"Red-haired women more beautiful than the flames of hell": on the boldness of pulp

[StillStunned]

"There is no den where he can hide from me, oh Favored of Allah," declared Mikhal Oglu, "no night dark enough to conceal him, no forest thick enough. If I bring you not his head, I give him leave to send you mine."
"Enough!" Ibrahim tugged at his beard and grinned, well pleased. "You have my leave to go."
The sinister vulture-winged creature went springily and silently from the blue chamber, nor could Ibrahim guess that he was taking the first steps in a feud which should spread over years and far lands, swirling in dark tides to draw in thrones and kingdoms and red-haired women more beautiful than the flames of hell.

- from: The Shadow of the Vulture, by Robert E. Howard

Subtle dialogue? Refined prose? Delicate touches? Who needs them, when you have pulp!

I've mentioned here that I'm suffering from a bit of fatigue in my writing. Part of it is due to stress from work, but I've been wondering what else might be causing it. Not a lack of ideas, or even a lack of the desire to write. The Plot Bunny is still visiting me daily and leaving its cuckoo young in my WIP folder, and my immediate reaction is to write a few lines or paragraphs.

Even so, I've written little more than 1.5k words in total over the past three weeks. Every time I sit down, I just lose interest after a paragraph or so. Instead, I've been reading, and last night I stumbled upon The Shadow of the Vulture on my e-reader. It's by RE Howard, of Conan, Kull, Bran Mak Morn and Solomon Cain. The story itself deals with the Siege of Vienna, and apparently later became a source of inspiration for the character of Red Sonja.

But it's the prose that has caught my attention. Quite typical of REH, of course. It's the written equivalent of an actor hamming it up. You can almost picture Brian Blessed and William Shatner proclaiming the dialogue quoted above, with Christopher Lee as the narrator.

And it struck me that maybe my fatigue stems from trying to be delicate. Maybe I should take a step back, and just slap the story down in bold colours and forms. Back to the basics, as it were. Standing up straight and stretching my muscles instead of hunching over the words and sentences.

I'll let you know how it works out.

 

[onehitwanda]

"There is no den where he can hide from me, oh Favored of Allah," declared Mikhal Oglu, "no night dark enough to conceal him, no forest thick enough. If I bring you not his head, I give him leave to send you mine."
"Enough!" Ibrahim tugged at his beard and grinned, well pleased. "You have my leave to go."
The sinister vulture-winged creature went springily and silently from the blue chamber, nor could Ibrahim guess that he was taking the first steps in a feud which should spread over years and far lands, swirling in dark tides to draw in thrones and kingdoms and red-haired women more beautiful than the flames of hell.

- from: The Shadow of the Vulture, by Robert E. Howard

Subtle dialogue? Refined prose? Delicate touches? Who needs them, when you have pulp!

I've mentioned here that I'm suffering from a bit of fatigue in my writing. Part of it is due to stress from work, but I've been wondering what else might be causing it. Not a lack of ideas, or even a lack of the desire to write. The Plot Bunny is still visiting me daily and leaving its cuckoo young in my WIP folder, and my immediate reaction is to write a few lines or paragraphs.

Even so, I've written little more than 1.5k words in total over the past three weeks. Every time I sit down, I just lose interest after a paragraph or so. Instead, I've been reading, and last night I stumbled upon The Shadow of the Vulture on my e-reader. It's by RE Howard, of Conan, Krull, Bran Mak Morn and Solomon Cain. The story itself deals with the Siege of Vienna, and apparently later became a source of inspiration for the character of Red Sonja.

But it's the prose that has caught my attention. Quite typical of REH, of course. It's the written equivalent of an actor hamming it up. You can almost picture Brian Blessed and William Shatner proclaiming the dialogue quoted above, with Christopher Lee as the narrator.

And it struck me that maybe my fatigue stems from trying to be delicate. Maybe I should take a step back, and just slap the story down in bold colours and forms. Back to the basics, as it were. Standing up straight and stretching my muscles instead of hunching over the words and sentences.

I'll let you know how it works out.

Brian Blessed impression:

"Enough!"

Ibrahim tugged at his beard and grinned, well pleased.

