And what it means is simply that in choosing stories the editors
of _Everybody’s_ bear in mind an audience of “regular folks,” with
a large variety of tastes and with tastes for different things at
different times. We are not thinking specifically of business men.
Nor specifically of professional men. Nor of women merely as club
members. Nor of women merely as housewives. We are thinking of the
splendid average of folks, with normal human interests and normal human
emotions. And we take stories with a view to offering in each number a
well-balanced ration of these interests and emotions, stories of love,
adventure, business, sentiment, children, humor, sport; of city and
country; of rich and poor.
The only types of stories that are barred are those that lack wide
contact with the average human experience--that depict fantastic or
morbid or unreal motives or isolated emotional reactions. This does
not necessarily bar an occasional use of morbid experience, soundly
based--such as “The Wrists on the Door,” by Horace Fish, a horror
story, strange and fantastic in atmosphere, with a big truth at the
bottom of it.
It is our guess that the largest group of people reads for sheer
entertainment, and with two motives--unconscious, perhaps; either
to gain a heightened sense of their own situations, their own
personalities through reading stories of their own sort of life; or
to be transported by reading as by magic from their own environment
into another world. And we have a notion that, as the worry and
perplexity of life increase, the eagerness to _gain escape_ through
reading increases too. That is why _Everybody’s_ has stressed stories
of adventurous action--such as Charles Saxby’s “In Camera,” Clarence
B. Kelland’s “Cheese in the Trap,” David Churchill’s “Igor’s Trail,”
Edison Marshall’s “The Elephant Remembers.” That is the reason for
an intensification of the search for humor--for Dorothy De Jagers’
cheerful New York stories and for Samuel Hopkins Adams’ “Cab Sir?”
reprinted in this volume as a story on which _Everybody’s_ readers
expressed themselves with cordial approval.
At the same time--paradoxical as it may seem--_Everybody’s_ has not
barred war stories. We do not believe it is possible to ask real
writers to shut the doors on the most tremendous experience of their
lives--and still do their best work. We hold a high standard for war
stories, but the story itself is the test and such a piece of work
as James Hopper’s “The Scoop of Charles Hamilton Potts” goes over as
easily as a love idyll.
As for length, there is no rigid requirement. Short stories are
preferred, in order to make possible the maximum of variety in each
number, but ten thousand words won’t kill a story of our sort that is
worth--ten thousand words.
Cleanness is a requisite--cleanness without priggishness or sentimental
dishonesty; open-eyed wholesomeness that strengthens one’s faith in
human nature.
VIRGINIA RODERICK.
_Everybody’s Magazine._
Spring and Macdougal Streets,
New York City.
FARM AND FIRESIDE
We want good fiction for _Farm and Fireside_, and we will pay
good money for it. The only kind we don’t want is the extreme
stuff--sexy-pink-tea and blood-and-thunder. We don’t demand a farm
setting. Aside from that, we have no specifications. Just one request:
If you are not interested in selling your best stories to a publication
that is made for men and women who farm, please do not waste your
postage and our time.
As to length--3,000 to 5,000 words for short stories, and up to 10,000
for two-part, and 15,000 for three-part serials.
We pay on acceptance, price to fit quality; no limit.
Address Editor, _Farm and Fireside_, 381 Fourth Avenue, New York City.
GEORGE MARTIN.
_Farm and Fireside._
THE CROWELL PUBLISHING CO.,
381 Fourth Avenue,
New York City.
THE FORUM
_The Forum_ is not publishing fiction. My own personal view, however,
is that a serious magazine should print some fiction, and in the course
of time _The Forum_ will.
If I should be the one selecting the fiction by that time, I would look
for intelligence and imagination.
GEORGE HENRY PAYNE.
_The Forum._
118 East 28th Street,
New York City.
HARPER’S MAGAZINE
_Harper’s Magazine_ is constantly seeking the work of new writers, and
it probably publishes more stories by hitherto unknown writers than any
other fiction periodical of reputable standing.
_Harper’s Magazine_ has no editorial prejudices, and does not ask its
contributors to make their work conform to any fixed or arbitrary
specifications. There is no such thing as a “Harper type” of story.
