Not counting the scotched plan to edit and publish Collins's reports, an abandoned play set in a squatters' camp in Kern County, or a warm-up essay (in the September 12, 1936, issue of The Nation), Steinbeck's first lengthy excursion into the migrants' problems was published in the liberal, pro-labor San Francisco News. "The Harvest Gypsies" formed the foundation of Steinbeck's concern for a long time to come, raised issues and initiated forces, gave him a working vocabulary with which to understand current events, and furthered his position as a reliable interpreter. This stage resulted from the notoriety caused by his recently published strike novel, In Dubious Battle (New York: Covici-Friede, 1936), after which Steinbeck found--often against his will--that he was fast being considered a sympathetic spokesman for the contemporary agricultural labor situation in a state that was primarily pro-management. This was a profound irony, because while In Dubious Battle exposed the capitalist dynamics of corporate farming, it took no side for or against labor, preferring instead to see the fruit strike as a symbol of "man's eternal, bitter warfare with himself."
At George West's invitation, Steinbeck produced "The Harvest Gypsies." These articles, peppered with Dorothea Lange's graphic photographs of migrants, appeared from October 5 to 12, 1936. Steinbeck's gritty reports detailed the plan of California's feudal agricultural labor industry. The pieces introduced the antagonists, underscored the anachronistic rift between the Okie agrarian past and the mechanized California present, explained the economic background and insidious effects of the labor issue, examined the deplorable migrant living conditions, and exposed the unconscionable practices of the interlocking conglomerate of corporation farms. (These elements remained central to the core and texture of The Grapes of Wrath.) Primarily, though, Steinbeck's eye was on the migrants, who were "gypsies by force of circumstance," as he announced in his opening piece: "And so they move, frantically, with starvation close behind them. And in this series of articles we shall try to see how they live and what kind of people they are, what their living standard is, what is done for them, and what their problems and needs are. For while California has been successful in its use of migrant labor, it is gradually building a human structure which will certainly change the state, and may, if handled with the inhumanity and stupidity that have characterized the past, destroy the present system of agricultural economics."
Written mostly in a measured style to promote understanding and intelligent solutions, Steinbeck's articles are full of case studies, chilling factual statistics, and an unsettling catalogue of human woes (illness, incapacitation, persecution, death) observed from close contact with field workers he had met. In the spirit of advocacy journalism, Steinbeck concluded with prophetic recommendations for alleviating the conflict with federal aid and local support; this in turn would create subsistence farms, establish a migratory labor board, encourage unionization, and punish terrorism. When they were published in 1936(and again when they were reprinted as Their Blood Is Strong, a pamphlet by the nonprofit Simon J. Lubin Society that sold 10,000 copies), Steinbeck's articles solidified his credibility--both in and out of the migrant camps--as a serious commentator in a league with Dorothea Lange's husband, Paul Taylor, and Carey McWilliams, two other influential and respected investigators.
Steinbeck understood that the migrants wouldn't vanish from sight, even though official California hoped they would. He also knew that the subject reached further than he had first imagined. Consequently, Steinbeck built on his News pieces and made at least one more monthlong field trip with Tom Collins in October and November of 1937. They started from Gridley, where Collins was managing a new camp, but then roamed California from Stockton to Needles, wherever migrants were gathered to work. His purpose was to gather more research for his next version, the "big" book of fiction that had been in his mind for most of that year. (A letter to Elizabeth Otis, written on January 27, 1937, indicates that he had been wrestling with this version since the previous winter: "The new book has struck a bad snag.... The subject is so huge it scares me to death.") In an interview with Dorothy Steel on November 4, 1937, in the Los Gatos Mail News, Steinbeck told of starting a book whose topic was the Dust Bowl refugees, the "Oklahomans." Though he was "reluctant to discuss the characters and plot," he said it was "one third complete and will be about 1000 pages in length." Given his comment to Otis, and the fact that Steinbeck traveled a good deal that year, three hundred pages of completed manuscript may have been wishful thinking on his part, or it may have represented the total number of pages of reports and research notes he had accumulated thus far.
