On Failure

Recently I experienced one of the biggest professional failures of my career.

For the last three years, I have been working on a pitch for a novel. It is a work of historical fiction, with a few elements of the fantastic throughout. It is called The Set Dresser and is about early Hollywood, the development of rocket ships, and the rise of new religions in 20th century Los Angeles. It is an ambitious book, one that follows three different storylines across 80 years. 

To write the pitch, I wrote the first half of the book, which is 70k words. That's almost as long as the entire Alice Isn't Dead novel. It represented three years of research, writing, and editing. And...

I couldn't get any editor to see the book the way that I did. It's a big weird book, too big and too weird for the current publishing climate, which is looking for a sure bet. Or I dunno, maybe that's just what I'm telling myself. The upshot is that I have three years worth of work that no one is publishing at the moment.

I'm not giving up on it. I have even considered just crowd funding the release and selling it that way. I think there's probably some of my fans who would be interested in a big ambitious novel about Jack Parsons, the birth of Hollywood, and satanism in 1950s LA. But for the moment, all those years of work are just on hold, sitting in a folder in my computer, not doing anything. It's a terrible feeling.

To work in this career is always to court failure. When you write for a living, everything is binary. You either have a success or a failure, and there's nothing in between. I've had a lot of success in my life, so it's ok to have some failure too. It doesn't feel ok, it feels awful, but it is ok. Or I dunno, maybe that's just what I'm telling myself.

I put an excerpt up from the novel a bit ago, an in-universe short story called Moonchild. Here's another excerpt, the first chapter of the book. Enjoy. If you like it, there's not much else you can do at the moment, but eventually you'll be able to read this book. I just don't know when that will be. 

-Joseph Fink

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Part 1: A Lion in Pasadena, 1952

1

Betty Mandel wondered if there would be zebras.

She had heard that Oscar Hamlin kept zebras on the property, but there were many stories about Oscar Hamlin. That he forced his actors to confront their greatest phobia just before filming, even confining one actress in a dark room full of rats for three hours, so that their tension on screen would be vivid and palpable. That he never worked with the same screenwriter twice, because he insisted on rewriting every line of dialogue until the beleaguered writer quit in frustration and refused to take Hamlin’s calls ever again. That three extras had died in the filming of The Simple Man’s Game but it had been covered up by the studio, the families plied with money and threats until they were cowed into silence. No one was sure which stories were based on reality and which were the inevitable rumor that followed film celebrity. Betty thought that zebras would not look out of place on this rolling gentle hillside, grass gone gold with lack of rain.

This was her first time in Pasadena, and she was startled by how far she could see that morning from the hills above the town. From her home down in the flatlands, the hills were hidden in smog more days than not, and she had dreaded ascending into that toxic cloud. Instead, she thought that she could see all the way to the ocean, beyond the small bungalows of Chavez Ravine and the towers of downtown. But she didn’t see any zebras.

“Hello, excuse me,” she said, waving a little, to get the attention of the driver, a nervous man who was shorter than her and wore leather gloves a size too big. He had spent the first part of their journey up from Edendale chattering, but had spoken less and less as they had approached the estate of the great director. Once they had crossed the threshold of the ornate iron gates and started up the steep dirt drive, he had gone completely silent.

“Aha,” he said now. “Ah, yes?”

“I’d heard there were zebras.”

He shook his head. “No zebras. I think maybe there once were, but they couldn’t stand the heat.”

“Aren’t they natives of the plains of Africa? I would think they could withstand a little California sun.”

The man shrugged, not meeting her eye in the mirror. “I guess not. There’s a lion though.”

“He keeps a lion here?”

“Yes. Loose on the grounds. Apparently, it wouldn’t harm a soul, but I would be in no hurry to take a walk round here if it were me.”

Betty shaded her eyes with one hand and studied the hillsides, but saw nothing moving, certainly no sign of a predatory cat.

“Apparently, it wouldn’t harm a soul,” the man said again.