Any story is acceptable which in dignity of conception and quality of
workmanship has real value, provided it is also interesting.
Stories of a youthful turn, with a glimmer of humor, are particularly
desired. Three thousand to seven thousand words is the preferred length.
LEE FOSTER HARTMAN.
_Harper’s Magazine._
Franklin Square,
New York City.
JUDGE
_Judge’s_ need is for honest-to-goodness humor, the short story (under
a thousand words) that forces a healthy chuckle, the poem that tickles
the fancy and stirs the risibles (whatever they are) and the good
old-fashioned joke with a modern setting and a sophisticated idea.
Clean fun, smart fun, spontaneous fun expressed in any literary form
will be acceptable and paid for generously.
_Judge’s_ circulation is booming; that is happening only because this
magazine is human, modern, entertaining, American and very often
genuinely humorous.
PERRITON MAXWELL.
_Judge._
225 Fifth Avenue,
New York City.
LESLIE’S
At present a great number of Americans, both men and women, are
seriously interested in business conditions and its problems. For this
reason when we decided to limit our publishing to one type of story--we
publish but one story a week, and that of limited length--we decided
for the time being to publish only business stories. We prefer those
of constructive turn or of such dramatic intensity that interest is
compelled. We do not want love stories in a business setting. We do
occasionally accept the humorous story, as often a writer in this guise
can present a more fundamental truth or give a better picture of actual
conditions than could be projected in any other way.
In asking for business stories we do not feel that we are limiting
the writer. American business is so broad in scope, so diversified in
character, so tied up with the every day life of all of us, it has so
many facets of interest, so many angles of approach that any one who
writes can surely produce a business story if he or she will. A good
business story is bound to be an interesting story, and interest to my
mind is after all the aim and end of all fiction writing.
PERRITON MAXWELL.
_Leslie’s._
225 Fifth Avenue,
New York City.
LIFE
_Life’s_ principal need is humor. After humor comes sentiment, and
after sentiment, satire. _Life_ will consider original jokes, short
(very short) dialogues, epigrams, epigrammatical comments, light verse
and manuscripts up to 500 words on subjects of topical or news interest
containing these three elements singly or in combination. Before
submitting, it is best to make a comprehensive study of what is printed
in the magazine and to model the contribution on similar lines. By
reason of the seeming simplicity of its contents, _Life_ is constantly
receiving contributions which make no pretense at literary preparation
and are therefore unavailable.
HENRY WILLIAM HANEMANN.
_Life._
17 West 31st Street,
New York City.
LIVE STORIES
_Live Stories_ is not afraid of ideas. Outside of humor, it insists
upon something more than just a good story. Humor, of course, is more
than humor only when handled by a master. There are not many masters
of humor in America; in fact, neither American writers nor readers
have a real sense of humor. They have, mostly, a keen sense of the
ridiculous and a really brilliant appreciation of wit. Doubtless the
difficulty every editor experiences in getting good humorous stories is
thus explained. It also accounts for _Live Stories’_ belief that it is
useless to look for an idea in humorous contributions. “There ain’t no
such animal” in America, and if there were it is doubtful if the public
would appreciate it.
In the list of short stories memorable, one finds that each is based on
an _idea_; that is, each is more than a story. “The Fall of The House
of Usher,” “They,” “The Man Without a Country,” “Lear of the Steppes,”
“A Bit of String,” are striking examples that come readily to mind. The
list could be extended to embrace all of the great short stories. O.
Henry, you will notice, is not represented here. Indeed, the bulk of O.
Henry’s stories are without ideas. Have you never noticed that it is
difficult to remember an O. Henry story? The explanation lies in the
fact that they are _just_ stories--delightful, captivating, what you
will--but they are not intense, compelling an undivided concentration.
_Live Stories_ has, deliberately, gone in for ideas. It was this
policy that led it to publish Thomas Grant Springer’s, “The Blood
of the Dragon,” a story that won honorable mention by the O. Henry
Memorial Committee of the Society of Arts and Sciences. “The Blood of
the Dragon” was rejected by a large number of New York editors who,
doubtless, were entirely right in their position. Yet this study of the
Chinese character will be remembered long after the _stories_ those
editors published are forgotten.
