Philip K Dick In Disneyland

By Darryl Mason
At the start of his career, Philip K Dick wrote so many short stories, so fast, and sold so many of them to magazines, so quickly, that he lost track of his own creations.
In the late 1970s, he was asked by an editor to choose some of his favourite old stories for a new collection. PKD re-read stories he had composed 25 years, or more, before and some were complete mysteries to him.
Did I write this? he wondered over a few, I
don't remember even thinking of this. Here's PKD describing the structure of his short stories ;
Crisis is the key to story-writing, a sort of brinkmanship in which the author mires his characters in happenings so sticky as to seem impossible of solution. And then he gets them out. . . usually. He can get them out; that's what matters. But in a novel the actions are so deeply rooted in the personality of the main character that to extricate him the author would have to go back and rewrite his character.
This need not happen in a story, especially a short one....anything can happen in a story; the author merely tailors his character to the event. So, in terms of actions and events, the story is far less restrictive to the author than is a novel.
As a writer builds up a novel-length piece it slowly begins to imprison him, to take away his freedom; his own characters are taking over and doing what they want to do -- not what he would like them to do. This is on one hand the strength of the novel and on the other, its weakness.
The film rights to Philip K Dick short stories now sell for $1-4 million dollars each, even for the ones he forgot he had written.
He wrote more than 120 short stories in his lifetime, the vast majority of them during an extremely prolific speedy rush in the early 1950s. PKD could turn out three or four or more stories a week, and most of them sold quickly to the chunky science fiction and fantasy magazines that crowded newsagents shelves and wire racks in bus stations and truck stops across the United States.
No doubt PKD would be amazed, and proud, that his short stories are so valuable and popular with movie makers. At least 10 of his short stories are now optioned for films, and there are video games based on his shorter fiction now being developed, and the likelihood of a TV series or three.
But recent PKD news that would really astound the writer himself is the announcement that Disney will be turning his 1952 short story
King Of The Elves into a big budget movie
due to hit cinema screens in 2013.
The King Of The Elves tells the tale of a lonely old gas station owner in a Colorado town on the edge of wilderness, whose kindness towards some late-night traveling elves is rewarded. The old man, who thought life had already dealt him its last surprise, winds up joining the elves in a huge battle, holding off most of a troll army armed only with a barrel stave.
Dick wrote
The King Of Elves in 1952, having read JRR Tolkien's The Hobbit in the previous decade. He clearly wanted to bring a bit of Middle Earth into rural Colorado. Like the best of PKD's fiction, in this tale you never really know which is the 'real reality' and the false reality of fantasy. You don't know if elves really are roaming the Colorado mountains, or whether the old man is turning a senile fantasy into his reality. Strangely enough, if the elves are not real, the story is even more disturbing.
A PKD story becoming part of Disney is very PKDian. In the last years of his life, PKD lived only a few blocks away from Disneyland, and could see the nightly fireworks displays from his balcony. PKD loved Disneyland, it had become a world straight from his fiction after all, filled with fake realities, automaton re-enacting historical events and glimpses of possible futures.
His friend
Ray Nelson tells a story about PKD and Disneyland (excerpts) :
When I saw Phil Dick for the last time, he was beside himself with glee, having recently received a fat check from his agent for film options on a long shopping list of novels and short stories, in every case for a figure in excess of what he had gotten for their original publications.
In addition, the first in the series of optioned stories, Blade Runner, was nearing completion and Phil had seen the rushes and heartily approved of how it had turned out.
I glanced around at the small, dim, shabby apartment he occupied and said "I suppose now you'll move out of here and get yourself a mansion with a swimming pool and hot and cold running starlets".
He loomed over me me where I sat on a threadbare sofa, and slowly shook his head. "I have responsibilities," he intoned. "But surely you have some of the money left, enough to at least rent a place more in keeping with your material success". He gazed down at me with cocker spaniel eyes. "No Ray, I also have my priorities. There are things more important than worldly show. In point of fact, I have already spent most of the money."
"I went on a pilgrimage", He said, rising out of his usual slouch to stand like an indignant christian martyr before a Roman persecutor.
"To where?"
"Disneyland. I walked the whole way." He made it sound as if Disneyland. was on some other continent when in fact it was only a few blocks away.
He took out his wallet and extracted a laminated card. "It's a pass to Disneyland, good for one whole year."
"To pay so much for one visit."
"For one visit, yes. But it's a bargain for several times."
"Several times?"
"Many times."
"How many?"
"Every day at first. Now only two or three times a week...There's a little cafe in Disneyland. They have outdoor tables. I've gone there so often the waiters greet me by my first name...Mickey greets me by my first name...."
You can read the rest of
Ray Nelson's recollection of PKD and Disneyland here.
Although he didn't make his first sale until he was out of high school, Philip K Dick began writing short stories at five or six years old, complete with twist endings. Here's one of his earliest, and shortest :
Once there was an ant. One day he went walking. Soon he came to a forest. It was an ant-mile long. Soon he came to a sidewalk. In the middle was a dead bumblebee. He pulled and he pulled. And he soon got it to a forest. He went on ahead leaving his bee on the ground. But he saw that it was hopeless. The grass was too thick. So he left his bee and went home.
By Philip K. Dick.
I killed the bumble bee.