ideas; in fact, I am frequently asked that. There's no big secret. I get them from everything I experience, and you can do it, too, if you're willing to work at it.
For instance, I know I've got a possible Black Widower story if I can think of something that can be looked at two or more ways, with only Henry looking at it the right way.
So once, when I was sitting at my typewriter, wishing I had an idea for a Black Widower story (because I felt like writing one of them that day rather than working at whatever task was then facing me), I decided to look at the typewriter and see if there was some useful ambiguity I could extract from the keyboard. After some thought, I extracted one and had my story.
To Table of Contents
5 Nothing Like Murder
Emmanuel Rubin looked definitely haggard when he arrived at the monthly banquet of the Black Widowers. Whereas ordinarily he gave the clear impression of being a foot taller than the five feet five which literal minds would consider his height to be, he seemed shrunken this time into his natural limits. His thick glasses seemed to magnify less, and even his beard, sparse enough at best, straggled limply.
“You look your age,” said the resplendent Mario Gonzalo. “What's wrong?”
“And you look like an overdressed D'Artagnan,” said Rubin with marked lack of snap.
“All we Latins are handsome,” said Gonzalo. “But, really, what's wrong?”
“I'm short about six hours' sleep,” said Rubin aggrievedly. “A deadline trapped me when I wasn't looking. In fact, the deadline was two days ago.”
“Did you finish?”
“Just about. I'll have it in tomorrow.”
“Who done it this time, Manny?”
“You'll just damn well have to buy the book and find out.” He sank down in a chair and said, “Henry!” making a long gesture with thumb and forefinger.
Henry, the perennial waiter of the Black Widowers banquets, obliged at once and Rubin said nothing until about a quarter of the contents had been transferred into his esophagus. Then he said, “Where's everybody?” It was as though he had noticed for the first time that he and Gonzalo were the only two present.
“We're early,” said Gonzalo, shrugging.
“I swear I didn't think I'd make it. You artists don't have deadlines, do you?”
“I wish the demand were great enough to make deadlines necessary,” said Gonzalo grimly. “Sometimes we're driven, but we can be more independent than you word-people. They recognize the demands of creativity in art. It's not something you can hack out at the typewriter.”
“Listen,” began Rubin, then thought better of it and said, “I'll get you next time. Remind me to describe your cockamamie crayon scribbles to you.”
Gonzalo laughed. “Manny, why don't you write a best seller and be done with it? If you're just going to write mystery novels to a limited audience you'll never get rich.”
Rubin's chin lifted. “Think I can't write a best seller? I can do it any time I .want to. I've analyzed it. In order to write a best seller you have to hit one of the only two markets big enough to support one. It's either the housewife or the college kids. Sex and scandal get the housewife; pseudo-intellect gets the college kids. I could do either if I wanted to but I am not interested in sex and scandal and I don't want to take the effort to lower my intellect so far as to make it pseudo.”
“Try, Manny, try. You underestimate the full measure of the incapacity of your intellect. Besides,” Gonzalo added hastily to stave off a retort, “don't tell me that it's only the pseudo-intellect that gets through to the college students.”
“Sure!” said Rubin indignantly. “Do you know what goes big with the college crowd? Chariots of the Gods?, which is sheer nonsense. I'd call it science fiction except that it's not that good. Or The Greening of America, which was a fad book—one month they were all reading it because it's the 'in' thing to do, the next month it's
For instance, I know I've got a possible Black Widower story if I can think of something that can be looked at two or more ways, with only Henry looking at it the right way.
So once, when I was sitting at my typewriter, wishing I had an idea for a Black Widower story (because I felt like writing one of them that day rather than working at whatever task was then facing me), I decided to look at the typewriter and see if there was some useful ambiguity I could extract from the keyboard. After some thought, I extracted one and had my story.
To Table of Contents
5 Nothing Like Murder
Emmanuel Rubin looked definitely haggard when he arrived at the monthly banquet of the Black Widowers. Whereas ordinarily he gave the clear impression of being a foot taller than the five feet five which literal minds would consider his height to be, he seemed shrunken this time into his natural limits. His thick glasses seemed to magnify less, and even his beard, sparse enough at best, straggled limply.
“You look your age,” said the resplendent Mario Gonzalo. “What's wrong?”
“And you look like an overdressed D'Artagnan,” said Rubin with marked lack of snap.
“All we Latins are handsome,” said Gonzalo. “But, really, what's wrong?”
“I'm short about six hours' sleep,” said Rubin aggrievedly. “A deadline trapped me when I wasn't looking. In fact, the deadline was two days ago.”
“Did you finish?”
“Just about. I'll have it in tomorrow.”
“Who done it this time, Manny?”
“You'll just damn well have to buy the book and find out.” He sank down in a chair and said, “Henry!” making a long gesture with thumb and forefinger.
Henry, the perennial waiter of the Black Widowers banquets, obliged at once and Rubin said nothing until about a quarter of the contents had been transferred into his esophagus. Then he said, “Where's everybody?” It was as though he had noticed for the first time that he and Gonzalo were the only two present.
“We're early,” said Gonzalo, shrugging.
“I swear I didn't think I'd make it. You artists don't have deadlines, do you?”
“I wish the demand were great enough to make deadlines necessary,” said Gonzalo grimly. “Sometimes we're driven, but we can be more independent than you word-people. They recognize the demands of creativity in art. It's not something you can hack out at the typewriter.”
“Listen,” began Rubin, then thought better of it and said, “I'll get you next time. Remind me to describe your cockamamie crayon scribbles to you.”
Gonzalo laughed. “Manny, why don't you write a best seller and be done with it? If you're just going to write mystery novels to a limited audience you'll never get rich.”
Rubin's chin lifted. “Think I can't write a best seller? I can do it any time I .want to. I've analyzed it. In order to write a best seller you have to hit one of the only two markets big enough to support one. It's either the housewife or the college kids. Sex and scandal get the housewife; pseudo-intellect gets the college kids. I could do either if I wanted to but I am not interested in sex and scandal and I don't want to take the effort to lower my intellect so far as to make it pseudo.”
“Try, Manny, try. You underestimate the full measure of the incapacity of your intellect. Besides,” Gonzalo added hastily to stave off a retort, “don't tell me that it's only the pseudo-intellect that gets through to the college students.”
“Sure!” said Rubin indignantly. “Do you know what goes big with the college crowd? Chariots of the Gods?, which is sheer nonsense. I'd call it science fiction except that it's not that good. Or The Greening of America, which was a fad book—one month they were all reading it because it's the 'in' thing to do, the next month it's
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