To entertain and more, that is the policy of _Live Stories_. It does
not want trick stories; it doesn’t want a fabricated and artificial
drama; it does not want action simply for action; it does not want
weeping authors. It does want the tenseness incident to an inevitable
situation. It wants drama, happy or tragic, based upon a fundamental
idea. In short, _Live Stories_ wants ideas, clearly, forcibly,
dramatically evolved.
GROVE WILSON.
_Live Stories._
THE NEW FICTION PUBLISHING COMPANY,
35-37 West Thirty-ninth Street, New York City.
McCALL’S MAGAZINE
_McCall’s_ finds it hard to specify its standards of the perfect McCall
story, because we believe a magazine should cultivate a diversity of
story types. A publication with a circulation of over one million and
a half, read by people scattered all over the United States, should
carefully select from a wide field.
In a short story, we demand first, perhaps that it be a story; that it
tell itself convincingly, and interestingly, with its due measure of
plot, characterization and charm of style. Honesty and truthfulness
in theme and treatment are essential. Though we are opposed to the
sentimental and saccharine tale which has been the accepted convention
for the woman’s magazine, we believe in romance and adventure and
glamour. Life is colored with those three things, and a story is either
dull or fantastic unless it bear relation to life.
Although _McCall’s_ is a woman’s magazine, we believe there is
no sex in reading, that a woman is not necessarily interested in
the old conventionally accepted story in which gilded heroes and
heroines pranced through a hectic and golden existence, in which
the heroine’s name was always Gwen or Violet, in which the desired
male prize was always married off to the poor but noble girl at the
consummating altar. Nor need all women’s magazine stories have to do
with the abuse of the sacrificial mother or the efforts of an orphan
stenographer alone in a great city. Love and money and fame may be
fundamental pillars of plots, as of life; but to-day’s woman, even as
to-day’s flapper, demands more than the sentimental narration of their
intertwinings.
As for the young author, we welcome him--or her. The famous and the
arrived have their place, but the world is ever to the oncoming. If
there is a germ of a story in any neophyte’s contribution, _McCall’s_
is only too glad to throw all its energies into framing for it a more
effective setting.
BESSIE BEATTY.
_McCall’s Magazine._
236-250 West Thirty-seventh Street,
New York City.
McCLURE’S MAGAZINE
It is difficult to frame rigidly the deciding factors in selecting
fiction for a magazine that is planned for the general reading public.
Any reply that I may make must be human rather than formal.
You see, the work of buying for and making a magazine is a firing line
job. Tactics and strategy go into preparation for the battle, but in
the strife one does many things because they have to be done.
Reduced to practicality, I buy what I want when I get it.
You will say, to tell you what I want, since I know it. But if I did,
you would be misled, for all wants are not constant.
Fundamentals, of course, are, but they are rather the fundamentals
of art--an idea to convey, a picture to paint, in short, creation.
A creative thought first, then an object modeled with the tools of
craftsmanship. Finally, a composition (in the painting rather than the
writing sense) that, when looked at from points in a sense afar, tells
that the creator wants to tell.
I am trying here, perhaps indistinctly, to state that said creator has
to build for perspective. He has to make things, actions and persons
_seem_ real. For example, the actor is made up for the appearance he
will make to you sitting on the other side of the footlights. He does
not strive, in the laying on of paint, for the effect on you standing
at his side, but on you more remote. Contrariwise, if he did not make
up, he would seem to you in that audience as unreal, and unnatural.
There is a good lesson in this for the young writer, if I can get it
over.
It is the distinction between crude photographic reality and the art
of reality; it is the proof of the uselessness of writing from life
alone, without the craft of employing materials so that the reader (the
audience of the theatre) sees the picture not only of the actuality of
life, but of the life the author meant that he should see.
Not that the author departs from the rôle of observer and picture
maker. The artist is indeed the mirror of nature. That is his
function--high and chosen.
He has that which is not given to us of colder blood and thought. His
temperature is higher, he sees often what we do not see. Creation is
fever, let us say, but after creation comes craft, and that is as cold
and critical and laborious as creation is hot.
