ever be able to use.
7) Do you believe in life after death?
Yes. Very much so. But I do not, however, pretend to know what lies on the Other Side -- though perhaps it's a place like "Baywatch" only not so intellectual. I think it's wise to take along numerous rolls of quarters, because regardless of what the afterlife may be, it's sure to include video games and vending machines.
8) Are your stories ever based on things that have happened to you?
Well, I've never encountered aliens, given a home to an intelligent dog that's escaped from a laboratory, or had encounters with a murderous look-alike. But, yes, every book contains material that comes from personal experience. I am in love with my wife, so I know what being in love feels like. I have been shot at and have had to struggle for my life, so I know how that feels. No character in any book is based solely or even largely on any single person in real life -- they'd sue! -- but every character has qualities and traits and habits and ideas that I've seen in real people.
Frequently I hear dialogue in real life that strikes me as funny, stupid, naive, or interesting for some other reason, and I store it away for use in a novel to make a character more convincing. I generally write about places which I've visited -- or California, where I live -- so all the geographical details and descriptions are out of personal experience. If there's a subject about which I know nothing -- like thoracic surgery, which was Ginger Weiss's specialty in Strangers -- I read about it, talk to experts, educate myself as much as necessary. Therefore, though I'm not a thoracic surgeon--or even a podiatrist--I do know what I'm writing about, so in that sense I'm writing out of my personal experience.
9) Do you know why the chicken crossed the road?
Who knows why chickens do anything? They are mysterious and deep-thinking creatures who function on a level far beyond our own. We are to them as toads are to us, and we can never hope to grasp the world as chickens see it any more than a toad can hope to work complex algebraic equations. Most chickens disdain our intellectual pretensions, despise our television programs, and mock our popular culture. We have nothing in common with them -- except that they, too, are beginning to wonder if Madonna is really all that interesting. If we ponder the meaning of any chicken's actions, including those of the one that crossed the road, we will only be filled with despair at our inadequate analytic and perceptive abilities in the face of their greatness.
10) What is your favorite of your own books?
Right now I think it's a tie between Watchers and Intensity, which comes out later in the year, closely followed by Mr. Murder and Dark Rivers of the Heart.
11) If a tree falls in the forest when there's no one there to hear it, does it still make a sound?
Yes, but it doesn't waste a lot of energy on an enormous crash. It simply lets out a soft sigh or, sometimes, a peep of regret.
12) Did you like the movie based on Hideaway?
Do you think I'd like being attacked by a swarm of killer bees? Do you think I' d like being run down by a truck? Do you think maybe I'd like to live the rest of my life in a Calcutta sewer? Do you think I'd like to be stuffed into a bread-making machine and baked into a loaf of whole wheat?
13) Do you plan any collaborative novels with other writers?
The possibility seems remote. I'm such a fussbudget about the use of language and about story structure, so obsessive-compulsive about revision and polishing, that any collaborator would face the danger of being brutally savaged over an argument about comma placement.
14) Will the world end at the turn of the upcoming millennium?
Only the chickens know. (See question #9).
15) How long does it take you to write a novel?
Strangers and Dark Rivers of the Heart each took a year. Lightning was written in three months. On average, I need five to six months to complete a book. But this is more work than it seems, because I usually put in at least 60-hour weeks, and often 70 hours. As noted before, I'm obsessive-compulsive.
16) If you were assigned to be the first person to address an alien species, what would you say?
Fiber. Eat lots of fiber. But I wouldn't stop there. No, sir. I'd hold forth for quite a while. I'd probably bore the pants off those aliens -- assuming they wore pants.
I'd tell them that, whenever in the company of Earthlings, they must watch their wallets at all times. I'd tell them never to eat at a restaurant called "Mom's," never to play poker with a guy named "Slick," and never to exceed the speed limit in a school zone. I'd explain to them that it is perfectly acceptable to stomp cockroaches but not small children. I'd tell them not to believe everything they read -- for example, grasshoppers are every bit as industrious as ants, and that damned old Aesop was maligning a hardworking insect species when he wrote his vile little fable. I'd be sure to make them understand that the main ingredient of French fries is potatoes, not French citizens dipped in boiling oil, because a culinary mistake of that nature could set back human-alien relations decades. I'd try to explain why automobiles are often named after animals but never after vegetables or fruits . . . though I'm not sure what I'd say. I mean, when you think about it, why isn't there a nifty Ford Persimmon or a Chrysler Squash or maybe a Pontiac Scallion or a Buick Wax Bean? The name of a car has to have sex appeal, right? Well, hey, most vegetables are every bit as sexy as animals -- with the exception of celery, which is the vegetable-world equivalent of a gelding. I'd tell these aliens that we don't tolerate the indiscriminate use of death rays, parking in handicapped spaces when all of your tentacles are actually intact, the gutting and decapitation of insurance salesmen no matter how pushy they get, or the use of the word "buttface" when addressing members of any royal family.