A Writer's Tale (10 page)

The Pink Tea was a private group, and its existence was something of a secret. There was only one way to attend a meeting: you had to be invited by the person who would be hosting it. After the first meeting, you didn’t necessarily get invited to another.

Here is an example of the procedure at work.

A rather annoying, aggressive, aspiring writer once pressured me into inviting him to a Pink Tea when it was to be held at my house. I caved in, and said, “Sure, come on over!”

At the end of the meeting to which I’d invited him, he approached the guy who would be hosting the next one. “Say,” he said, will it be all right if I come to your . . ?”

“No,” the writer told him. A bit cruel, maybe, but effective. For many years, the tight control over membership kept the group from disintegrating into a bunch of “hanger-onners” and “ne’er-dowells.”

I was a lucky one. After being invited by Matt, the others kept asking me to subsequent meetings until I was considered a permanent member.

The Pink Tea had been in existence for some time before I showed up. I’ve heard more than one story about how the group got its name. Apparently, it was first suggested by Warner Law, Arthur Moore, Clayton Matthews or Jach Matcha. (I recall that they each seemed to take credit for it, at one time or another and argue about the origin.) “Pink Tea” was intended as a wry, tongue-in-cheek reference to the olden days when little old ladies would get together to trade gossip and sip tea.

None of us sipped tea.

We were mostly a pack of hard drinkers and heavy smokers. (My smoke of choice was the pipe, but there were plenty of cigarettes and cigars.) Twice each month (every other Friday, except when MWA meetings got in the way), we would meet at the house or apartment of a member and have a party/workshop. We alternated locations, each of us taking his turn.
(Almost
each of us. Some people rarely or never hosted.)

The meeting places were scattered all over the Los Angeles area members living in such areas as West Los Angeles, Brentwood, Glendale and Pasadena, Marina del Ray, Echo Park, Hollywood, Northridge, Sherman Oaks, Encino, etc. To reach a meeting, lengthy pilgrimages were often involved fighting through heavy traffic for about an hour.

Because of the distances and uncertainties about traffic conditions, some people would arrive at the meetings very early, others quite late. The meetings were supposed to begin at 8 p.m.

Upon arrival, most of us would have our first cocktail. Then we would sip and smoke and wait, talking mostly about writing.

We never knew how many people might show up. The Pink Tea had a very fluid membership. There were stolid regulars who were serious writers, a few of their nonwriter friends, and occasional visitors (maybe a boyfriend or girlfriend or a writer who wasn’t a regular member). Some of us rarely missed a meeting. Some rarely showed up.

I’ve been to meetings when there were only two or three people present, and others where there were probably more than twenty. Usually, however, twelve to fifteen people would put in an appearance.

We all lived in small houses or apartments and hardly had room to seat everyone. By the time the whole crew had shown up, people would often be jammed together on the couch, sitting on folding chairs, sitting on the floor.

On one memorable occasion at the Matthews’ house, Dan Marlowe was sitting on a “director’s chair” that fell apart
,
throwing him backward to the floor. He was pretty old at the time, but that didn’t stop us all from laughing our heads off. He wasn’t hurt, and we were mostly a tad drunk. (Most of us were
always
mostly a tad drunk or more so.) Reading time, though scheduled for 8:00 p.m., would actually occur much later than that (and sometimes not at all). When it seemed that most of us had arrived, someone would announce that it was time to start reading. This was usually Leo Whitaker, a very proper chap with leftward political leanings and a penchant for orderliness.

After the announcement, we would have to abandon our “shop talk” and hurry off to get refills for our drinks.

Finally, the meeting would come to order. We would start by taking a rough count of how many people wished to read.

In the opinion of most of us, the fewer the better.

Some members never brought material to read. Others would bring things occasionally. A few of us never showed up
without
a brand new piece to run through the gauntlet. I nearly always brought a fresh story or chapter to the meetings. But I didn’t always ask to read it.

I would see how many other people were reading, how long it was taking… I didn’t want to be responsible for dragging things out.

Generally, four or five people might express a desire to offer their material up for sacrifice. In keeping with the informality of the Pink Tea, you could read just about anything to the group.