She sighed. “It’s a shame about the zebras. I would have loved to see one.”

“See them at the zoo.”

“A zoo is such an ugly thing,” Betty said. “I can’t stand to see creatures in those dreadful cages.”

The driver didn’t seem to know how to respond to that, but he was saved by their arrival at the main entrance of the house.

Betty felt a sense of foreboding as she stepped out of the car. She had never seen Oscar Hamlin in person, of course, very few people had, but his reputation was fearsome. A tyrant on the set; a tyrant in the studio offices, a tyrant in all aspects of his life. But he delivered pictures of such consistent genius that the men of his industry had overlooked his temper and probably many other things as well. Still, he kept strictly to himself, never appearing at any of the night clubs or at any premiere besides his own. And it had been some time since one of those. Oscar Hamlin had not completed a project since the end of the war. After the release of his last picture, The Remaining Hours of Edwin McDonald, he had rejected all interviews, and any other demands on his time, and vanished into this hillside estate in Pasadena. Or that was the story as Betty had heard it, whispers passed along by those who had themselves heard it from a friend of a friend.

To Betty, the house itself was pleasant enough, a Spanish style two story set back into the shadow of oak trees. There were stables around the side but no sign that horses had ever lived in them, no trace of life visible except a wasp nest built into one of the beams of the porch. The house was in good condition, the landscape dry but reasonably well tended. None of it had the air of a mad recluse, and yet Betty felt that she stood at the entrance to a monster’s lair, and she hesitated.

“Just up the stairs,” the driver shouted from the car. He had not helped her out, was apparently unwilling to leave his vehicle. Perhaps he too felt an ominous aura from this place, or maybe was just afraid of attack by lion. Either way, as she stepped toward the entrance, he was already pulling the car back around the drive.

“Wait,” she called. “How will I find you when I need to leave?”

“They’ll let me know,” he said, not slowing as the dust of his retreat drifted up around her and made her sneeze. She waved her hands to clear it, and turned to find the front door swinging open.

In the doorway stood a tall, pale man, who was not, Betty was confident, Oscar Hamlin. Oscar had a famous profile, paunchy but solid, the low center of gravity of a man who would not be moved by any outside force, who would shape the world to his liking rather than the other way around. This man in the doorframe was tall and slender and his entire air was deferential. Most likely a servant or assistant.

“You are Betty Mandel, the set dresser?” the man said, in a European accent that’s origin she couldn’t trace. It sounded like a number of accents blended together, and she wondered if the man was putting it on.

“I am Betty Mandel, sweaty and covered in dust,” she replied.

Taking her point, the man bowed his head and with fluttering hands gestured her through into the cool shade of the foyer.

The interior of the house stood in sharp contrast to the simple exterior, an opulence of tilework and knick-knacks: a silver bell in the shape of a Spartan helmet, shards of pottery covered in hieroglyphs that Betty hoped were Hollywood replicas and not stolen antiquities, an ivory bust of George Washington, a series of commemorative decorative plates celebrating Cacti of the American Southwest, a galaxy of porcelain and ivory, glittering display cases set around the foyer all angled in toward a grand staircase.

“I am Mr. Kingfisher,” said the man. He looked as though he would like to take her coat, but of course the day was so hot that she hadn’t worn one, so instead he patted his hands against his thighs absently. “I run the house.”

“Quite a collection Mr. Hamlin has,” Betty said.

“This way,” the man said, striding suddenly down a hall and leaving her to hurry after him. He did not appear to be moving with any urgency, but she practically had to jog to keep up.

They passed along a courtyard full of fragrant herbs, rosemary and hummingbird sage, an overgrown hedge of pink bougainvillea studded with white pops of milkweed. Betty smelled perfume and dust. She could hardly take it all in at the speed they were moving, and, in a moment, they were back inside, hurrying down a wood paneled hall before arriving at a door marked with celestial signs and, startlingly, given that she did not believe Hamlin had any Jewish heritage, a single Hebrew word — an aleph, a mem, and a tav. In the moment, she could not recall what the word meant, although she recognized it from Hebrew classes as a child.

