Excerpts from the final chapter of Larry L. King: A Writer's Life in Letters, Or, Reflections From a Bloodshot Eye

May 22, 1998

Dear Cousins:

Hell has frozen over. The needle was found in the haystack. And Chicken Little was right. Larry L. King, you see, is buying a computer. . . .

Not that I really want to, but technology has whupped me down. My old typewriter repairman died a couple of years ago, and my surviving typewriters are themselves about to croak, all having at least one or two things wrong. Ribbons are hard to find; I can't find carbon paper up here, as you know, since you--and Shannon Davies at the University of Texas Press--have been supplying me with it for the past year. I feel like Dad once said of his being forced out of the blacksmith business: "Then the car come along and I was blowed up." So, not yet ready to give up this crazy word game despite advancing years and mysterious machines, I had to face up to surrendering to the new technology--which, as Barbara points out, isn't all that new except to me and a handful of other die-hard coots. For several years she has been urging me to convert but I fought it as hard as I fought conversions to Jesus in my youth. She has claimed that my manuscripts are so old-fashioned in appearance that young editors automatically will consider me an old relic on his last professional legs even if only subconsciously. And perhaps she is right. Anyway, she's buying me a top-of-the-line Mysterious Apparatus and getting an instructor to give me lessons.

At least I won't have to take off a typewriter ribbon and re-wind it by hand eight or ten times per day, as I am doing now with this the best of my ancient typewriters. . . . .Ah me. . . .pray for me. . . .

I suppose my grousing about technology that most people not only accept, but take for granted, is another sign of Old Fartism along with the belief that hardly a decent magazine exists in America any more. They either are Celebrity-driven or partisan organs that stoop to the worst sort of tabloid journalism with just no leavening humor--with rare exceptions such as P.J. O'Rourk, Roy Blount, Jr., and Molly Ivins--and their intellectual or informative content would cause Thomas Paine and Mencken to revolve in their graves. I think the Celebrity horseshit has been the ruination of magazine journalism. I couldn't sell my article about the inner workings of my jury duty--"Seeking Justice"--to Atlantic Monthly, Vanity Fair, Parade or Esquire, among others--even though, when it appeared in my UT Press book True Facts, etc. it received good critical comment from reviewers, lawyers and judges. They don't want substance any more, just entertainment. (David Halberstam was so taken with that piece, when I sent it to him in manuscript form, that he called to say how "compelling and spellbinding" it was and told me he had recommended it to some woman who buys movie materials. When the movie lady called, her only question was "Does it have a celebrity angle?" Puzzled, I said, "No, quite the opposite. It's about a rape case involving two ghetto Blacks, one claiming assault and one claiming not to have assaulted her, and how a mixed jury of whites and blacks, with very different cultural experiences, viewed the case and the principles." She lost interest as quickly as had I said, "No, it is a piece about how to make ice cubes."

But for all my rantings in recent years against goddamned "celebrity journalism" I didn't know the half of that crime until a front-page article in the New York Times several days ago. Jesus Christ, many magazines now permit Celebs--or their image- makers--to select or control photographs to be used of the Celebs, demand--and usually get--the "right" to see the writer's copy before it is published and, of course, to make "corrections" when deemed necessary. Otherwise, the image makers and their Stars threaten, they will not give an interview to Magazine X but will shop it around to "competitive" magazines Y and Z! And to the shame of my craft, the gutless magazine editors are agreeing, by and large, because "If we don't have a celebrity on the cover, our magazines won't sell." Christ-on-a-stickhorse! What the hell has happened to journalistic integrity and what kind of blathering idiotic readership wants pap bullshit of the old ass- kiss false-story Movie Magazine tradition of the long ago. (Remember when Joan Crawford was represented as a wonderful mother, Rock Hudson as the quintessential Macho Man, John Wayne--who never served a day in the Military in his soft, fat old life- -was the To Be Admired Super Patriot?) That sort of horseshit now is being peddled in once respectable journals. Where are the gonads of current magazine editors? Or writers? The heart? The committment? The caring? The pride? Well, in the words of the old 1960s anti-war song "Gone like flowers, every one"--or goddamned close to it. Bah, humbug! Fie fie and a pox on the fuckers!)

Rant over. To some extent, the same happy horseshit is happening on Broadway. We see more musical revivals--or imports from England--than not. Glitz and glitter prevails, though far be it from me to claim that Broadway musicals ever, in the aggregate, carried "social messages"--with the exception of a spare few, including Finian's Rainbow of the 1940s--an early preachment against racism--and, though I beg your pardon, the original Whorehouse about shameless politicians and sensational tabloid journalism techniques and the natural hypocracies of both the pols and the alleged newsmen! So musicals are, really, and I think increasingly so, merely to entertain the same mindless sons-of-bitches who rush out to buy shitass celebrity-driven magazines.