In a second interview two months later, with journalist Louis Walther on January 8, 1938, in the San Jose Mercury Herald, he apparently had not progressed much, if at all. After hitting several "snags," he was working on a "rather long novel" called "The Oklahomans," which was "still a long way from finished." Steinbeck, generally guarded with interviewers, revealed enough to Walther to indicate that his novel's focus was the salutary, irrepressible character of the "southern dust bowl immigrants" who, he believed, would profoundly alter the tenor of life in California. "Their coming here now is going to change things almost as much as did the coming of the first American settlers." Furthermore, "the Californian doesn't know what he does want. The Oklahoman knows just exactly what he wants. He wants a piece of land. And he goes after it and gets it." (In The Grapes of Wrath, Steinbeck did not relinquish his land-hunger theme, or his belief that the migrants formed a specific phalanx group within the large national mass movement of the 1930s, but he certainly dropped his imperious tone.)
Quietly, as nearly as can be determined, between January and March of 1938, Steinbeck stopped work on "The Oklahomans." He never mentioned it again by name, the manuscript has never been found, and--his boasts of three hundred completed pages aside--it is doubtful that he had actually written a substantial amount at all on it. In the first entry of Working Days, on February 7[?], 1938, he mentioned having written "ten pages" of an otherwise unidentified book. And six weeks later, on March 23, 1938, he again told Elizabeth Otis: "I've been writing on the novel but I've had to destroy it several times. I don't seem to know any more about writing a novel than I did ten years ago. You'd think I would learn. I suppose I could dash it off but I want this one to be a pretty good one. There's another difficulty too. I'm trying to write history while it is happening and I don't want to be wrong." These comments in February and March 1938 have long been thought to refer to the beginnings of "L'Affaire Lettuceberg" (discussed below), but they could as easily refer to one (or more) avatars of "The Oklahomans," the Ur-Grapes of Wrath, which had not yet found its proper impetus or creative urgency. But in mulling over, rehearsing, and living with this big subject for so long, Steinbeck was staking his claim to its imaginative territory and experimenting with a way to fictionalize material that was, until then, the stuff of journalistic reportage.
The migrant situation had worsened, and along with it, Steinbeck's capacity for anger and his need for direct involvement had grown. The misery of the workers' condition was increasing in the winter of 1938, especially in Visalia and Nipomo, where thousands of families were marooned by floods. From Los Gatos, Steinbeck wrote to Elizabeth Otis in February:
I must go over into the interior valleys. There are about five thousand families starving to death over there, not just hungry but actually starving. The government is trying to feed them and get medical attention to them with the fascist group of utilities and banks and huge growers sabotaging the thing all along the line.... In one tent there are twenty people quarantined for smallpox and two of the women are to have babies in that tent this week. I've tied into the thing from the first and I must get down there and see it and see if I can't do something to help knock these murderers on the heads.... They think that if these people are allowed to live in camps with proper sanitary facilities, they will organize and that is the bugbear of the large landowner and the corporation farmer. The states and counties will give them nothing because they are
outsiders. But the crops of any part of this state could not be harvested without these outsiders. I'm pretty mad about it.
In late February and early March, Steinbeck witnessed these deplorable conditions firsthand at Visalia where, after three weeks of steady rain, "the water is a foot deep in the tents and the children are up on the beds and there is no food and no fire, and the county has taken off all the nurses because 'the problem is so great that we can't do anything about it.' So they do nothing," he again informed Elizabeth Otis on March 7, 1938. In the company of Tom Collins, Life photographer Horace Bristol (whose work appears on the cover), and other F.S.A. personnel, Steinbeck worked day and night for nearly two weeks, sometimes dropping in the mud from exhaustion, to help relieve the people's misery, though of course no aid seemed adequate. Steinbeck was supposed to be doing an article for Life magazine, but what he encountered was so devastating, he told Otis, that he was utterly transfixed by the "staggering" conditions; the "suffering" was so great that objective reporting would only falsify the moment. Suddenly, Steinbeck realized that the issue was not as simple as portraying the "naive directness" of the migrants' desire for land. Indeed, the cauldron of his own soul was beginning to boil with frustration and impotence. Apparently neither "The Oklahomans" nor the proposed magazine article could adequately redress the injustices he had recently witnessed. "When I wrote The Grapes of Wrath," he declared in a 1952 Voice of America radio interview, "I was filled... with certain angers... at people who were doing injustices to other people."
