“By L. Ron Hubbard”

“By L. Ron Hubbard”

I guess I must have written the line “By L. Ron Hubbard” many thousands of times between 1930 and 1950.

And every time I wrote it I had a sense of starting something pleasing, something exciting and, it worked out, something that would sell. Ninety-three and one-half percent of everything I wrote was accepted first draft, first submission.

I wrote adventure, detective stories, air stories, science fiction, fantasy, technical articles, you name it.

Production was about 100,000 words a month most months, done on an electric typewriter, working an average of three hours a day, three days a week.

Arthur J. Burks, Ed Bodin, Bob Heinlein, John Campbell, Willy Ley, Isaac Asimov, these and the rest of the greats were my friends.

I shuttled between New York and Hollywood with way stops at a hideous rainy ranch in Puget Sound.

When I took time off, I went on expeditions to freshen up the old viewpoint.

I had one main problem, and that was running out of magazines to write for.

So I added about five pen names for stories to be “by.”

One issue of one magazine was totally filled with my stories, once. All by different names.

It came about this way. Old-timers had editor problems. Editors were also readers. They got tired of one’s stories but mainly got tired of the high prices they had to pay per word to a real pro.

So now and then an editor would cut you off his list for a while.

Once when this happened, I got even. I went back home and wrote a story, “The Squad That Never Came Back” and signed it “Kurt von Rachen.” Then I had my agent Ed Bodin, take it in to dear old Leo Margulies (bless him) as something by a “new” writer.

Ed was scared stiff. “But if he finds out—”

I pushed him hard. It was a gag on Leo. So Ed did it.

Day or two later, Ed called me in a panic. “They love it. But they want to know what this guy looks like.”

So I said, “He’s a huge brute of a man. Tough. Black hair, beard. His idea of a party is to rent the floor of a hotel, get everybody drunk and smash the place to bits. A tough character.”

So Ed hung up and all seemed well. Then, next day, he called again in even more of a panic.

“They want to know where he is! They want to see him! And sign a contract!”

So I said, “He’s in the Argentine. He’s wanted for murder in Georgia!”

So Ed hung up. And all went through smoothly.

Now it’s not illegal to use a pen name. But to play such a joke on an old friend like Leo was bad.

So I went over to Leo’s office to tell him for laughs.

Unfortunately, Leo met me with a manuscript in his hand.

He said, “You old-time pros think you are all there is! Look at this. A story brand-new, fresh. New writer. Got it all over you.”

And the manuscript he was holding was “The Squad That Never Came Back” by “Kurt von Rachen.”

I let it go.

I used the name, among others, for some years. But that isn’t all there is to the story.

After the war, years later I was riding down in an elevator in Leo’s building. A brand-new fresh writer had stepped in with me.

“I just sold three stories,” he said.

I was glad for him. Most pros are for new young ones that are trying.

“Yeah,” he said, “and this sure is a WILD town,” meaning New York.

“Last night I was at a party. Guy rented a whole floor of a hotel, got everybody drunk, smashed the place up—”

I started, blinked. Could it be?

“What was his name?” I inquired breathlessly.

“Kurt von Rachen” he said. And left me standing there forgetting to get out.

The dear old days. The good old days. The exciting, hard-working, screaming rush old days.

This name, that name. They go by in a rush.

Only six hundred writers total wrote the full story output of America. And only two hundred of them were the hard core professionals.

I got into science fiction and fantasy because F. Orlin Tremaine, at the orders of the managing director of Street and Smith, brought me over and ordered John W. Campbell, Jr., then editor of Astounding Science Fiction, to buy whatever I wrote. To freshen the mag, up its circulation, to put in real people and real plots instead of ant men.

John, although we became dear friends later, didn’t like this a bit. He was very fond of his ant men and machines that repaired machines and real people—well, now!

So I wrote my first science fiction. It was called “The Dangerous Dimension.”

After a while John came around and started Unknown, mainly I think to publish my fantasy novels.

As I notice, it folded when I stopped writing for it because of the war.

Ah, the old names, L. Sprague de Camp, Fletcher Pratt, Robert Bloch, Ed Hamilton, Frank Belknap Long, dear old Edd Cartier and his fantastic beautiful illustrations, names still going, names forgotten.

All for the “by line.”

The petty squabbles, the friendly enmities.

I look back now and love them all.

We were quite a crew.

We made and popularized the space age.

We got the show on the road.

And the other day I heard they have a personnel down in the War Department who reads everything we ever wrote, trying to see if there’s any hint or invention they’ve missed.

Well, all those years I was also working on mental technology. The last advance had been with Freud in 1894. Because I knew that someday Man would need it if he ever got into space.

And so I stepped off the bandwagon in 1950 and let them carry on.

They’ve gone on splendidly, those old writers. They’ve come up to a stature more like Gods than men.

And I love them all and all my fans and wish them well and well again.