'Preserved in the Documents of the Time'

I’m sorry, but I still have a few things I want to say about The Broadsheet. “Full of broken thoughts/ That I cannot repair.” I’ll do one more post and then probably drop the subject for another thirty years. Unless I want to put in one of my old Book Reviews, or something.

One of the things that struck me is that I wondered if any of my contributors even remembered their stuff from forty years ago. I mean, probably Alan Peschke does, and it wouldn’t surprise me if he had his own file box on the subject somewhere. Wylie Reeves has passed away. Does Kathleen Moore remember Pegasus? Does John have any more than general memories about The Goblin? There may be some things that I think even Peschke would rather forget.  I know there’s some work I did that I would. But we were all so much younger then, struggling to find our way. And memory gets overwritten.

What strikes me now is how cocky I was, so ready to lay down the law about ‘my’ genre. While many of the positive book reviews covered classic books and established masters, the reviews of the more contemporary, low-level Fantasy that I was more or less forced to read by circumstances were gleeful occasions to let loose my bile and spout my own theories about art and life, not considering judging them on the level of mere entertainments. Or even as journeyman works. Dennis L. McKiernan, whose The Iron Tower Trilogy (TIT) drew the worst of my ire, went on to have a long and improved career with works that are now generally critically approved and he himself considered 'a Master of High Fantasy.' Not that that makes the Trilogy any better.

But what looking back on The Broadsheet does for me personally is that it helps me remember the mindset of the Early Young Me. I mean I still have memories of myself, but time tends to edit and bury the ‘scabby, gabby, frantic to be noticed, tormented’ conditional self of the time. There, in The Broadsheet, I can see the shyly vain and show-offy guy I was at the time, and to some extent still am. But that exact version of Me remains, visible perhaps only to my eyes, stuck in the amber of those pages. In some ways it’s better than a photograph.

 

Broadly Speaking

Well, it continued to grow on me until it became an obsession. I would have to take out my old copies of The Broadsheet and have a look at them. It wouldn’t be easy because I was not sure exactly where they were. I thought I would have to haul out several heavy trunks and go rummaging through them, and I really wasn’t looking forward to that. Then I suddenly remembered that a while ago I had made a document, What Is in the Box, where I had catalogued the contents of my bins so that I could avoid just such troublesome tasks. Perhaps it would provide me a clue to the exact whereabouts of the copies. I looked it up and, sure enough, found the place there and was able to put my hands on it in minutes. Thank you, Past Me. Sometimes you’re not such a dullard, after all.

My troubles weren’t over, however. After several transfers from place to place over the years the pages had got rather mixed up and needed sorting. My dating and pagination hadn’t exactly been what it should have been, and I spent several hours sorting things out. Even now I not quite sure if I have everything correct. Certain sections seem to be missing. The whole wad of papers suffered some damage during the Great Termite Devastation. But, as the doctor might say, “It’s BETTER than it WAS.”

I find on examination it did indeed start as The Broadsheet of Fantasy Literature, then changed to The Broadsheet of Fantastic Literature, before finally settling down to The Broadsheet of Imaginative Literature. Much of the space was filled with Faces of Fantasy Authors, Fantasy maps, known fantastic poetry, weird notes and anecdotes, and my own editorial maunderings. I have made a list noting any original writing and the author; where no author is cited (such as for the Book Reviews) you can assume that it was me. So. January 1985 to May 1986. It was a time. No releases in the summer months of June, July, and August, I notice.

 

January 1985 (First Issue)

10 Most Recommended Single Fantasies

Book Review: The Talisman, by Stephen King & Peter Straub

10 Most Recommended Serial Fantasies

10 Best Children’s Fantasies

February 1985 (Second Issue)

Book Review: Crewel Lye, by Piers Anthony

The Worst Fantasy Novels That I’ve Read

Robert of Randleston: Part One, by Wylie Reeves

Poem: Pegasus, by Kathleen Moore

Poem: Expatriates of England, by Bryan Babel

March 1985

“Ring-Day” Celebration

April/May1985 (Fourth Issue)

