The oldest of the handful of Weird Tales issues we have is dated May 1936. It would have arrived on newsstands and with subscribers in the previous month, and I figure it’s the last one Conan writer Robert E. Howard would have received before his death. I doubt he sat down to read much of it, concerned as he was with the round-the-clock care of his ailing mother.
The Margaret Brundage cover is not one of her more lurid, though it still has a man in a red devil’s costume menacing a pretty girl. Maybe he had a quick glance through; no, nothing of his was printed. Perhaps he read Clark Ashton Smith’s poem Ennui. “Dull ashes emptied from the urns of all the dead, have stilled the fountain and have sealed the fountain-head” No – definitely not in the mood for that; his own well had run dry as it was! Perhaps his eye fell on his own name, in a letter in The Eyrie:
Eleanor Layton, of Washington, D. C., writes, in part: “Howard gets better and better; Conan is superb, magnifique and more! Moore’s characters, Smith and Jirel, are wonderful companions in perilous adventure. Smith and Lovecraft are delightfully productive of chills, as always. Keep Weird Tales up to the mark; detective stories and stories with a natural explanation are not weird.
Well-known fan of the time, Gertrude Hemken also writes in. Her letters would appear 32 times in the letter column between 1931 and ’38, sandwiched between a few letters to Astounding and a letter to Golden Fleece. Her career as weird letter writer encountered a full stop via a potato chowder recipe in The Milwaukee Sentinel. About the 5-part Conan serial The Hour of the Dragon she writes:
Conan grows more and more tense in each issue. I almost hate to see it end. But then there is always the promise of more Conan stories in the future…
There’d be no further Conan stories written by Howard though, and only in death did editor Farnsworth Wright give the writer the respect his due, though still not in payment. That, though, could not be known yet by any of the correspondents whose letters we find in The Eyrie.
Irene Pierce, of National City, California, signed herself “an old reader returned.”
“Noticed a new illustrator in a recent issue of Weird Tales. He’s very good: as good, in his particular style, as Hugh Rankin. Remember, the poetry, illustrations, and short stories are what kept WT what it has never ceased being – that is, weird.”
Lilian Kaltz from Philadelphia dives headlong into fandom:
“I have just this moment finished reading Mr. Julius Hopkins’ idea of a WT Club and it is a gem of an idea. I had the pleasure of meeting him in Washington, D. C. and he is most capable for being president of the Washington club. I would like to volunteer my services for starting a Philadelphia club of WT readers. I have been reading WT since a little girl, although I have never subscribed, preferring to patronize the neighborhood store.”
The Weird Tales Club would indeed come into being, and women would be part of it (but we’ll get back to that). Assuming that no women have signed their letter with initials, out of 21 letters in The Eyrie, 4 are by women. They are as knowledgeable as the guys, as enthusiastic and as eager to be involved. And, despite what men from the Manosphere may tell you, they love Conan, and not just to cling to his leg! If we look at Getrude, Trudy Hemken, we see her trying Astounding on for size, but apparently the Church of Campbell is not quite her jam. In Weird Tales she finds a home; over 30 printed letters in 7 years speaks of belonging. She was about 18 when she started writing, and perhaps at 25 life took over. Then again, a letter apparently appeared in issue #4 of the mimeographed satirical fanzine Sweetness and Light in 1940; perhaps to comment on the caricature that had appeared earlier, of “The Fan who has written more letters to the magazines than any other fan”…
In her blogpost on the Flashing Swords! debacle, Angeline already wrote: “Women have always been here.” They have, and they’ve always been active, either visible or behind the screens. Because the blood of a fan creeps wherever it wants to go.