Second rant over.

Third rant: "Serious" plays rarely make it to Broadway any more. Which reduces the promotional "Tony" Awards each year to what truly is "The Best Disguised Pap Award"--excluding Wendy Wasserstein's work, the occasional but not always Stephen Sondheim, and the occasional Arthur Miller revival--while, conversely--a bright spot-- Off-Broadway, and the Regional Theaters, continue to offer the best of American playwrighting. But, alas, to small audiences. I believe it was Edward Albee who once estimated "serious" theater-goers in New York as "about 40,000" and then--after box- office realities of his own good plays set in--reduced his estimate by about a third. And I think he was right. And we are talking about an extremely talented playwright in Mr. Albee. But the masses rally not.

Now leave us piss on New York Publishing Houses--now owned by Giant Conglomorates, who consider them as little more than nuisances who don't carry their own weight as measured against the manufactures of Miracle Drugs, Gas-reducing Fart- Helper medications, Tobacco, Booze, Vitamins, Health Foods or other profitable scams-- few of which have proved themselves beyond the claims of vast Advertising and Promotional schemes. Any day now, we will see Ads in print and on TV and maybe even in the neglected Art of Radio--the best media ever, in terms of one's exercising one's brains to paint a personal picture of what one heard--claiming that Cancer is Good For You in that it reduces death by sudden heart attack or strokes, and therefore is a greater Aid to the Dying than is marijuana which, as all of us Scientists know, eases death and brain seizures and helps one cross to The Other Side, never mind what the chickenshit Republicans claim. There is nothing in the world worse than Partisan dolts, a thing known to all of us Free Spirits who believe in low grade smokin' dope, women's rights to have an abortion on demand and low taxes for us millionaires. At least two-thirds of that is what Made America Great!

Anyway, what I am doing next--though I have not decided in what order--is (1) a play about Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, (2) some sort of Washington-based "thriller novel" and (3) a retrospective, non-fiction, about writers in my time and place. Other than that, respondant sayeth not.

Yours in Christ (and perhaps near the End of The Trail.)
Simply, a writing man,
Larry L.

May 27, 1998

Dear Cousins:

All signs portend aging, loss, attrition and death. Witness this New York Times obit of a week ago today of my dear friend and editor Alan D. Williams. Was glad to see that today's Times had the "in memorium" ad from Viking-Penguin and with respect to ADW quoted Aeschylus, "No, I will never tire of telling you your gifts." Quite appropriate, I think.

Alan Williams edited five of my books and, with the possible exception of Willie Morris, was the best editor I ever worked with hands-down. Wry, funny, educated, caring, sprightly, a punster, an entertained and entertaining observer of the world's mock shows. I recall sitting with A.D. in his Princeton home--he in a robe after the daily commute from Manhattan, relaxing with a few scotches--and his laughing, uproariously, at Richard M. Nixon's mock show on television: the one where Nixon spoke near a huge stack of "White House Transcripts", the President telling us the whole truth about Watergate was in there and, yessiree, that Watergate should now be put to rest and such. Of course, the next day all the nation's newspapers called attention to the many "expletives deleteds" and "indistinguishables" and such, and of course, it was perfectly obvious that nothing like the whole truth had been contained in those 'White House Transcripts.' What I recall most is Alan's pure enjoyment of such a straight-faced mock show as Nixon managed to give us. "Checkers Two," he called that speech, as it occurred, with satisfied chuckles. And he was right.

Alan loved a few sociable drinks--though nothing like the stupid-drink-til-dizzy- or-puking technique I favored--and his yarns, puns and observations gave me a moveable feast each and every time we lunched, dined, popped into a bar for post-work drinks, visited in his home or my apartment in Princeton. He loved talking about writing and politics and of the human comedy. I'll miss him.

I regret only a couple of things about my relationship with Alan D. Williams--and they are my fault, not his. One, I never finished that LBJ biography he went out on a $100,000 limb for and, two, I did not talk to him the last three months of his life. Did write him a long letter--shortly after the last time we talked--but, by then, he apparently was in pretty bad shape although the obit says he worked editing Aleksander Solzhenitsyn's "November 1916" until about three weeks before his death. (Did you know that Alan Williams was an Airman at Midland Army Air Base in 1945? That came out in one of our many rambling conversations. He remarked that with "a paucity" of things to do, he attended a number of Midland High School football games--and I played in them! What were the odds that a young soldier sitting in the stands and a teenager on the field in that desert wasteland would become dear friends, and one would edit the other?)