If you dared.

Mostly, people would choose to read a short story or a chapter (or two) from a novel in progress. On rare occasions, someone might read poetry or a play. Jack Matcha sometimes handed out scripts, and different members took roles in his plays.

I believe there was a general caution to keep your material no longer than about twenty pages. But the rule was sometimes ignored. Time and again, we would be bludgeoned into agony and despair by a seemingly endless story or multiple chapters droning on forever.

Oddly enough, these adventures in monotony were very rarely interrupted. The group could be harsh, but it could also be compassionate and polite.

Some of us would read our own stuff to the group. (I always did.) Others would ask someone else to read it. Women frequently got drafted into this job. I recall Carol Law, Patricia Matthews and Marilyn Granbeck often reading not only their own material, but that of various guys who preferred to sit back and listen.

While each piece was being read aloud, we would sit there sipping our drinks and smoking and listening and trying to concentrate. We were politely silent except for an occasional wisecrack or laughter if the material happened to be funny.

On one occasion, the whole group (or at least all the guys) went nuts, laughing hysterically, many of us in tears. Dan Marlowe was reading a revenge story that he’d written for a biker magazine. To get back at a guy who had wronged him, this kid put horse laxative into a fellow’s drink. There sat Dan, this soft-spoken, gentle, elder statesman of crime literature, looking a bit like Larry “Bud” Melman, reading to us about poop exploding into the fellow’s pants, describing the stench of it, the texture, the agony of the man as he raced around the tavern, his pants around his ankles, slipping and sliding and falling down on the oozing brown lake… and we fell apart.

It was a night I’ll never forget.

There was also the night when, as we all sat and listened intently to a reader, the host’s little doggie brushed its little butt against the leg of Ann’s slacks leaving a brown smudge. But that’s another story…

Usually, things were not so eventful. We sat and listened in relative silence until the reader would come to the end of his story or chapter.

Then the fun ‘would start.

Just about everyone would pitch in with comments, criticism, and advice.

This was very much like several creative writing workshops I’d encountered in high school and in various universities. But it was different in a major way.

This wasn’t the blind leading the blind.

The Pink Tea was a bunch of tough pros. These were guys and gals who, for the most part, had been getting stuff published for a good many years. They had no patience for artsy pretensions.

They were down-to-earth, direct, and sometimes a bit mean.

They didn’t talk about the richness of your themes or the depth of your symbolism.

They talked about characters and motives and plot.

They discussed, “Does it work?”

And if not, why not, and how can it be fixed?

And where can you sell it?

If anywhere.

Every so often, the recommended remedy for an ailing story was the fireplace.

The Members

Here are brief portraits of some of the main members.

Clayton Matthews was the godfather of the Pink Tea. A tough, wiry Texan, he was gruff and a little scary. But he always had a sly twinkle in his eyes, and a sweetness in his soul.

He once told me I should just burn one of my stories.

He also once told me, in secret, that he thought I had a very large talent. Clayton Matthews was my mentor. From the very start, he took me under his wing and helped me.

He not only gave me great advice and encouragement, but he fixed me up with his agent, Jay Garon.

Matt was a no-nonsense pro. He’d sold stories to the mystery magazines, had authored several novels (some under pseudonyms) and would later collaborate with his wife Patty.

Patricia, Mart’s wife, was cheerful and warmhearted and always treated me as if I were a sweet, innocent little boy.

She ‘wrote some good supernatural and fantasy stories. On the advice of Jay Garon (the agent), she and Matt collaborated on a series of historical romances. They became rich and famous.

Instead of moving to a new house, they bought the house on the hill
below
their home, built a swimming pool in the middle, and a lot of walkways and stairs. They threw some great parties.

Warner Law had been a story editor for television, and sold stories to such magazines as
The Saturday Evening Post
and
Playboy.
He won an Edgar for one of his short stories. He was the intellectual and artistic heart of the group sophisticated and witty. Always puffing on cigarettes, adjusting his glasses, giggling, nitpicking and encouraging.

