Lawrence Block: Step by Step

I’ve been a professional writer for fifty years, and, with the exception of four instructional books for writers, virtually everything I’ve written has been fiction. (I did turn out several pseudonymous works of purported nonfiction, ostensibly psychological case studies, but they were entirely fabricated, fiction in sheep’s clothing.)

So this is a departure for me. In the pages that follow, everything I’ve written is as it happened. I realize that this no longer seems to be a requirement in memoirs, that some memoirists apparently feel free to let their imaginations improve on reality, but when I want to use my imagination I sit down and write a novel. A memoir, it seems to me, should confine itself to what the author remembers.

Clearly, this doesn’t matter to everyone. When I expressed contempt for one such imaginative memoirist, a contempt shared by Oprah Winfrey, my daughter Amy couldn’t understand why I was getting so exercised. “Maybe he made some of it up,” she said, “but I have to say I found it very entertaining.”

Right. And that Hitler? Say what you want about him, but the guy was one hell of a dancer.

So I’ve stayed with what I remember, and have avoided doing anything to improve it. My father couldn’t tell a story without exaggerating, aiming to make a better story of it. That always bothered me, and I’ve always erred in the other direction, hewing to the line of the literal truth.

As best I can.

Memory, you see, is an artful Ananias. I’ve become deeply suspicious of those cases in which a suppressed memory, recovered decades after the fact with the aid of a brilliant hypnotherapist, has resulted in an indictment for child molestation. Even conscious memories, I’ve found, are overly cooperative witnesses, quick to tell you what you want to hear. How much trust can one place in those wrestled from the unconscious? (And isn’t it remarkable how the same therapists keep on dredging such memories from one client after another?)

Sometimes my memory’s a liar. Sometimes it’s merely asleep at the switch. I’m not inclined to trust it unequivocally, and yet I have to if I’m going to write about early times. Whom else can I consult?

I tell the story, for example, of a walk I took in 1949 with two friends, Jerry Carp and Rett Goldberg. At least I’m pretty sure those were my two companions. That’s how I remember the incident.

I can’t ask Rett. He’s gone, dead of cancer for more than a decade now. I could ask Jerry, we’re still friends, but would he remember? And if he did, why should his recollection be any more reliable than my own?

And does it really matter who accompanied me on that walk downtown?

Here’s an example of dueling memories. In 1960, I was one of half a dozen people who established a weekly poker game for small stakes. Most of us were writers, honing our skills and earning a marginal living writing paperback trash. And one of us came up with the idea of combining the two activities, to our mutual profit.

Suppose, say, half a dozen poker-playing writers assembled at someone’s home. Five would play cards, while the sixth went off to another room and wrote a chapter of a novel. When he was done, he’d return to the game and another player would go write a chapter.

And so on.

Twice around the circuit would give us twelve chapters, and that’s all we needed. By dawn, if all went well, we’d have a book. We’d present that book to our agent, Henry Morrison, a poker player himself, and he’d peddle it to our publisher, and we’d divvy up the proceeds. It would be the first poker game in history where everybody would come out ahead.

What could possibly go wrong?

Six of us assembled at Mel Fox’s house — Mel, Don Westlake, Dave Foley, Hal Dresner, Byrne Fone, and myself. Somebody shuffled the cards, somebody dealt them out. And one of us went upstairs and sat down at the typewriter.

I don’t remember who went first, but I do know that Hal, Don, Dave, and I were the first four, and each of us wrote our chapters with all deliberate speed and put them out of our mind upon returning to the game. Then it was Byrne Fone’s turn, and he had a request; he was not that sanguine about his ability to stay awake all night, and not much of a cardplayer anyway, so how would it be if he wrote both of his chapters at one stretch — and then went home?

We all agreed that would be fine, and he went upstairs and got to work. And it didn’t take very long at all before he came downstairs, with not one but two chapters completed in record time. We wished him the joy of the evening — though it was probably morning by then, if you want to be technical about it — and he headed home while Mel, our host, climbed the stairs to take his turn.

And time stopped.

It was hours later when Mel finally staggered downstairs and the rest of us discovered the problem. Byrne, concerned that he’d fall asleep at the poker table or the typewriter, had tried to stack the deck by ingesting a handful of amphetamine. That almost certainly had a good deal to do with the pace at which he knocked off his assignment, but it also scrambled his brain beyond recognition, and the two chapters he’d produced were gibberish. Grammatically correct gibberish, perfectly typed gibberish, even highly literate gibberish — but the story got lost completely, and nothing on the page made a particle of sense.

That was only half the problem, and if Hal or Don or Dave or I had been scheduled to follow Byrne, all would have been well; the four of us were old hands in the world of soft-core porn, and would have quickly concluded that Byrne’s chapters would be fine for lining the parakeet’s cage but for nothing else, and would have tossed them and picked up where he’d started.

But Mel was the group’s neophyte, and it never occurred to him to question the work of a veteran like Byrne. So what he tried to do was write the next chapter, and do so in a way that would make logical sense, and all of that was plainly impossible. Which is why it took him hours, and why he ultimately came downstairs looking as though he’d sustained a massive concussion.

That was pretty much the end of that. Dawn had broken, and so had our spirits. We cashed in our chips and went home.

Years passed. Several of them, during which time Dave Foley came down with leukemia and died at a lamentably early age. And at some point we disinterred the partial manuscript, which we’d taken to referring to as Lust Fuck; we shit-canned Byrne’s chapters and Mel’s heroic attempt at their sequel, and Don and Hal and I took turns adding chapters to what was left until we had, if not a book, at least a book-length manuscript. We gave it to Henry, who sold it to our regular publisher, Bill Hamling, and every cent of the proceeds — $1000? $1200? — went to Sandy Foley, Dave’s widow. It was our understanding that Scott Meredith, Henry’s employer, didn’t even take a commission on this particular sale, and that, I have to tell you, is the single most implausible element in the whole affair.

All these years later, I recall nothing whatsoever about the plot or characters of Lust Fuck . The book must have been published, but I never saw a copy, and never learned what title it bore or under whose pen name it appeared. Were I to read it now — and I must say I hope that never happens — I doubt it would ring the faintest of bells.