Well, hell, a lot of my old editors are dead--A.D., Brad Carlisle, Jim Scott, Wick Fowler--or retired (Herman Gollob, Berry Stainback, Eric Swenson) or semi-retired-- Arthur Kretchmer, Steve Gelman--writing more than editing (Geoffrey Norman, William Broyles, Willie Morris) or agenting, like Chuck Verrill, or doing God knows-what such as Bob Gutwillig. And those are only a few who immediately leap to mind; I am sure that many others are gone, or forgotten, who worked at any number of magazines--Helen Gurley Brown pops to mind--themselves perhaps now defunct. And they all, of course, have been replaced by 26-year-olds, except in Hollywood where they are 14-to-22 if in charge of much. . . .

Working now on final chapter of Letters Book with Dick Holland. (He has more than that to do, but I'm very close to finished with my part.) Negotiations still going on about the two-company 20th Anniversary Tour of the original Whorehouse and Lawyer Blaine sees no insurmountable obstacles. Meeting in about a week with Ethan McSweeny, the hot shot young director palpitating to direct The Dead Presidents' Club. Hear from a third party--Chuck Conconi, columnist for The Washingtonian Magazine-- that McSweeney wants my stage Nixon to be a little more "complex." I thought he was, but will listen to what the kid has to say. . .

Some time soon, please send this letter, along with Alan D. Williams obit, to the Southwestern Writers Collection. I want what The New York Times and I said of A.D. "on the record." A small payment for all that I owe him.

Peace. . . .

August 9, 1998
Dear Fat Ben & Miss 'Niter:*

Twenty-four years ago today Richard Nixon resigned for having tracked mud on the Constitution; 52 years ago today the United States Armed Forces attained an all-time strength-and-readiness state due to 17-year-old Private Lawrence Leo King--RA 18271471--being sworn into the Army Signal Corps at Goodfellow Field in San Angelo, Texas. I leave to History which of these acts was the most momentous. . . .

I am not surprised that you were surprised to find that I have become a Computerizer. Daughter Lindsay said "I never expected you to become obsessed with a dog or a computer but I have lived to see both!" I don't yet love this Magic Machine as much as I love the faithful booger-and-bear dog, Buster, but after about six weeks of exposure I must admit to being a bit entranced--and to wondering why I spent twenty-odd years cussin' Computer Nerds. Plain ol' ignorance, I reckon, plus man's inherent fear of the unknown.

As to why I entered the 20th century here on the cusp of the 21st, it has to do with necessity being the mother of invention. See, I had been using the same old typewriter repairman for 20-odd years and he died on me two or three years ago. In the interim, all of my several ancient manual machines broke down in one way or another. For the last eight months or so, I had to remove the ribbon from my typewriter eight or ten times or more, daily, and rewind the sumbidge by hand. This not only hindered efficient production, it left one with perpetually grubby hands. Came a day when Lawyer Blaine discovered my hand ribbon-rewinding and uttered "Hold, Enough!" She and son Blaine then went out and bought this Magic Machine--said to be top-of-the-line--with all sorts of mysterious accessories, at a cost of "only" $3000-plus. It was quite frightening to a boy who never has understood exactly what drives a wheel-barrow, makes a radio talk or sing to him or how big old heavy airplanes can possible stay aloft--and who, in 1935 in the public school in Putnam, Texas, was taught to communicate by writing on a second-hand little slate with a nub of chalk.

I am already persuaded that converting was a good move, and not just because I have hands free of ribbon black, or that I couldn't find new typewriter ribbons and had to ill-repair holes in my used ones with Scotch tape. It also has saved me certain cultural embarrassments in that of late when I tried to buy carbon paper the "old" clerks laughed and the young ones did not know what it was.

But the real good has been the amazing uplift of my spirits; this Magic Machine has been almost as good as a triple-dose of Prozac in keeping me from wanting to stab folks or sulk under the bed. Glory Hallelujah, I want to work again! Visions of literary sugar-plums dance once more in my head; the brain reels with plans and plots to write new plays and short stories and maybe even try the accursed novel form again. Hell, I could get so carried away I might attempt a book of critical essays, passing hard judgements upon my fellow writers and lamenting the wasting of my valuable time through pursuing their inferior Ort. But, in truth, I am disadvantaged as a critical expert because I have actually written things and, therefore, might know what I am talking about--a clear disqualification.

On the other hand, once the new wears off I might revert to sour musings and dark prophesies and crawl under the bed again, never having been proficient at keeping blue skies smiling at me. Right now, however, I feel this new shot-in-the-arm might actually last awhile. And as Ol' Hemingway said in the tag line of "The Sun Also Rises"- -"Isn't it pretty to think so?"

Enough. Best, old friends, from
L. Clatterbuck King

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