The actor must be master of himself, tiniest muscle of the finger and
act of the mind, to portray the frenzy of emotion. The writer must have
the craft to weave texture in sentence and word, to get clarity and
simplicity, to lay tone on tone of character lineament, all the while
keeping plot a-moving and reader interest unfaltering. No work can be
harder than this--even where talent has been granted, and craftsmanship
acquired.
Personally, I do not believe that the untalented (persons without
creative imagination) should be encouraged to study the mechanics of
fiction technique. The waste is in energy which might win success in
some other field.
Markets may prove to be lower than the ideals of writers, but that
should be the fault of the markets and not of the writers. Nor will
this course of faithfulness to ideals fail in recompense in one form or
another, for this is the law:
_The best art has the best chance of popularity and the only chance of
long life._
Recognition often is delayed, but won in time, generally in due time.
Because, for one thing, it drives through discouragement. If the
talent is not hardy enough to do so, the chances are that it is not
sufficiently virile to deserve the crown.
In general, money gainful success comes to the talented American writer
too soon if not too easily. If one works harder than ever after success
has come, no harm is done. And if one stops working, success passes. So
the situation, after all, contains its own remedy.
You ask me finally, if I have any suggestion as to what writers should
send to a particular magazine. I have noticed for years, that writers
study a magazine with the aim of sending it material of the order of
which it appears to publish most. For convenience, we will call this
a magazine major. I am quite sure the selling method is wrong, and
that magazines should be studied for their minors instead. It stands
to reason that editors will have more difficulty in supplying the
minor balances. Mind, I do not say the lesser, for I am referring to
quantity, not quality.
You see, a general magazine circulation may be likened to a circle,
divided into segments. No one unit of contents will have appeal for
the whole circle. That would be universality, practically impossible
to achieve. But it can be aimed at. Certain basic factors are known.
One kind of material can be depended upon for a larger segment than
another. The smaller segments, however, are no less essential, and
more effort will have to be used to fill them than will be used to
supply the largest segment. Circulation comes from adding interest
to interest--up to the point of harmony. Beyond, of course, lies
confusion, but the problem of how far to go and when to stop is an
editor’s, not a writer’s. It is sufficient for a writer to be able
to know how to take market advantage of an editor’s need of maximum
circulation pull from the smaller as well as the larger segments of the
circle.
EDGAR SISSON.
_McClure’s Magazine._
25 West Forty-fourth Street,
New York City.
METROPOLITAN
In choosing fiction for a popular magazine one must be sure first of
all that the story will appeal to a large audience of readers. It must
have the essential quality of holding the attention. A story which the
Editor has to make an effort to read is not very likely to receive
much attention from any one else. On the other hand, if a story,
through qualities of form, construction, style and the needed element
of suspense, literally carries one along from page to page, it has at
least the first essential quality of a popular magazine story.
Every Editor, of course, will tell you this. We shall not differ a
great deal, either, I imagine, in what we say afterward. Every Editor
likes dramatic suspense, every Editor likes naturalness and humor in
the characters when he can get it.
But when you apply yourself to the practical task of selecting
manuscripts for your own publication you do consciously or
unconsciously evolve a set of rules by which the final verdict of yes
or no is governed. We buy eight or ten short stories a month for the
_Metropolitan_ in addition to an occasional serial. Naturally these
stories are not to be all of one kind. I should say, however, that
there is a sort of category into which we prefer our stories to fall.
It is perhaps somewhat the same with magazine editors as with other
persons such as painters and musicians who manifest their tastes more
directly--we go in for very different degrees of intensity in the
portrayal of a life, and so on. I can think of Editors who pin their
faith, because they like it, to clever, thin, mauvish specimens of
the art of fiction; of others who love the middle register of common
life; and still others who go in for the heights and depths of emotion,
the passionate crises which after all do enter into the lives of
practically all people. There are many ways of interesting the public;
our way in the _Metropolitan_ lies a good deal in the field last
mentioned. We believe in dynamic fiction, we like it so much that we
would rather have a crudely done but expressive story from a new hand
than a manufactured, tepid yarn from the best of practiced writers.