Mr. Kingfisher stretched out a long hand and knocked sharply three times. “Proceed,” called a voice that, as muffled as it was, Betty immediately recognized.

The door swung open, and there was the man himself. His office was laid with a plush crimson carpet, and along the walls were more glass cabinets, these filled with props from his movies. Betty recognized the sealed letter contained Edward’s death bed confession from The Lady Escaped, the scarlet tea set used in the climactic poisoning from A Watchful Accident, and, most thrillingly, the blood stained gloves from the infamous opening scene of Dusk for the Winter Birds. As a professional in the field, she was unsure what the prop master had done to make the gloves look so convincingly, gruesomely wet. Even now, years later, they seemed on the verge of dripping.

Along with the famous items, there were even more props and artifacts that she did not recall from any of his films. A map of 18thcentury France, torn in half. A Bible opened to reveal a hidden compartment carved into its pages, within which was a small glass bottle half full of a sinister dark liquid. A turban, inlaid in the front with a brilliant emerald that, to her eye and from the distance of half a room, certainly appeared real.

“It is quite a collection, I know,” said Oscar Hamlin, and Betty’s attention was brought back to the man at the end of the room. It was startling to see him in person, that distinctive voice and shape, standing behind a broad marble desk with all the formality with which he would intone the filmed introductions to one of his pictures. She remembered sitting as an eager eleven year old in the cool hush of a movie house, next to her impatient father who did not understand the appeal of entertainment not provided by human beings living and breathing in the same room as their audience, waiting for the start of Hamlin’s first feature movie Death on the Shores of Paris. “Paris has no coastline,” her father had hissed to her and she had hushed him, and then Mr. Hamlin had appeared on screen, several stories high, and began to speak. To hear his voice now, outside of the movies, made her own world feel less real than the solid black and white of a Hamlin production.

“I confess I have a weakness for objects,” Mr. Hamlin said. “I’m afraid they must tie me dreadfully to the material world.”

“Oh, I think it’s really so impressive,” she said, trying to underplay how overwhelming the moment was. “I would do the same, given the circumstances.”

“Kind of you, of course.” He smiled. His voice was soft, not as commanding as she had expecting. But perhaps the origins of his authority lay in the fact that he knew he would be heard, no matter how quietly he spoke. “Mr. Kingfisher, you may leave us.”

“Thank you, sir,” the tall, pale man said in his unidentifiable accent and backed out of the room, closing the door as he went. On this side, the door sat flush with the wall and matched the geometric design of the wallpaper, and so gave the discomfiting illusion that the office had no entrance or exit.

“Another of my indulgences.” The great director waved one hand, dismissively, as if the trappings of his mansion were just a tired joke he was sorry to have told. “You are Elizabeth Mandel.”

“Just Betty. It’s Betty on my birth certificate, actually.”

He raised one eyebrow. “A fascinating choice by your parents.”

“I suppose. I’ve never thought about it much.”

“No, I wouldn’t think you had.”

She was unsure what to make of this remark, and was trying to calculate if she had just been insulted. The air in the room was thick, lacking ventilation in the stifling inland summer heat.

“Please, I am so rude,” he said in that famous gravel voice. “Have a seat.”

He indicated one of the chairs on her side of the desk, and watched as she made her way across the office. This felt to her like it took an inordinate amount of time, but she assumed that was merely self-consciousness on her part. She chose an old wooden chair upholstered with what looked like leopard skin. Once she had sat down, he did so as well, settling into a plush office chair that was the same shade of crimson as the carpet.

“You are a fine set dresser,” he said, as though it were the opening position in a negotiation. She wasn’t sure what was being bargained for, and what price would be reasonable.

