carnival knowledge in Twilight Eyes. But writing The Funhouse was
satisfying in part because I knew that the carnival lore I was putting
into it was not only accurate but fresh to readers, for this was an
American subculture about which few novelists had ever written with any
real knowledge or accuracy.
When The Funhouse was first published by Jove–a paperback imprint
owned by the Berkley Publishing Group, which was a division of G. P.
Putnam’s Sons, which was owned by MCA, the media giant that also owned
Universal Studios (life is more complex out here in the late 20th
century than in the carnivalit was supposed to hit stores
simultaneously with the film’s appearance in theaters. However, late
in the game the film was held back for additional editing, and the book
was dropped into the marketplace three months ahead of the movie.
Surprisingly, The Funhouse quickly went through eight printings and a
million copies, and appeared on the New York Times paperback bestseller
list. It was a satisfying success for a paperback original (that is, a
book that had no hardcover history to build upon), and it sold
steadily–until the film opened.
Now, you must understand that ordinarily a film sells books. If a book
does well before a movie is made, it will often do exceptionally well
when it has the flick to support it. This was not the case with The
Funhouse.
Upon release of the film, the sales of the book plummeted.
A mystery?
Not really.
Let’s just say that Mr. Hooper had not realized the potential of the
material to the extent that the studio, probably Mr. Block, or Hooper
himself would have hoped. Instead of serving as an advertisement for
the book, the film acted as a curse upon it. Months later, The
Funhouse had vanished from bookstore shelves, never to be seen again.
Well, almost never.
The book had been written under the name “Owen West” because Jove hoped
to create a brand-new name (or new brand name) in horrorsuspense and
use the extra punch of a film to really send off the author’s “first”
book in a big way. The second West book was The Mask, and although
sales were good, the success of the first book redounded to Mr. West’s
benefit less than the failure of the movie detracted from his
reputation. By the time I delivered the third of the West books, The
Pit, novels under my own name had become more successful than those
written as West, and it seemed wise to fold his identity into mine.
The Pit was retitled Darkfall– a great relief to me, as I could easily
imagine the intense pleasure nasty-minded critics would get from merely
adding an s to the second word of the original title–and was published
under my real name.
I now tell people that West died tragically, trampled by musk oxen in
Burma while researching a novel about a giant prehistoric duck which
he’d tentatively titled Quackzilla.
Eventually The Mask was republished under my name and sold far better
than it had for poor, luckless, ox-flattened West.
And now here is The Funhouse under my name at last, thanks to the
efforts of people at MCA Publishing, Berkley Books, and the kind
cooperation of Larry Block. It doesn’t rank with Watchers or Hideaway
or a number of my best novels, but it’s as good as some and maybe
better than others. I like it. I have books I’ll never let see print
again. Readers shouldn’t have to pay for stories that a novelist wrote
while he was still learning, just to be able to see how badly he was
able to screw up before he found his way.
The Funhouse, I think, is better than that. It’s fun. It has
something to say.
The background is authentic. And not least of all, it’s pretty damn
scary, even if I say so myself. I hope you enjoyed it.
And a moment of silence, please, for the late Mr. West, whose remains
continue to disintegrate , in that field in Burma, where the herd of
oxen– and the movie version of The Funhouse–drove his too-mortal
flesh deep into the oily, black mud.