Now before you start blaming the names committee for short-sightedness I might explain that Annie was really Mildred Ann, a name that apparently no one liked because as a little girl she was Gretchen (I have no idea why) and after that, Annie—until she was grown up, when she became Ann, which I think you will agree better suits an insurance executive.
For that matter Fanny wasn’t really Fanny either, but Frances Laverne. She got called Fanny after our Aunt Fanny. Families used to do that more at one time, naming children after relatives. I suppose they got away from it when they realized how confusing it could be in memoirs.
Not that ours aren’t confusing enough as it is. Robert somehow became Dick. Bill remained Bill and Albert was, reasonably enough, Al, but James became Pat, I can’t tell you how any of this happened. I believe that children should remain what their parents called them until they are twelve, say, or thirteen, at which time they should get to pick a name for themselves, which would put an end to the grousing that teenagers have ever done about their names.
I was named for Uncle Victor, who liked to tipple and on his way home from a tavern one night either fell or jumped under a train—and was, as brother Dick so nicely put it, turned into peanut butter. I think this is an unfortunate namesake-legacy with which to burden a child but I cannot say whether it really had any influence on my development. It is true I do like a sip now and again, but I have never fallen nor contemplated jumping under a train, though I think it likely that there has been a time or two when others might have considered a helpful shove. Fortunately the impulse was resisted and I have remained to eat rather than become peanut butter.
* * * *
I’ve no doubt that Carol took her share of criticism for spending time with a rugrat like me but we remained friends and still do. She was wise enough not to take my devotion too seriously and in time I came to realize that my real romantic interests lay elsewhere. It is true, nonetheless, that one’s first love never quite dies, and she remains in a special place in my heart.
All well and good, you say, but what does this have to do with publishing? There is a point, however (you knew I would get to one eventually, didn’t you?). By junior high school Carol too had discovered the Nancy Drew books. Delighted to find this common interest, I began writing Nancy Drew-ish mystery stories, with Carol as the heroine, and, eventually, a number of our classmates playing roles in them.
These were my first literary efforts. Well, they were efforts, I don’t know if you would call them literary. One turned up a few years ago in my late mother’s effects and I could only wonder if, after all, they were to blame for the failure of my abortive romantic longings. Still, they were fun and they set me firmly on the path I was to follow, though there were detours along the way. Nor was it, I might mention, the rosiest of paths.
* * * *
Here is a test;
The year is 1963. You have just finished writing your gay novel, full of hot action, with a laugh on every page, and a romantic ending in which your two heroes ride happily off into the sunset. Your best course of action is;
A) Rush your manuscript off to a major New York publishing house and wait by the mailbox for their check.
B) Write to Boy’s Life about the possibilities of serializing your opus, First North American Serial Rights only.
C) Cut the pages in half and stack them, clean side up, in the bathroom cabinet, for that inevitable morning when you discover you are out of toilet tissue.
I’m sure that many writers would have opted—indeed, did opt—for the other choices, but alas, in 1963, your best hope of getting any reward for your efforts was C—believe me you”d have had far less crap to deal with in the long run.
How do I know? Sweetheart, I was there. Between 1963 and 1985 I wrote, as I said in my Foreword, something in excess of one hundred novels and nonfiction books—mostly paperback but some hardcover as well and some shorter pieces, even some poetry. We will skip the subject of restroom walls.
I can’t tell you exact numbers—I stopped counting at one hundred. And I can’t list all the titles, though I’ll do my best to provide a bibliography. I’ve forgotten many of them and no longer have copies to refer to. Some of them, in fact, were titled and “bylined” by the publishers and I never saw them once the manuscripts had been mailed. From time to time I still pick up a paperback book at a flea market and am surprised to discover that it’s something I wrote in the distant past. How was I to know they would pick a name like Flaubert?
As it happened my paperback years coincided with a time of major revolution in the publishing industry. An entire new, alternative publishing industry was bursting onto the scene. Mostly this was a West Coast phenomenon, though there were a few houses in the East and Midwest. At the time the major publishers on the East Coast tut-tutted and looked condescendingly, at best, at what was happening in California. In the late sixties Publishers Weekly replied to a query from me with the information that they had “no interest in California sex publishers.”
Well, yes, to a large extent, sex was the engine that powered this publishing revolution—let’s face it, if the Constitution had been written in California, sex would have been mentioned in the Bill of Rights—but it was not only that. Milton Luros owned one of the largest of these publishing operations in the San Fernando Valley of Los Angeles. His critics called Milt the King of Pornography, but that realm apparently had many “kings”—the title got passed around a lot. The thing is, Milt was a graduate of New York’s prestigious Hunter’s College and an artist of some note. Like many of these early pulp people, Milt started out in the science fiction and fantasy fields, and several of those early sci-fi and fantasy pulps featured covers by Milt. So far as his own publishing was concerned, Milt’s real interest lay in high quality art books.
San Diego’s Greenleaf Classics, another major player, did paperback editions of classic novels. In Los Angeles, Sherbourne Press aka Medco Books published books on witchcraft, male baldness, betting systems—a long list of non-sexual subjects.
Even where sex was a factor, it wasn’t necessarily of the sleazy, pornographic sort. The Other Traveller line of books was an offshoot of Maurice Girodias’ legendary Olympia Press, which for years published major but out-of-the-mainstream works in Paris in familiar green covers; think Henry Miller, Anaïs Nin, or Vladimir Nabokov.
Luros’ operation in the San Fernando Valley published paperback editions of such works as Terry Southern’s Candy (1964), and Sherbourne Press published Robert Rimmer’s The Harrad Experiment (1966) and the fledgling efforts of Joseph Hansen (writing as James Colton), who went on to well justified fame for his Dave Brandstetter mysteries, among other efforts.
It was largely the work of these West Coast publishers that pushed the borders of what was permissible to say and to write about, sexually. It was they who left behind “his manhood” and introduced “his cock,” and made an honest orgasm of “her fulfillment.” I’ll leave it to others to debate the good or bad of that but I will say that the freedom today’s writers enjoy—mainstream romances today are far “hotter” than anything I wrote then—came from this revolution of the sixties.
Even more significant, in my opinion, were the doors that were opened to alternative themes. Gay novels were rare and mostly a sorry lot heretofore. The California houses—with a big push from yours truly—jumped into gay in a big way. There were books, too, on S&M.—I wonder if The Story of O would have made it to print without them? Larry Townsend became the premier writer for those interested in the leather world. John Maggie wrote about boy-love in neither a condescending nor a prurient voice—I can’t imagine what New York publishing house even today would have the guts to tackle his novels. And if they did the watchdogs of our morality would be on them in a thrice, you can take my word for it. As adults, it is important that we have someone decide for us