DENNIS SMITHERS, JR.

Before you begin, I’d like to warn you that this might not be the Ed Wood you know . . .
By 1975 — the year this book was written — Edward D. Wood, Jr. was authoring tales that were far removed from Bride of the Monster and Plan 9 From Outer Space.
Ed Wood loved to tell stories — it was who he was, through and through. After a certain point in his life, the very idea of earning a living by any other means didn’t exist, and his preferred method for spinning yarns was through the medium of motion pictures. And regardless of why he’s known for it, Ed succeeded — albeit posthumously — in attaching his identity to the artform; the majority of those who know his name, know it for one thing — a filmmaker; more specifically, a film director.
However, by the 1960s, Ed’s movie career had stalled — a reputation of being a bad filmmaker and poor businessman ultimately blocked the road. Occasionally, he’d sell a screenplay to other moviemakers, but not on a life-sustainable basis, especially now that a demon had wormed its way in and crowned itself top priority — alcoholism.
Even though he’s known as “Worst Director of All Time,” a far more fitting title for Ed should be “Worst Erotic Writer of All Time.” I never considered any of his erotic stories to be erotic at all. An outlet for his own kinks, fetishes, politics, beliefs, and frustrations? Yes. But erotic? No. Anti-erotic is more what comes to mind. The publication of Saving Grace as an arousing sex novel is clear evidence that writers’ manuscripts for such books weren’t checked by gatekeeping editors at the publishing houses Ed wrote for — at least not by editors who cared.
Ed penned stories, in various formats, his entire life. I don’t know if he ever took a crack at trying to get any of his manuscripts published via a “reputable” publishing house or not, but if he did . . . well . . .
Ed wasn’t just a “pulp” kind of guy, he was his own flavor of pulp. And that unique flavor is why he’s still talked about to this day. Just like how his movies weren’t designed for mainstream theater screens, Ed’s writing wasn’t constructed for mass-market shelves. The quality of a person’s storytelling abilities is subjective, absolutely, but Ed Wood’s creativity was “boutique” without a doubt; he was definitely an “outsider” artist.
Technology to self-publish wasn’t around in Ed’s day — not for someone who could barely pay the rent — so thank goodness for us “advanced” Wood fans (and for Wood himself) that he lived during the Golden Age of erotic pulp novels, because most of those publishers weren’t picky. So long as the writer adhered to guidelines that protected the publisher from hot water in case of an inspection, anyone who had the ability to use a typewriter and didn’t mind tossing suggestive prose into their storylines, had a shot at using their imagination for paid creativity.
The books were rush jobs from start to finish. Most — if not all — of those old paperbacks were first drafts; errors of any kind weren’t corrected, and in some cases, the typesetting and printing of the books themselves barely hit the mark. Smut publishers weren’t releasing bestsellers, nor did they give a damn about quality; they were pumping out quick sleaze to readers who were skimming the pages for the “good” parts. And it’s by that detachment that Ed Wood was able to get his name on so many published books. It’s just a shame that there weren’t any horror, crime, and mystery pulp publishers who were that lax, for that’s where Ed truly belonged.
Isn’t it fitting, though, all those technical errors and typos in Ed’s cheaply produced paperbacks? For me, what it does is make those books feel like the equivalent of a nano-budgeted “C” movie. Ed was King of the “Cs” all the way around — celluloid and paper. Yes, fitting — in a good way.
I often wonder why Ed used his name on some books but not others. Was it contractual obligations? Was it because publishers didn’t want any particular name to saturate the market? Was it because Ed didn’t want certain publishers to know how much he was moonlighting? Did he fear some of his work was too risqué? (I find that one a little hard to believe; Ed signed his real name to books with pseudonyms, and he was proud of his resume.)
Whatever the case, it sure would have made it easier for fans and Wood historians if he had used his own name on everything he wrote. Oh well, it makes it more interesting, I suppose — the thrill of the hunt; like when Greg Dziawer discovered that he had found the long-lost Saving Grace under a forgotten title called Sex Salvation, written by the pen of one Raoul Woody. Can you imagine the feeling of finding such a jewel of a puzzle piece?
Anyway . . .
As society changed, restrictions on literature became looser, and readers grew jaded (and Ed got drunker and more depressed), Ed’s stories got rougher and more graphic. He was not only filming hardcore porn at that point, he was writing it.
In 1975, when Saving Grace was written, Ed was close to the end of the line, with less than thirty-six months left on the Earth Clock. He was deeply depressed, bitter, and a raging alcoholic. He was supposed to be making “real” movies. He was supposed to be writing “real” novels. Occasionally, he might sell a screenplay. He was drinking his rent and didn’t have anything left to pawn. His typewriter was amongst the last of his precious possessions — his lifeline — and it got so bad that he’d even pawn that from time to time.
Ed was physically unhealthy and in a bad state of mind when he wrote what you currently have here. He was wrestling with poverty, addiction, broken dreams, and his mortality — it had finally sunken in that he was going to die; that everyone and everything truly does only have so much time. Tick-tock.
When Ed sat down and hunched over his typewriter to bang out this story, his wife Kathy noticed a change in him. A bottle and the Bible accompanied him while he crafted. He repeatedly played the bagpipe instrumental version of “Amazing Grace” on the record player to help set the mood.
In Kathy’s own words, from the book Nightmare of Ecstasy, written by Rudolph Grey, she said: “Ed loved that damned song, ‘Amazing Grace.’ It kind of hit him, somehow. And he wrote that book, Saving Grace. It was written when he was getting more and more depressed. They say that people, when they feel they’re going to die, that they get kind of religious, and Eddie, something kind of happened to him, I don’t know what it was, but he wrote this crazy book. And I felt kind of strange about it, like a chill up my spine.”
On December 10, 1978, Edward Davis Wood, Jr. died at the age of 54. He was homeless and penniless. But he left behind a massive body of work that will forever be studied, collected, hunted, and displayed. Ed found in death what he searched for in life.
Damn . . . there are no words for that.
Ed Wood is one of the reasons I became so enthralled with the idea that maybe I could have a crack at this filmmaking and writing thing, too — not just do it, but share what I do. He inspired me. Ed did it when all odds were against him. With no money — and maybe even no talent — he did it anyway. Now that’s inspiration! That’s somebody to look up to!
In my opinion, Ed Wood doesn’t deserve to be laughed at; he deserves to be regarded as an inspiration for the underdog — a hero to the spirit of a dream when you’re down to your last piece of typing paper and an empty refrigerator.
Ed did it anyway. That’s why he’ll never be forgotten.
I’m going to send you on to Saving Grace now. Remember that you’re dealing with a different man from his low-budget genre picture days. If you feel you need to be broken in easy with Ed’s novel writing, I recommend starting with Killer in Drag, Death of a Transvestite, Devil Girls, and Security Risk. If you feel you’re ready for Ed’s final stage, I present to you, with caution, Saving Grace.

— Dennis Smithers, Jr.