Mort Castle

THE FACTS IN THE CASE OF DOUGHBOY
by Mort Castle

We writers know that research is absolutely essential if we are to create works of either non-fiction or fiction that do not trigger the reader’s built in BS detector.

So, let’s examine the etymology of the outdated slang term doughboy to see what we might learn about the nature of research and its uses in our work.

Before mostly lovable and resoundingly dim Homer acquired the title D’oh Boy, for reasons obvious to anyone who knows THE SIMPSONS, there was considerable debate about the origins of the term doughboy, meaning a US infantry soldier.

Some claim the term originated during the Civil War, with the big brass buttons on the uniforms of Union soldiers. Big brass button = Lump of Dough … hence, doughboys. A number of scholars accept the word’s Civil War roots, but instead say that the cleaner used to polish those buttons was a clay-like blob not unlike wall paper cleaner or Silly Putty. It was that lump of dough which gave us …

Another school of doughy thought maintains the expression originated with the soldiers led by Black Jack Pershing on the incursive foray into Mexico in 1916 to find and punish Pancho Villa, who had led a raid into the USA. Covered in the white dust of Old Mexico, our soldiers looked like The Clay People from the Flash Gordon serial — or Doughboys on the march!

Then there are those who believe that doughboy began with the draft of World War I, which brought into our military ranks many fine young lads of healthy appetite fresh from farms and yokelburgs; when they saw hearty breakfasts every morning, gazing droolingly on “all the biscuits y’all could eat” – Some wag observed, “Those guys fill up on dough!”

Enough speculation: I, fortunately, learned the true facts regarding doughboy and because I’m the kind of guy I am, I will share those true facts with you, because you are the kind of guy you are.

The above mentioned General Black Jack Pershing led the American Expeditionary Force in World War I. He is credited, perhaps wrongly, with uttering the classic, “Lafayette, we are here,” upon his arrival in Paris.

But Pershing was less than satisfied with the quality of troops at his command. They had been too quickly and poorly trained. They were proverbial lambs to slaughter. That is why one day, after reviewing his soldiers, Pershing shook his head sadly and said, “Lord, look at them, these callow youths, these innocents, these doe-eyed boys.”

Get it? Doe-eyed boys? A little corruption and …

It was a Noted Journalist (Wired and MSNBC) who must remain anonymous, who told me about Doe-eyed boys. And if anyone ought to know about this issue, it’s the Noted Journalist–because he made it all up.

Black Jack Pershing and “Lord, look at them, these callow youths, these innocents, these doe-eyed boys …”

Nowhere is it recorded that BJ ever said anything like that. He did not say, “We have nothing to fear but fear itself,” he did not say, “It takes a heap o’ heapin’ to make a heap a heap,” and he did not say jack about doe-eyed boys, doughboys, or d’oh boys.

But the Noted Journalist proclaimed Pershing did in on a call-in radio show. What the hell. Sounds plausible, right? Voila! The power of modern communication! You can find this explanation both hither and yon and also on a number of websites that aren’t even about conspiracy theories: Why the Swedes sunk the Lusitania …

The facts in your writing?

I am directly borrowing–and crediting–our Noted Journalist: The facts are very important–so always make up good ones.

Some editors are failed writers, but so are most writers.
–T. S. Eliot (1888 – 1965)

Ah, sometimes the burning bush talks, and instead of an offer for male enhancement drugs by email, you are given the chance to, once again, don the editorial chapeau and…

Tally ho! I am now the editor of DOORWAYS, and though publisher Brian Yount has dubbed me Chief Editor or Editor-in-Chief, I do not have or want control of artistic design, in that I can barely perceive parallel lines let alone draw them, nor, for that matter, all the magazine’s editorial content: a number of the magazine’s articles deal with paranormal, supernatural, metaphysical True Facts such as former President Jimmy Carter’s fishing trip on which he was attacked by a somewhat demonic rabbit and the latest attempt by the government backed AMA to suppress chicken soup cures for the common cold. The far outré is simply not my bailiwick: I was abducted by Grays in my eighth year and conveyed to their native planet (called Indiana) where I was given all the wax lips, Silly Putty, and Playboys I desired, but I had to promise my otherworldly benefactors I would never explore or exploit “Such things as Humanity was not meant to know” unless we watched A&E in the afternoon.

So, for DOORWAYS, I am handling much of the non-paranormal themed non-fiction, like arranging and editing the interviews with authors who actually abide in this dimension (you’ll soon get to meet novelist-publisher-educator-Italian Tom Monteleone, Ray Bradbury biographer Snappy Sam Weller, and fictionist-philosopher-Elvis impersonator Wayne Allen Sallee). But mostly, I’m editing the fiction that appears in DOORWAYS. Horror fiction, fantasy fiction, avant-garde, post-modern retro-fitted neo-noir, para-ultra-ab-normal fiction.

Good fiction. That is what I seek.

(Good fiction: to paraphrase Nixon’s Strokin’ Supreme Court attempting to define pornography—“I know it when I see it… Yeah!”)

Good fiction. That is what a number of people have sent me.

What I say to such people is, “Hey, that’s good. I’m going to use that.”

