I recently attended the Howard Days celebration in Cross Plains, Texas. Although this was the 37th year for the annual celebration of the life and writings of Robert E Howard, I only learned of it a couple of years ago, and this was my first time attending. It was a wonderful experience.
The visit to the home of Robert E Howard started things off for me. I walked through Mrs. Howard’s bedroom, the living room and the kitchen. But the profound effect of viewing Howard’s bedroom was the seminal moment of the trip. His bedroom is as small as a monastic cell, with a twin bed and a table with a typewriter on it. Originally it had been part of the porch, but they walled in a portion of the porch which became his bedroom and workspace. Howard was known for marathon and late night writing binges.
On the last day of the celebration, they brought out Howard’s actual writing table, which they had tracked down over the years. It had been significantly modified from its original state, and it is likely Howard had bought it new in the 20s. So they will have a professional conservator restore it to what it would have been like new. Since it had not yet gone through the process of restoration, we were allowed to go up and view and touch the table. It was, perhaps, my most fanboy moment as I ran my hands along the top of that table, the workspace Howard had used a century ago. It was profoundly moving.
Howard’s life was short and regrettably ended with a self-inflicted gunshot to the right side of his head above his ear. His mother lay dying and he had been assured that she would never come out of the coma into which she had slipped. Distraught, and perhaps for many more reasons we cannot fathom, he took his own life. He did not die immediately, but lingered in a coma for another 8 hours, such was his physical constitution. He was 30 years old. His mother died as well. A double funeral was held for them three days later.
I discovered Howard, as many do, through his Conan stories. To the best of my recollection, I was in fifth grade, but certainly no older than sixth grade. I’d already discovered Edgar Rice Burroughs and his Tarzan novels and Martian tales. Burroughs inspired my own attempts at writing, particularly the sort of blend of science fiction and fantasy he created in his stories of Mars. But it was Howard that changed and molded the writing I did.
I’d wanted to be a published author as early as first grade. I’d asked my mother, while riding in our dark green 1971 Pontiac station wagon, if it was absolutely necessary to send in a typescript to a publisher or if I could hand write it. She assured me that handwritten would be fine. That affirmation solidified in my heart.
I wrote many things in early grade school. I would try to write short stories from the lyrics to rock songs. I particularly remember trying to come up with a short story based on the Eagles’ “Hotel California.” I tried to come up with my own version of Encyclopedia Brown mystery stories. I wrote my own song lyrics of songs I made up in my head. But after reading Burroughs, I decided to do longer stories and began to write things in imitation of what I was reading.
Burroughs was a good catalyst, but it was Howard that lit the fire. I read everything I could get my hands on that Howard had written. And luckily, at that time, there had been a Howard boom in the publication of his various stories and characters. I read and re-read his stories, almost to the point of having them memorized. I did not know it but I was apprenticing myself to Howard, and learning how to write.
When I wrote like Burroughs, I would begin with long paragraphs of introduction and explanation and world building. Howard taught me to begin the story with action. When I wrote like Burroughs, I described the characters’ inner thoughts and feelings. Howard taught me to show how the characters thought and felt by what they did. With Burroughs, I was privy to the inner souls of the characters. With Howard I was like a cinematographer observing only what I could see. When I imitated Burroughs, I used more formal language. Howard taught me to use plain speech, direct speech. And although I did not know at the time to attribute this to Howard, he also taught me to write narrative as poetry. Not in the sense of flowery language and high emotion. Rather, in the rhythm of the speech and the depths of the metaphor.
There were many more things I needed to learn, and I would learn them from others, such as Shawn Coyne’s The Story Grid. I would also learn other aspects of writing from Flannery O’Connor, Annie Dillard, and T. S. Eliot. And there are many, many more things I need to learn yet.
But it was Howard who truly first taught me to write.
Clifton D Healy: A Writer's Journey 