As a novelist, Steinbeck often experienced a delayed reaction to piercing events. Perhaps as early as February--but certainly no later than early April ("New book goes very fast but I am afraid it is pretty lousy. I don't care much," he said to Otis on April 26, 1938)--through approximately mid-May 1938, Steinbeck worked at the third stage of his effort and produced "L'Affaire Lettuceberg." With this abortive--but necessary--side-track venture, Steinbeck's migrant subject matter took its most drastic turn, inspired by an ugly event in Salinas, California, his home town. Earlier, in September 1936, Steinbeck had encountered the vicious clash between workers and growers in a lettuce strike: "There are riots in Salinas and killings in the streets of that dear little town where I was born," he told novelist George Albee. The strike was smashed with "fascist" terrorism, and recollections of the workers' defeat festered in Steinbeck for more than a year. "I am treasonable enough not to believe in the liberty of a man or a group to exploit, torment, or slaughter other men or groups. I believe in the despotism of human life and happiness against the liberty of money and possessions," he said in a 1937 statement for the League of American Writers.
Perhaps as early as the first week of February 1938--and no later than the first week of April--galvanized by reports of the worsening conditions in Visalia and Nipomo, he felt the urgent need to do something direct in retaliation. John Steinbeck never became what committed activists would consider fully radicalized (his writings stemmed more from his own feelings and humane sensibility than from the persuasiveness of the left's economic and social ideas), but by putting his pen to the service of his cause, he was as close to being a firebrand as he ever would. He launched into "L'Affaire," a vituperative satire aimed at attacking the leading citizens of Salinas, who put together a cabal of organizers called "the committee of seven" to foment the ignorant army of vigilantes (assembled from the common populace of Salinas--clerks, service-station operators, shopkeepers). "L'Affaire Lettuceberg" was a detour from his main concern for the migrant workers, already recorded in "The Harvest Gypsies" and adumbrated in "The Oklahomans" rehearsals. In fact, "L'Affaire" wasn't "literary" at all, but a "vulgar" tract concocted to do a specific job. Around mid-May 1938, Steinbeck, who had already written approximately 60,000 words (and was aiming for 10,000 more), confessed to Annie Laurie Williams: "I'll have the first draft of this book done in about two weeks.... And it is a vicious book, a mean book. I don't know whether it will be any good at all. It might well be very lousy but it has a lot of poison in it that I had to get out of my system and this is a good way to do it."
Within days, however, Steinbeck wrote to Otis and Covici (who had already announced the publication of "L'Affaire") to inform them that he would not be delivering the manuscript they expected:
This is going to be a hard letter to write.... This book is finished and it is a bad book and I must get rid of it. It can't be printed. It is bad because it isn't honest. Oh! these incidents all happened but--I'm not telling as much of the truth about them as I know. In satire you have to restrict the picture and I just can't do satire.... I know, you could sell possibly 30,000 copies. I know that a great many people would think they liked the book. I myself have built up a hole-proof argument on how and why I liked it. I can't beat the argument but I don't like the book. And I would be doing Pat a greater injury in letting him print it than I would by destroying it. Not once in the writing of it have I felt the curious warm pleasure that comes when work is going well. My whole work drive has been aimed at making people understand each other and then I deliberately write this book the aim of which is to cause hatred through partial understanding. My father would have called it a smart-alec book. It was full of tricks to make people ridiculous. If I can't do better I have slipped badly. And that I won't admit, yet.
The final stage of writing culminated in The Grapes of Wrath. His conscience squared, his integrity restored, Steinbeck quickly embarked on the longest sustained writing job of his early career. Ridding himself of poison by passing through a "bad" book proved beneficial, he told Otis on June 1, 1938: "It is a nice thing to be working and believing in my work again. I hope I can keep the drive.... I only feel whole and well when it is this way." Naturally, his partisanship for the workers and his sense of indignation at California's labor situation carried over, but they were given a more articulate and directed shape.
