Alfred Bester

“ We meet every Tuesday in a second-rate restaurant and gossip and talk story and editors and mostly beef about the mags that won't pay until publication. Some of us, the high-class ones, won't write for them.
Maybe I ought to explain. We're the unromantic writers—what they call pulp writers. We're the boys who fill the pulp magazines with stories at a cent a word. Westerns, mystery, wonder, weird, adventure—you know them.
Not all of us are hacks. A couple have graduated to the movies. A few have broken the slicks and try to forget the lean years. ”

“ Mallison said, "That's impossible."
"Not altogether," I argued. "It's conceivable that wars and unprecedented bombings and fires could destroy records. Why even today there are gaps in the lives of contemporary artists that will never be filled up."
"To hell with that!" Mallison said. "I still say it's impossible."
Dugan gave me a grateful look. He said, "Anyway, that's about what happened. The literature department of the university is going to send one of its research men back through time to gather material on the life of the new Shakespeare. This man is an expert in ancient English. ”

“ Belcher said, "Sure you're not a writer?"
Dugan shook his head, then glanced at Joey. Joey smiled a little and turned away because he's very shy about ethics and such. He doesn't want people to think he runs around trying to get writers on his string.
Mallison said to Jinx, "Well, what in hell is this story?"
Jinx said, "I don't know. Ask him."
They all looked at Junior G-Man. I wanted to warn him not to spill anything because pulp writers are leeches. They'll suck the blood right out of your brain. You have to copyright your dialogue at the Tuesday luncheons. ”