Manufactured stuff in general we abhor, although we do not fail to see
that many of our contemporaries do quite well with it. But stop, there
is a kind of manufactured story which we welcome; detective stories,
night life adventures, the thriller which produces a murder of the
unpopular character and skilful escape of the hero,--we like these in
spite of the fact that the whole thing is a frame. Of this class of
stories it is to be said that they resemble a play in which you take
for granted a good deal of unreality without which the thing could not
take place at all, and lend yourself to the breathless character of the
performance.
We care nothing about happy or unhappy endings. Of course when the only
thing a writer really has to offer you as a reward for reading a lot of
pages is a peculiarly lugubrious finish we decline to be enthusiastic.
But there are many stories which are far better for having sad endings.
And if we think so we are confident that the public, which is also
human, thinks so too. But there is one thing we have strong convictions
about; namely, length. Ten years ago five thousand words was a good
length for a short story. Since that time, unhappily, writers have
become so proficient on the typewriter, that they pour out eight, ten
and twelve thousand words without being able to stop. In most cases
this is utterly unnecessary and spoils the performance for any purpose
except filling space, or encouraging a siesta on the part of the
reader. Conditions of magazine publication have encouraged authors to
write at length instead of compressing and intensifying their work.
We do not hold with this school. For the _Metropolitan_ we want short
stories--the shorter the better, provided everything is put in that
should be. No master of the short story has made a practice of writing
the long, ungainly things which are commonly produced nowadays. Poe
didn’t. Maupassant didn’t. O. Henry and Kipling didn’t. It is not
to the point to argue that all of these men wrote at times lengthy
tales; when they did there was some excuse for it; but their finest
work was always short. When we begin to receive in our office a flood
of manuscripts ranging from two to five thousand words, then we shall
think a new inspiration has come to the great benefit of the whole
writing profession.
In this connection note the work of Booth Tarkington. The best short
stories we have ever published came from his pen and they filled no
more than from fifteen to twenty pages of typewritten paper. There is
a man who builds up a short story piece by piece, every word, every
sentence counts. And this reminds us to say that the William Sylvanus
Baxter stories may not be supposed to fall quite in the circle which we
drew a little way above to mark our special _Metropolitan_ field. But
they do. Intense reality may quite as readily, though by no means so
easily, appear in the form of humor as along lines of emotional stress.
Moreover, the great humanity and genius of Booth Tarkington place him
beyond the need of classification of any sort. He is a great writer in
any style he chooses, and for example of another style of his writing
we refer to “The Magnificent Ambersons,” that pointed and tragic novel
of real life which appeared as a serial in the _Metropolitan_.
If we looked for eight or ten Booth Tarkington’s a month we would
very quickly enter a padded cell, although we may confide that the
Circulation Manager will have no objections if we describe each one of
our writers in terms just as superlative. Let us hasten to say, then,
without raking up a list of famous names, as we might do, that we are
extremely enthusiastic about many, many authors who do not perhaps
sell us more than one story apiece a year. There are exceptions like
Elinor Mordaunt, whose remarkable tale-telling talent, whose romantic
flair for the picturesque and dramatic, whose love of the salt sea and
strange adventures and adventurers, have been deeply appreciated in the
_Metropolitan_ many times in the last few years. But as a rule we do
not harry and pursue one author. We want the fresh and new, the deeply
felt, the sincere, the genuine effort, wherever we can find it. We look
for it continually.
SONYA LEVIEN.
_Metropolitan._
432 Fourth Avenue,
New York City.
THE MODERN PRISCILLA
_The Modern Priscilla_ finds its readers among the highly intelligent
home-abiding women of the country, and in the choice of suitable
fiction for them, stories of dramatic interest having to do with the
affairs of real people are what is most desired.
We do not want sapless stories, but those that are vital, colorful,
interesting, and concerned with the actual problems of to-day.
We plan always to publish two stories a month, not over four thousand
words in length.
THE EDITORS.
_Modern Priscilla._
85 Broad Street,
Boston, Mass.
MUNSEY’S MAGAZINE