Harlan Ellison: Right the First Time

Harlan Ellison produced first drafts quickly, and there was nothing careless or thoughtless about them. If you’d like to read one of his first drafts, just read any of his stories. What you see is what he wrote, first time, last time. I know this because I watched him do it.

Once upon a time I lived in Boston. One of the premiere independent book stores in Boston at that time was Avenue Victor Hugo, although it wasn’t located on Avenue Victor Hugo. There was no Avenue Victor Hugo in Boston. Instead, it was located on chic Newberry Street not far from the Boston Commons. It had a large department store front window usually filled with popular new titles, all facing outward. One week, however, Avenue Victor Hugo displayed something else in its front window: A writing Harlan Ellison.

For five days Harlan sat in the window of Avenue Victor Hugo from Noon till five p.m., pounding away at a story on a portable typewriter. (Yes, Dear Reader, this all happened long, long ago in those distant days of yore before everyone had laptop...or desktop... computers!) Anyone who wished could go and gawk at Harlan writing. You could stand on the sidewalk and stare through the window, or you could go inside and stand up close to him, almost reading over his shoulder as he wrote, piling up page after page beside his typewriter.

But, you couldn’t talk to him. You could talk to anyone else you wished, other gawkers, your Significant Other, yourself...but not him. There was a sign taped to the side of his writing table with the dire warning: NOT NOW!

But, promptly at five p.m., Harlan finished what he was writing. He sighed, leaned back, and pulled the sheet of typewritten paper out of the platen. And then you could talk to Harlan. Indeed, he wanted you to talk to him. It seemed he was tired of being interior and was eager to meet and greet. You could make insulting comments about his personality, obtuse observations about his writing, or you could ask questions. Harlan didn’t seem to mind. He gave as good as he got and had an answer for everything.

I arrived around four the day I went to watch Harlan write, knowing he always stopped at five. Not even the sight of Harlan staring at a sheet of paper could be entertaining for much longer than that. I hung around chatting until five. Harlan typed his last words exactly at five and climbed down from the window. He gave his pages to a store employee for Xeroxing. In those pre-inflationary days of yore, if you bought $10 worth of books from Avenue Victor Hugo you also got a copy of the story Harlan wrote in the window that day. I made sure I bought $10 worth of books so I could have a copy of the story I watched Harlan finish. There wasn’t a single typo or correction anywhere on the pages. And, when Harlan’s story was later published, I compared the published version to the photocopy I owned. It was exactly the same, not one word was changed.

After handing his pages to the store employee for copying, Harlan turned to the encircling crowd of gawkers, ready to talk.

A female reporter from a local college newspaper asked him the first question: “Why do you write just one draft?”

“Because I get it right the first time,” Harlan answered. Badda-Bing!

After a few others asked similar questions, I ventured my own: “Are there any circumstances under which you can’t write?”

“Absolutely none,” Harlan replied. “If you’re a true writer, you can write under any conditions...in the middle of a party, riding in a car, in a store window, anywhere.”

I tried to complicate the question. “What if you’re a welfare mother with seven kids, living in a small public housing project apartment with no time to yourself, with no privacy?”

“You can write one paragraph, or one sentence, sitting by yourself on the toilet. If you do that every time you go to the bathroom, it adds up. Or you can go into a closet, shut the door, turn on a light, and write. Proust wrote Remembrance of Things Past in a small closet. It was cork-lined to keep out the noise, but it was a closet.

“Let me tell you something,” Harlan continued, warming to his subject. “Last year was the worst year of my life. I got divorced, which proved to be very expensive. There were massive renovations on my house, which proved to be far more costly than anticipated. My mother died, and there were huge death bills associated with that which I had to pay. I was constantly on the road giving readings, more than ever before, because I needed the extra money that brought.

“But I wrote more than I’ve ever written in my life! A writer writes. And, if you really are a writer, nothing can stop you. You’ll write anywhere, under any conditions, you’ll just do it. It’s that simple.”