"You have my leave to go."

 

[StillStunned]

Inside the gate Gottfried stared about, as if waking from a dream.
"Where's Wulf Hagen? I saw him holding the bridge."
"Lying dead among twenty dead Turks," answered Red Sonya.
Gottfried sat down on a piece of fallen wall, and because he was shaken and exhausted, and still mazed with drink and blood-lust, he sank his face in his huge hands and wept. Sonya kicked him disgustedly.
"Name o' Satan, man, don't sit and blubber like a spanked schoolgirl. You drunkards had to play the fool, but that can't be mended. Come -- let's go to the Walloon's tavern and drink ale."
"Why did you pull me out of the moat?" he asked.
"Because a great oaf like you can never help himself. I see you need a wise person like me to keep life in that hulking frame."
"But I thought you despised me!"
"Well, a woman can change her mind, can't she?" she snapped.

REH knew what he was talking about. Every man needs a redhead to look after him.

 

[Areala-chan]

REH knew what he was talking about. Every man needs a redhead to look after him.

Every woman too.

 

[StillStunned]

Every woman too.

Everyone needs a redhead except redheads.

 

[Erozetta]

Everyone needs a redhead except redheads.

Need? No. Want? Yes. The chaos I could cause with another redhead...

 

[Areala-chan]

Everyone needs a redhead except redheads.

B-but I'm a redhead...!

 

[StillStunned]

Redheads with redheads is a bad idea, for the sake of humanity.

 

[TheRedLantern]

But it's the prose that has caught my attention. Quite typical of REH, of course. It's the written equivalent of an actor hamming it up. You can almost picture Brian Blessed and William Shatner proclaiming the dialogue quoted above, with Christopher Lee as the narrator.

That's the perfect way to sum up REH's prose. I can't unsee the connection now that you've pointed it out, and I love it!

And it struck me that maybe my fatigue stems from trying to be delicate. Maybe I should take a step back, and just slap the story down in bold colours and forms. Back to the basics, as it were. Standing up straight and stretching my muscles instead of hunching over the words and sentences.

I'm in a similar "back to basics" phase although it's not stemming from fatigue. I'm rereading Conan stories because I've always loved the setting & characters, and I'm reminded that his writing style is so fun, playful, and unapologetic that it's infectious. I'm inspired to write about flashing blades, "rippling thews", and debauched Witch-Queens.

 

[Rob_Royale]

Howard certainly was a wordy SOB I'll say that. His dialogue is just fabulous and when I say fabulous, I mean a six-foot-tall drag queen in sequins and a feather boa, fabulous!

I've tried for that level of expressiveness in my fantasy story Ruckus in River's Bend, but failed utterly.

 

[StillStunned]

Howard certainly was a wordy SOB I'll say that. His dialogue is just fabulous and when I say fabulous, I mean a six-foot-tall drag queen in sequins and a feather boa, fabulous!

I've tried for that level of expressiveness in my fantasy story Ruckus in River's Bend, but failed utterly.

It doesn't come naturally to me either. I'd love to give it a try. Maybe we should do a Pulp Writing Exercise.

 

[YmaOHyd]

I'm in a similar "back to basics" phase although it's not stemming from fatigue. I'm rereading Conan stories because I've always loved the setting & characters, and I'm reminded that his writing style is so fun, playful, and unapologetic that it's infectious. I'm inspired to write about flashing blades, "rippling thews", and debauched Witch-Queens.

Some of my favorite Pratchett is the early stuff in Colour of Magic where he's doing Howard pastiche from the perspective of a tagalong coward.

 

[KittyOfSteele]

It doesn't come naturally to me either. I'd love to give it a try. Maybe we should do a Pulp Writing Exercise.

Every time I sit down on my desk the first thing I notice is that moldy photo of Raymond Chandler pointing a six-shooter at me like I'm a pig about to be quartered. Bring it.

 

[dirk2024]

B-but I'm a redhead...!

 

[YmaOHyd]

Every time I sit down on my desk the first thing I notice is that moldy photo of Raymond Chandler pointing a six-shooter at me like I'm a pig about to be quartered. Bring it.

Hm. Maybe someone can use this as inspiration.