“I don’t know about that, but I work steadily.” This had once been the truth. Four pictures last year, with another lined up for this April that had ultimately fallen through. She had been in demand because she did her work efficiently and always came in under budget. Set dressing was not a glamourous element of the picture business. The civilians in their seats, looking for the magic of the movies to transport them, never once thought about the books that had been chosen for the shelf in the reclusive count’s library, the exact arrangement of toys in the little boy’s room as he was told that his father would never again be coming home, the angle at which the farm implements hung behind the dancing line of farmers in the barn. But without those little details, all of the rest of the magic wouldn’t ring true. It would look like what it was, a fantastic sham.

Mr. Hamlin shook his head at her attempt at modesty. “You are the best. I’ve been told this.” He said this with finality, uninterested in argument, and so she offered none.

“You are working on a project?” she said. It was the only reason she could think why she would have been summoned here, her phone ringing at 10pm the night before as she lay in bed reading, a book about a disastrous attempt to colonize Mars by a short story writer whom she thought had real potential. She almost hadn’t answered the phone, but worried it could be an emergency with her mother, and so had picked up to hear a voice she now recognized as Mr. Kingfisher, requesting her presence for a meeting with Mr. Oscar Hamlin.

“Yes. I am finally making a new film.” He stood and turned from her, facing the fading light of the late afternoon. The sun played through the branches of the oaks, flickering across his features, so that it looked like light cast from a film projector. “My last, I am sad to say.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” She genuinely was. Even though she had heard the rumors about him, she felt some loss at the thought of never again looking forward to a Hamlin picture.

“We all must finish, at some point. I would merely like to choose my own ending. And what a film to end on.” He turned back to her and smiled. “A masterpiece, I believe. Or it could be. You will help me make it so.”

“Certainly, I would love to. You’ve caught me with an opening in my schedule, so if you are starting production soon…” This was a ploy. She had no projects booked. The movie business wasn’t what it once was for anyone, and especially not for a woman without a contract with any of the studios.

“Yes, I know. I’ve seen your calendar. We start at the top of next week, first thing.”

She felt a slight pang of confusion at where he would have gotten her schedule, but he would still have connections at every studio. It wouldn’t be so hard for him to piece it together.

“Well, obviously I’d love to. I mean, I’ll need to talk particulars with whoever is running the budget. I have deals already established with most of the studios, so that shouldn’t take long.”

“You will charge me whatever you think is fair. I trust you, Betty.” Before she could respond, he leaned forward to indicate the confidentiality of his next statement. “Now before you agree, I must warn you that the filming of this picture will be unusual, by industry standards.”

“Unusual?” she said.

“Yes, by industry standards. You see, you unfortunately will not be allowed to meet anyone else working on the picture except me. The set will already be constructed when you arrive. The actors and the crew will not enter the set until you have finished your work. We have a good warehouse of props prepared for you, it should give you what you need to work with.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m not allowed to meet the rest of the crew?”

He nodded, and put his hand on her hand. She was startled, as the desk had looked far too broad for him to reach her, but he did not even have to fully extend his arm. His palm felt dry and brittle, like old paper. “I’m afraid not. An unusual nuisance, by industry standards, but necessary for the project. It is not a problem?”

It wasn’t a problem, exactly. But it was confusing. She couldn’t think of any reason for this condition, but she also couldn’t think of any reason it would prevent her from completing her work. She could certainly use the job. “No, no problem at all.”

“Then it is decided. We are filming at a ranch, near Palm Springs. Mr. Kingfisher will supply the details.” He stood, and so did she. “I am very excited for our work together, Miss Betty Mandal.”

When called, Mr. Kingfisher appeared again in the doorway. He led her back along the courtyard, still walking quickly. In the drive, the car was waiting. The nervous driver again made no move to open her door.

“Good meeting?” he said, as he navigated the narrow dirt drive down toward the city.

“Yes, thank you,” she said. She leaned her head against the window. Along the hillside, she saw an animal walking on four legs. It passed out of sight too quickly for her to identify. Probably a coyote, but Betty hoped that she had seen a lion.