Consider Merritt, for instance. He wrote four stories”The Ship of Ishtar,” “The Moon Pool,” “The Snake Mother,”
and “Dwellers in the Mirage”-which will be immortal. A ten-year-old child can read them and thrill at the exciting
adventurous surface stories. A poet can read them over and over for their feeling and imagery. A philologist can
study them for their perfection of wording and phraseology. And yet, underlying each of them, there is a bedrock
foundation of philosophy, the magnificence of which simply cannot be absorbed at one sitting.
In this connection, how many of you have read, word by word, the ascent to the Bower of Bel, in “The Ship of
Ishtar?” Those who have not, have missed one of the most sublime passages in literature. And yet a friend of mine
told me that he had skipped “that stuff.” It was too dry!
These differences in reader attitude, however, bring up the very important matter of treatment. It is a well-known
fact that many readers, particularly those whose heads are of use only in keeping their ears apart, want action, and
only action. Slambang action; the slammier and the bangier the better. It is also a fact that some editors will either
reject or rewrite stories which do not conform to such standards. Since it is practically impossible to read such a
story twice, however, the type is mentioned only in passing.
Something besides action, then, is necessary. What? And how much? And should the characters grow, or not? Many
writers-good ones, at that-do not let their characters grow. It is easier. Also, it allows a series of stories about the
same characters to go on practically endlessly; being limited only by the readers–” patience. Personally, I like to
have my characters grow and develop; even though this growth limits sharply the number of stories I am able to
write about them:
It would seem as though anyone, after a few days or weeks of study of any good book on “How to Write the Great
American Novel,” could emerge with a clear understanding of such basic things as plot, conflict, situation, incident,
suspense, interest, treatment, and atmosphere; but unfortunately, I didn’t. Authorities differ. I don’t know yet
whether there are three basic plots, or eleven, or whether an author has a brand-new plot when he changes his hero
from a bright young lawyer to a brilliant young physicist, and his heroine from a wise-cracking brunette
stenographer to a witty blonde stewardess. I don’t know yet whether the incomparable Weinbaum’s “Trweel,”
which-or who?rocked Fandom on its foundations was a new plot, a new school of thought, or an incident. So, while
I will probably use some of those words, I will use them in the ordinary, and not in the technical, sense.
Besides action, a good story must have background material and atmosphere to give authority, authenticity, and
verisimilitude. It must also have characterization-character-drawing-to make its people real people and not marion-
ettes dancing at the end of the author’s string. To balance these factors is not easy, since they are mutually almost
exclusive-not entirely so, since much can be shown in action sequences-and since the slower-moving material
must not detract too much from that intangible, indefinable asset which writers and editors call “story value.”
Nor does the choice lie entirely, or even mostly, with the author; for the public cannot read stories which editors
will not publish. I wrote three stories (not scientific fiction) which were not slanted, but which were written
exactly as I wanted to write them. I liked them; but editors did not. Hence they will remain unpublished.
Character-drawing, however deftly or interestingly it is done, does operate to slow down the action of a story.
Background material and atmosphere are usually slower still. Philosophy, even in small doses, is slowest of all.
Yet any story, if it is to live beyond the month of its publication, must be balanced. Hence the often-heard
accusation of “wordiness” hurled at so many writers is almost never justified. I do not believe that any author writes
words merely to fill up space. He uses words just as a mechanic uses tools or as an artist uses colors and brushes,
and with just as definate an aim in view. The casual reader may not know, or care, what that end is, but in practically
every case the author has known exactly what he was trying to do with everyone of those words. He may have been
using them for atmosphere, for character-drawing, for a subtle imagery or philosophy perceptible only to the
reader able and willing to read between the lines, or for any one of a dozen other purposes. Thus, the action fan
begrudges every word which does not hurl the story along; and does not like Lovecraft, saying that he is “wordy.”
To the reader who likes and appreciates atmosphere, however, Lovecraft was the master craftsman.
Some authors are better than others, of course. There are poor mechanics, too; and poor artists. For that matter, I
wonder if any artist ever painted a picture that was as good as he wanted and intended it to be?
Great stories must be logical and soundly motivated; and it is in these respects that most “space-operas”-as well as
more conventional stories-fail. A story must have action, conflict, and suspense. An author must get his hero into a
jam; and, whether not he really must marry him off, he usually does so, either actually or by implication. Now it is
(or at least it should be) apparent that if the hero has even half of the brain with which the author has so carefully
endowed him, he is not going to land his spaceship and, without examination or precaution, gallop heedlessly away
from it, specifically to be captured by ferocious natives. Yet how often that precise episode has occurred, for
exactly that reason! Similarly, if anyone connected with the take-off of a rocket-ship-especially an experimental
model-had any fraction of a brain, there would be just about as much chance of a beautiful female stowing away
aboard it as there would be in the case of a 500-mile racer at Indianapolis. Yet that atrocity has been used
sickeningly often, to introduce effortlessly an interference with the hero’s plans and to drag it by the heels a love
interest that does not belong there.
Now sound, solid motivation is far from easy-a fact which accounts for the rather widespread use of coincidence.
This dodge, while not as bad as some other crimes, reveals mental laziness-excepting, of course, when it is an
element in mass-production methods of operation.
I have found motivation the hardest part of writing; and several good men have told me that I am not alone. It takes
work-plenty of work–to arrange things so that even a really smart man will be forced by circumstances to get into
situations that make stories possible. It takes time and thought; and many times it requires extra words and back-
ground material whose purpose is not immediately apparent.
To refer to an example with which I am thoroughly familiar, what possible motive force would make Kimball
Kinnison, an adult, brilliant, and highly valued officer of the Galactic Patrol, go willingly into a hyper-spatial tube
which bore all the ear-marks of a trap set specifically for him? I could not throw this particular episode into the
circular file, as I have done with so many easier ones, because it is the basis of the grand climax of the final
Lensman story, “Children of the Lens.” Nor could I duck the issue or slide around it, since any weakness at that
point would have made waste paper of the whole book. Kinnison had to go in. His going in had to be inevitable,
with an inevitability apparent to his wife, his children, and-I hope and believe-even to the casual reader. That
problem had me stumped for longer than I care to admit; and its solution necessitated the introduction of
seemingly unimportant background material into “Galactic Patrol,” which was published in 1937, and into the two
other Lensman novels which have appeared since.
Now to go into the way in which I write a space story, specifically, the “Lensman” series, since it is in reality one
story. Early in 1927, shortly after the “Skylark of Space” was accepted by the old Amazing, I began to think
seriously of writing a space-police novel. It had to be galactic, and eventually inter-galactic, in scope; which would
necessitate velocities vastly greater than that of light. How could I do it? The mechanism of the “Skylark,” even
though employing atomic energy, would not do. There simply wasn’t enough of it, as several mathematicians
pointed out to me later in personal correspondence-and as both Dr. Garby and I knew at the time. Also, the
acceleration employed would have flattened out steel springs, to say nothing of human bodies, into practically
monomolecular layers. Mrs. Garby and I knew that, too-but since the “Skylark” was pseudo-science, and since it