From late May 1938, when he put the first words of the new novel to paper ("To the red country and part of the gray country of Oklahoma, the last rains came gently, and they did not cut the scarred earth"), through the winter of 1939, when the last of the corrections and editorial details were settled ("I meant, Pat, to print all all all the verses of the Battle Hymn. They're all pertinent and they're all exciting. And the music if you can"), The Grapes of Wrath was a task that fully commanded his artistic energy and attention. Everything he had written earlier--from his 1936 Nation article, "Dubious Battle in California," through "Starvation Under the Orange Trees," an April 1938 essay that functioned as the epilogue to Their Blood Is Strong, and even a poignant short story called "Breakfast" that he included in The Long Valley (New York: The Viking Press, 1938)--became grist for his final attempt. "For the first time I am working on a book that is not limited and that will take every bit of experience and thought and feeling that I have," he wrote in Working Days on June 11, 1938. From his numerous field travels with Tom Collins, and from countless hours spent talking to migrant people, working beside them, listening to them, and sharing their problems, Steinbeck summoned all the concrete details of human form, language, and landscape that ensure artistic verisimilitude, as well as the subtler imaginative nuances of dialect, idiosyncratic tics, habits, and gestures that animate fictional characterization. "Yesterday it seemed to me that the people were coming to life. I hope so. These people must be intensely alive the whole time. I was worried about Rose of Sharon. She has to emerge if only as a silly pregnant girl now. Noah I think I'll lose for the time being and Uncle John and maybe for a while Casy. But I want to keep Tom and Ma together. Lots of people walking along the roads in this season. I can hear their voices," he wrote in Working Days on July 8.
From the outset, in creating the Joad family to occupy the narrative chapters of The Grapes of Wrath, Steinbeck endowed his novel with a specific human context, a felt emotional quality, and a dramatic dimension his earlier versions lacked: "Begin the detailed description of the family I am to live with. Must take time in the description, detail, detail, look
s, clothes, gestures.... We have to know these people. Know their looks and their nature," he reminded himself on June 17. By conceiving the Joads as "an over-essence of people," Steinbeck elevated the entire history of the migrant struggle into the realm of art, and he joined the mythic western journey with latently heroic characters, according to this key notation on June 30: "Yesterday... I went over the whole of the book in my head--fixed on the last scene, huge and symbolic, toward which the whole story moves. And that was a good thing, for it was a reunderstanding of the dignity of the effort and the mightyness of the theme. I feel very small and inadequate and incapable but I grew again to love the story which is so much greater than I am. To love and admire the people who are so much stronger and purer and braver than I am."
At times during that summer, though, his task seemed insurmountable, because he kept losing the "threads" that tied him to his characters. "Was ever a book written under greater difficulty?" Nearly every day brought unsolicited requests for his name and his time, including unscheduled visitors, unanticipated disruptions, and reversals. Domestic and conjugal relations with Carol were often strained. House guests trooped to Los Gatos all summer, including family members and long-time friends Carlton Sheffield, Ed Ricketts, Ritch and Tal Lovejoy, plus new acquaintances Broderick Crawford, Charlie Chaplin, and Pare Lorentz. As if that weren't enough to erode the novelist's composure, the Steinbecks' tiny house on Greenwood Lane was besieged with the noise of neighborhood building, which nearly drove them to distraction. By midsummer, hoping for permanent sanctuary, they decided to buy the secluded Biddle Ranch, a forty-seven-acre spread on Brush Road in the Santa Cruz Mountains above Los Gatos. Even though it was the most stunning location they had seen, its original homestead was in disrepair, so besides buying the land they would also have to build a new house, and that too became a source of added distractions. The Steinbecks didn't move in until November 1938, a month after the novel was finished (final typing of the manuscript and corrections of the typescript and galley proofs took place at the Biddle Ranch from November 1938 to early February 1939), but preparations for its purchase ate a great deal of Steinbeck's time and energy from mid-July onward.