DIY History | Transcribe | Hevelin Fanzines | Wavelength, v. 1, issue 3, Fall 1941

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Wavelength, v. 1, issue 3, Fall 1941

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12

the dreams of the unfortunate Quincy newsdealers as I infested their wak-ing hours by brazenly entering their establishments and reading such mag-azines as I cared to, until I was forcibly removed.
For some unexplained reason, a recessive conscience became dominant simultaneously with my acquiring of money. I then would procede to [unusually?] [underlined] buy a magazine, then wander over to the magazine rack and read all the rest that struck my fancy, secure in the knowledge that a cash cus-tomer could not be ejected. This worked fine . . .in [m]ost cases. . . 
Later I had more money and bought all three. When the SFL came in, I labored mightily to organize a great fan club. I found another fan. He was luke-warm. Broken-hearted, I joined the CCC to forget. There was also a minor matter of eating, but we don't talk about that.
In the three "C's", I wrote a letter now and then, and frittered away several hard-earned ( with my strong right arm, the sweat of my brow, mut-tered prayers to Cthulhu, and a pair of doctored dice ) dollars on vari-ous fanzines who had previously been informed by some malignant elemental that the proper time to flop was shortly after Widner sent in an article or a subscription. ( Well, Art, aren't you a bit worried? You have sent me an article. This is it. If I fail, it may [underlined] never get printed! EDITOR ) If both, they flopped extra hard.
At last, came Der Tag, and Doc Lowndes printed my "Care and Feeding of Werewolves" in "Le Vombieteur." This non-sensational satire of mine was greeted with frenzied indifference by the fan filed, and with a muffled glub I sank once more into obscurity.
Then I went to the Nycon. Due to my usual brilliance ( with reverse English ) I forgot just where in New York the convention was to be held. So, instead of rushing for the nearest promag and looking it up, I dog-gedly made the rounds of all the fans' homes in the vicinity, trying to get information. Naturally, since the fans were at the convention, I gat-hered nil information. You say, "Why not ask the fans' relatives, their.." Hold on, thar! I did exactly that. But, you know, fans' relatives are notoriously ignorant. 
I was there the second day after all the big doings were over. I met a few fans, played in the ball game next day, and found that I could not holler louder than Moskowitz, expecially when he wuz wrong. Yah! I went home rather a disappointed lad, but determined, in spite of all my many discouraging set-backs, to become a Somebody. Perhaps, when I entered the convention hall the next year, everybody would say, "Ah, here's Art Wid-ner now!" Then they all would salaam, knocking their conks on the floor.
[Cartoon, taking up 1/4 the page, appears on right side, signed by Bob Meredith(?) Cartoon shows an invisible man with glasses, shirt, and pants next to a window, dresser, and shelf; on dresser is a tub of "vanishing cream." Text below cartoon says, "After trying thousands of formulas for invisibility, it would have to be that."] 
But what would I do/ I would write dozens of articles like 4E and Harry Werner, Jr. except I never got any ideas. I would put out a super-duper fan mag except that cost money, and besides I was ( no questioning of tense allowed ) too dumb. With a sigh I finally decided that I would have to work my way from the bottom up. Ah yes, gates, I became a low man on a totem poll.
Here my ignorance was a bless ing -- for -- nobody told me un-til it was too late, that a fan poll would never garner much more than 40 or 50 votes. I had already gone and gathered in 150 odd, so there was nothing.

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12 the dreams of the unfortunate Quincy newsdealers as I infested their wak-ing hours by brazenly entering their establishments and reading such mag-azines as I cared to, until I was forcibly removed. For some unexplained reason, a recessive conscience became dominant simultaneously with my acquiring of money. I then would procede to [unusually?] [underlined] buy a magazine, then wander over to the magazine rack and read all the rest that struck my fancy, secure in the knowledge that a cash cus-tomer could not be ejected. This worked fine . . .in [m]ost cases. . . Later I had more money and bought all three. When the SFL came in, I labored mightily to organize a great fan club. I found another fan. He was luke-warm. Broken-hearted, I joined the CCC to forget. There was also a minor matter of eating, but we don't talk about that. In the three "C's", I wrote a letter now and then, and frittered away several hard-earned ( with my strong right arm, the sweat of my brow, mut-tered prayers to Cthulhu, and a pair of doctored dice ) dollars on vari-ous fanzines who had previously been informed by some malignant elemental that the proper time to flop was shortly after Widner sent in an article or a subscription. ( Well, Art, aren't you a bit worried? You have sent me an article. This is it. If I fail, it may [underlined] never get printed! EDITOR ) If both, they flopped extra hard. At last, came Der Tag, and Doc Lowndes printed my "Care and Feeding of Werewolves" in "Le Vombieteur." This non-sensational satire of mine was greeted with frenzied indifference by the fan filed, and with a muffled glub I sank once more into obscurity. Then I went to the Nycon. Due to my usual brilliance ( with reverse English ) I forgot just where in New York the convention was to be held. So, instead of rushing for the nearest promag and looking it up, I dog-gedly made the rounds of all the fans' homes in the vicinity, trying to get information. Naturally, since the fans were at the convention, I gat-hered nil information. You say, "Why not ask the fans' relatives, their.." Hold on, thar! I did exactly that. But, you know, fans' relatives are notoriously ignorant. I was there the second day after all the big doings were over. I met a few fans, played in the ball game next day, and found that I could not holler louder than Moskowitz, expecially when he wuz wrong. Yah! I went home rather a disappointed lad, but determined, in spite of all my many discouraging set-backs, to become a Somebody. Perhaps, when I entered the convention hall the next year, everybody would say, "Ah, here's Art Wid-ner now!" Then they all would salaam, knocking their conks on the floor. [Cartoon, taking up 1/4 the page, appears on right side, signed by Bob Meredith(?) Cartoon shows an invisible man with glasses, shirt, and pants next to a window, dresser, and shelf; on dresser is a tub of "vanishing cream." Text below cartoon says, "After trying thousands of formulas for invisibility, it would have to be that."] But what would I do/ I would write dozens of articles like 4E and Harry Werner, Jr. except I never got any ideas. I would put out a super-duper fan mag except that cost money, and besides I was ( no questioning of tense allowed ) too dumb. With a sigh I finally decided that I would have to work my way from the bottom up. Ah yes, gates, I became a low man on a totem poll. Here my ignorance was a bless ing -- for -- nobody told me un-til it was too late, that a fan poll would never garner much more than 40 or 50 votes. I had already gone and gathered in 150 odd, so there was nothing.