Book Review: Isaac Asimov’s Magical Worlds of Fantasy #3: Cosmic Knights

Robert of Randleston: Part Two, by Wylie Reeves

September 1985

The Books of Autumn: A Review

(Short Story) The Goblin, by John Babel

Call of Cthulhu: A Game Review, by Alan Peschke

October Issue 1985

Book Review: The Iron Tower Trilogy, by Dennis L. McKiernan

(Article) A Grimm Look at Werewolves, by Alan Peshke

November 1985

Book Review: In the Suicide Mountains, by John Gardner

Book Review by Alan Peschke: The Illuminatus! Trilogy, by Robert Anton Wilson

Dead End Circle, by Alan Peschke

December Issue 1985

(Poem) The Answer, by Bryan Babel

(Short Story) Grandpa’s Tale: An Elfin Christmas, by Alan Peschke

January 1986

Book Review: The Witches, by Roald Dahl

The Broadsheet Volume 2 Number 1 (January) 1986

A Short History of Fantasy

Book Review: The Chronicles of Narnia, by C. S. Lewis

Short Story: Villa de Vaca, by Alan Peschke

February 1986

Book Review: The Long Lays of Beleriand, by J. R. R. Tolkien

Obituary: Frank Herbert

Apotheosis, by Alan Peschke (Short Story)

The Invocation of the Crystal, by Alan Peschke (Poem)

March 1986

‘Ring-Day’ Celebration Honored

Book Review: Homunculus, by James P. Blaylock

A Word About Woses

Short Story: The Sentinel, by Alan Peschke

April 1986

Faces of Fantasy: William Shakespeare

May 1986

Book Review: Merlin’s Booke, by Jane Yolen

Book Review: Little, Big by John Crowley

Editorial About Fantasy and Wargaming

Undated

A Short but Useful Guide to Analyzing Fantasies

 

Remembering The Broadsheet

 

It was the middle Eighties (I can remember that without looking, because I ran an obituary of Frank Herbert, 1986) and I was in the last sputtering remnants of my experiment with college. I decided I would try my hand at what was known as a ‘fanzine’ at the time, a self-produced, typed, xeroxed, and stapled magazine, the distant ancestor of many a modern blog. I called it The Broadsheet of Imaginative Literature. Broadsheet after the 17^th Century format, long pages with fewer leaves than a full-blown newspaper, to give it that olde sound; Imaginative Literature because Fantasy (which I was far more interested in) at the time inevitably took most people’s mind to Sexual Fantasy (via Fantasy Island; thanks a lot, Mr. Roarke). Also, Imaginative Literature covered Science Fiction and Horror as well.

My contributions were mainly articles; I remember one being about Ten Fantasy Books for Autumn, tales I felt as most suitable for the season. There were contributions of stories and poetry by my brother John, my friend Alan Peschke, Yen’s friend Wiley Reeves, and Yen’s then-girlfriend Kathy Moore.  I don’t remember ever producing any creative writing myself (maybe a poem or two, I can’t quite recall); I was content to be the editor of it all. I would type everything up in double columns on my old black Brother typewriter (an unnecessarily onerous task, as it didn’t print that way naturally; but I thought it looked cooler) and grab copied line illustrations from medieval works, Pauline Baines, Howard Pyle, and Fritz Eichenberg. Then I’d paste it all together and run off a few copies, at least enough for the contributors. I don’t think I ever made more than five copies an issue; at a nickel a page it was about what my finances could bear.

For a very short time there was a half-assed club associated with The Broadsheet: called The Inn Mates, meant to indicate eccentricity (inmates of the asylum) and companionship (mates who met at the inn). It met only one time, a rather token gathering hosted at Wylie Reeve’s house. I fear I was too reserved a character to lead such a club with any amount of spirit. It soon fizzled out. Somewhere there is a photograph memorializing the occasion.

Well. All the spare copies of The Broadsheet (including the master copies) are tucked away in the Files somewhere, sad little stillborn memories taken out now and then, found almost by accident while looking for other things, to be gazed at wistfully as a reminder of when we were all young and alive.