 

[KittyOfSteele]

Hm. Maybe someone can use this as inspiration.

View attachment 2578947

What do 1940s detectives know about hot nights, city of angels, and leggy blondes? I can tell you they'd be the same as my fellow operatives, sitting down at their desks, leveling up their skills of combing through social media profiles while also developing carpal tunnel and a lump that would leave Quasimodo unemployed faster than an AI. Me though, I prefer to feel the burn of the red neon outside. No night is complete when you get high on the smell of human piss and days-old roadkill after mauling the jaw of some pimp who thought could get his way with me. He could've chosen a hickey instead. Either way, he ended up passed out in a rotten alley embraced by the blue darkness, and the rats that came crawling after the smell of fresh black blood.

 

[ElectricBlue]

Hm. Maybe someone can use this as inspiration.

Already done:

The spider in the top hat got out of the long black car, tapped the silver head of his cane on the vehicle's long black roof to signify to the driver, begone: return in the morning, be discrete. The spider stepped across the sidewalk to the hotel entrance with a four-footed side shoe shuffle, elegant black and white spats on his feet, thin red stripes down the side of each trouser leg. A dapper fellow, he wore a small red rose in his boutonnière, delicately scented. Its petals curved inwards and outwards, just like a lady he knew, her curlicued and scented centre like an elegant crystal flute laced through with incarnadine red.

The Fantastic Hotel

 

[KittyOfSteele]

This thread is making me do #322 right now using the same character from this excerpt.

What do 1940s detectives know about hot nights, city of angels, and leggy blondes? I can tell you they'd be the same as my fellow operatives, sitting down at their desks, leveling up their skills of combing through social media profiles while also developing carpal tunnel and a lump that would leave Quasimodo unemployed faster than an AI. Me though, I prefer to feel the burn of the red neon outside. No night is complete when you get high on the smell of human piss and days-old roadkill after mauling the jaw of some pimp who thought could get his way with me. He could've chosen a hickey instead. Either way, he ended up passed out in a rotten alley embraced by the blue darkness, and the rats that came crawling after the smell of fresh black blood.

Not the first time I've used her, but fucking hell, you got me in the mood for some gritty neon-noir erotica now.

 

[YmaOHyd]

On the subject of pulp, though, one of my favorite scenes in IT is, well:

The story comes back from the instructor with an F slashed into the title page. Two words are scrawled beneath, in capital letters. PULP, screams one. CRAP, screams the other.

Bill takes the fifteen-page sheaf of manuscript over to the woodstove and opens the door. He is within a bare inch of tossing it in when the absurdity of what he is doing strikes him. He sits down in his rocking chair, looks at a Grateful Dead poster, and starts to laugh. Pulp? Fine! Let it be pulp! The woods were full of it!
...
He goes to his advisor with a drop card for Eh--141. His advisor initials it. Bill Denbrough staples the drop card to the assistant fiction editor's congratulatory note and tacks both to the bulletin board on the creative-writing instructor's door. In the corner of the bulletin board he sees an anti-war cartoon. And suddenly, as if moving of its own accord, his fingers pluck his pen from his breast pocket and across the cartoon he writes this: If fiction and politics ever really do become interchangeable, I'm going to kill myself, because I won't know what else to do. You see, politics always change. Stories never do. He pauses, and then, feeling a bit small (but unable to help himself), he adds: I suggest you have a lot to learn.

 

[Bramblethorn]

Redheads with redheads is a bad idea, for the sake of humanity.

*defiantly snuggles the redhead sleeping next to me*

 

[onehitwanda]

*defiantly snuggles the redhead sleeping next to me*

Nobody likes a braggart.

 

[Areala-chan]

Nobody likes a braggart.

*pulls back the blanket and pats the mattress beside her* Hop in, hon. Let's give 'em something to talk about.

 

[onehitwanda]

*pulls back the blanket and pats the mattress beside her* Hop in, hon. Let's give 'em something to talk about.

 

[Areala-chan]

It's just a little snuggle. C'mon, @Bramblethorn's doing it, so why shouldn't we? First one's free...

 

[onehitwanda]

First one's free

And the second will just cost my soul, right?