Warner’s wife, Carol, was one of the regular readers. She was nearly always drafted to read Gary Brandner’s stuff. She sold mystery stories and children’s books, and spent a lot of time writing a historical novel about an opera singer. She worked in advertising, and did a great job when I hired her to create an ad for
The Woods Are Dark.
The ad ran in
Fangoria
before the days when I started to boycott that magazine.

Arthur Moore, who specialized in writing crime fiction and frontier stories and novels, just sort of sat there and gave you the evil eye. He seemed serious, even grim. And he’d nail you with a few rough words. But his advice was always practical and good. And underneath his rather rough exterior, he was a sweet, gentle man with a great sense of humor. One of the things I remember most about Ait is the time I was crouching down, tying a shoe or something, and he ruffled my hair as he walked by. Like a coach, or like a dad.

Arthur’s exwife, Marilyn Granbeck, was a successful mystery novelist. She wrote under several pseudonyms. She basically seemed pretty friendly in a reserved sort of way. What I remember most about her, however, was a time early in my career (before
The Cellar
sold) that she said to me, “If you’re not doing
something
wrong, how come nobody’s buying your books?”

I get the feeling she didn’t like my stuff too much.

Jack Matcha was a big, husky guy who was more “artsy” than most of the others. He wrote plays and often sported a beret.

He was gruff like most of them and like Matt, Warner and Art, he took me under his wing. We traveled together to New York City for my very first Edgar Awards weekend.

We roomed together in the Edison hotel and he showed me around town. We ate at Nathan’s and the Rainbow Room, and he even took me across town to have a meal with some of his family in one of the other burroughs.

Charles Fritch was the group comedian. He had clever puns about
everything,
wrote hilarious stories, and was the editor of several Los Angeles magazines, including
Topper
and
Mike Shayne’s Mystery Magazine.
He seemed to be a good buddy of Jack’s. He often didn’t show up, but he was a regular longtime member of the Pink Tea anyway.

Bob Colby, famous for his Fawcett Gold Medal books, was another regular. He always showed up with his wife, Francesca, who was very soft-spoken and nice. Bob was a kick.

He would always wink and nudge me with his elbow and say, “Hey, Rich, if we’re so famous, how come we’re not rich?” Bob and I spent a while collaborating on a book, but it petered out.

Gary Brandner was “the kid” of the Pink Tea before my arrival. He’d only had a few things published by the time I came along. His most recent work had been
Saturday Night in Milwaukee,
on which he’d collaborated with Clayton Matthews.

Our paths had already crossed in that my first story had appeared in the same issue of
Ellery Queen
as Gary’s second story. With the publication of
The Howling,
he became a big-time horror writer. Whenever he hosted a Pink Tea, I knew it would be a very late night. He never wanted anyone to leave. He took departures as personal insults. So it would often be two o’clock in the morning before I could force myself to leave. At the door, he always said, “Try to be a better person.”

Over the years, Gary brought several women to the Pink Teas. They were always very attractive and flamboyant, including Barbara and Martine, two of his wives I got to know fairly well.

Leo Whitaker had a huge dog that liked to attack us whenever Leo hosted a Pink Tea. He also has a charming wife, Elizabeth, who hails from Scotland. Leo, red-haired and ruddy, struck me as a Dickens character. I always expected his buttons to pop off.

A sweet-tempered socialist, he had stories about his days of campaigning for John Kennedy. We used to argue politics a lot. He once said, “Laymon, your answer to all the world’s ills is summary execution.” Though Leo succeeded in having some short stories published, he never seemed
obsessed
with writing the way some of us were.

Richard D. Hughes started coming to the Pink Tea, as I recall, because he was a friend of Leo’s. Richard was an attorney and judge. Tall and soft-spoken and friendly, he became a regular member who sometimes read some fiction. For quite a while, he was working on a promising historical novel about the early railroading days in California. To the best of my knowledge, he has never had any fiction published. However, he was a good member who made worthwhile comments about the material being read. He would eventually hire me to work in his law offices. I worked for him for four years, and the job helped to get me through a very rough financial period. I’ll always be grateful to him for that.