Fiction that could be good. That is what a number of people have sent me. If you send me something that wants to be good, that strives to effectively present your fictive vision, I will do what I can to help you achieve your goal.

And so I say things to such authors like…

A short story must be credible, a lie that can be believed. 
That’s because no one wants to be lied to. When reading a story a reader must be able to say, “Yes, given these circumstances, this could really happen.”

And credibility results when story people act like real people–or real people who have sense and act upon it.

Now, when do your story people stop acting like real people who have sense…

Or I say things like …

Remember, good dialogue sounds as real as real life conversations — without being as boring or meandering as 
most real life conversations.

Or I say things like …

A well developed protagonist is a fictional someone who is every bit as alive and just as much a unique individual as anyone we really know–really well–out here in RealityLand. That way we get to know the character so well that we like or dislike, or hate him. You never want a reader to feel only indifference toward a character–which is what we do feel toward people (fictional or real!) that we don’t know well.

And that means you must know your characters just about as well as you know yourself.

That’s why, when I undertake a novel, I put together a 10 to 15 page single spaced character sketch for each of my principals. My reader might never need to know if my protagonist prefer s real mayo to Miracle Whip, if his first car was a cherry red ‘67 Ford Mustang, if he likes Willie Nelson’s songs but can’t stand looking at the singer, if he had a pet collie named Lizzie when he was five, etc.–but I have to know if I am to present this character as a three-dimensional, well rounded human being–as I must.

And often, when seeing “could be good” fiction, I ask the submission’s submitter to submit a revision after thinking about my comments.

Then there’s, ah, other stuff I see.

For instance, little notes which serve as introductions for stories:

I know your guidelines say you want stories of no more than 3,500 words. This runs slightly over that: 8,500. I hope, though, you’ll make an exception in your word count requirements because…

At 8,500 words, my friend, your story had better be Moby Dick—with all sorts of new stuff about improving harpoon accuracy—and if you have that info in your story, you had better be Herman Melville.

But you wouldn’t tell Stephen King to limit his creative wonderfulness to 3,500 words. You wouldn’t tell Peter Straub to limit his creative wonderfulness to 3,500 words. You wouldn’t tell Herman Melville to limit his creative wonderfulness to 3,500 words.

No, but I will tell you to limit yourself to 3,500 words—the way our guidelines tell you to limit yourself to 3,500 words.

Or the cover letter that reads:

Hey, Mort, and how’s it goin’, man? Hope all is well with you.

Mind you, this comes from someone I’ve never met when I was in a conscious state, but hey, we have English in common, and we both can afford Internet service, so the tone is supposed to be chummy myfacey, right?

So … Well, thanks for you concern, but to tell the truth, even though my blood pressure is pretty all right and the cholesterol what it should be, I’m having a lot of pain in my left foot. I’m afraid I might have a spur on the heel. And, when the weather changes suddenly, my knees make it pretty rough to get up and down the stairs with the grace and speed for which I was once known.

Anyway, dude, I’m sending you my story. I think it’s pretty awesome. It’s made for that magazine you edit, I forget the name, okay? So, man, as soon as you can, let know when you want to use it.

Peace, man.

Thanks, man, and you know, I forget to mention above, but I’ve been having like memory problems myself, dude. Like I can’t remember what magazine it is I’m supposed to be editing but, you know, I’m sure that it’s an awesome magazine and as soon as I remember, I’ll let you know if I remember so we can use your awesome story, if I remember.

Another submission, from someone striving to convince me of his professionalism: He has… credits!

I’m sending you my story, “Southbound on the Westbound in the Night of the Long Day.” I have previously published novels with Authorhouse, Iuniverse, and Exlibris.

Let’s hold it there. I am of course pleased to learn of a writer’s credits: It helps me know if other gatekeepers have chosen to swing wide the portal and bid you enter the Realm of the Published.

But Authorhouse, Iuniverse, Exlibris, Exuniversalauthorhouse, ColorMeWriter, BookABunch Buddies… You haven’t been published—that is what you are telling me. You are either naive about writing professionally or you are pathologically and pathetically egotistical about publishing—that is what you are telling me. You are not for real—that is what you are telling me.

That is how you have introduced your story.

Then we have the cutey-pie-see-how super-eccentric and therefore creative as SponegeBob Jesus I am…

My story came to me from the mouth of Hell. It bubbled up in my brain as I lay in the viaduct where I squat with 17 gerbils named Fred. This is lair of the Siggorth Luvkraft and the Ramalamadingdong. Outside of that, I work as an account executive for Winky’s Hockey Puck, Inc.

Ah, I get it: You’re not writing surrealism. You live it. Obviously, you’ve mistaken me for Pharmacopeias by Mail and you need to visit their website to refill your prescription.

Now, truthfully, here is a recently received cover letter:

Here is my story. Thank you for your consideration.

Here is my response.

Every word of your 750 word story is a needed word. There’s cleverness in the language. And your writing is obviously informed by the wide, wide, wide of world of thinking and reading…

I read this and I’m glad I did.

I want your story.

The story is called “The Tiniest Souls.” It’s by Brian Price. You’ll be reading it in DOORWAYS.

It’s a good story—which is what this editor wants.

Mort Castle