The Fiction Factory
By John Milton Edwards
¶ Being the Experience of a
Writer who, for Twenty-two
Years, has kept a Story-mill
Grinding Successfully....
The Editor Company
RIDGEWOOD, NEW JERSEY
COPYRIGHT 1912 BY
THE EDITOR COMPANY.
THE FICTION FACTORY
Contents of Chapters.
PAGE.
I. AUT FICTION, AUT NULLUS 11
II. AS THE TWIG IS BENT 16
III. METHODS THAT MAKE OR MAR 25
IV. GETTING HOOKED UP WITH A BIG HOUSE 31
V. NICKEL THRILLS AND DOLLAR SHOCKERS 38
VI. MAKING GOOD BY HARD WORK 42
VII. INSPIRATION ALIAS INDUSTRY 52
VIII. THE WOLF ON THE SKY LINE 56
IX. RAW MATERIAL 63
X. THE WOLF AT THE DOOR 68
XI. WHEN FICTION IS STRANGER THAN TRUTH 76
XII. FORTUNE BEGINS TO SMILE 80
XIII. OUR FRIEND THE T. W. 88
XIV. FRESH FIELDS AND PASTURES NEW 94
XV. FROM THE FACTORY'S FILES 104
XVI. GROWING PROSPERITY 110
XVII. ETHICS OF THE NICKEL NOVEL 117
XVIII. KEEPING EVERLASTINGLY AT IT 122
XIX. LOVE YOUR WORK FOR THE WORK'S SAKE 129
XX. THE LENGTHENING LIST OF PATRONS 133
XXI. A WRITER'S READING 142
XXII. NEW SOURCES OF PROFIT 146
XXIII. THE INJUSTICE OF IT 158
XXIV. WHAT SHALL WE DO WITH IT 163
XXV. EXTRACTS GRAVE, GAY, WISE AND OTHERWISE 171
XXVI. PATRONS AND PROFITS FOR TWENTY-TWO YEARS 175
THE WRITER
TO THE READER
It was in 1893 that John Milton Edwards (who sets his hand to this book
of experiences and prefers using the third person to overworking the
egotistical pronoun) turned wholly to his pen as a means of livelihood.
In this connection, of course, the word "pen" is figurative. What he
really turned to was his good friend, the Typewriter.
For two years previous to this (to him) momentous event he had
hearkened earnestly to the counsel that "literature is a good stick
but a poor crutch," and had cleaved to a position as paymaster for a
firm of contractors solely because of the pay envelope that insured
food and raiment. Spare hours alone were spent in his Fiction Factory.
In the summer of 1893, however, when his evening and Sunday work
brought returns that dwarfed his salary as paymaster, he had a heart
to heart talk with Mrs. John Milton Edwards, and, as a result, the
paymaster-crutch was dropped by the wayside. This came to pass not
without many fears and anxieties, and later there arrived gray days
when the literary pace became unsteady and John Milton turned wistful
eyes backward in the direction of his discarded crutch. But he never
returned to pick it up.
From then till now John Milton Edwards has worked early and late in his
Factory, and his output has supported himself and wife and enabled him
to bear a number of other financial responsibilities. There have been
fat years and lean--years when plenty invited foolish extravagance
and years when poverty compelled painful sacrifices--yet John Milton
Edwards can truly say that the work has been its own exceeding great
reward.
With never a "best seller" nor a successful play to run up his income,
John Milton has, in a score and two years of work, wrested more than
$100,000 from the tills of the publishers. Short stories, novelettes,
serials, books, a few moving picture scenarios and a little verse have
all contributed to the sum total. Industry was rowelled by necessity,
and when a short story must fill the flour barrel, a poem buy a pair
of shoes or a serial take up a note at the bank, the muse is provided
with an atmosphere at which genius balks. True, Genius has emerged
triumphant from many a Grub street attic, but that was in another
day when conditions were different from what they are now. In these
twentieth century times the writer must give the public what the
publisher thinks the public wants. Although the element of quality is
a _sine qua non_, it seems not to be incompatible with the element of
quantity.
It is hoped that this book will be found of interest to writers, not
alone to those who have arrived but also to those who are on the way.
Writers with name and fame secure may perhaps be entertained, while
writers who are struggling for recognition may discover something
helpful here and there throughout John Milton Edwards' twenty-two years
of literary endeavor. And is it too fair a hope that the reader of
fiction will here find something to his taste? He has an acquaintance
with the finished article, and it may chance that he has the curiosity
to discover how the raw material was taken, beaten into shape and
finally laid before his eyes in his favorite periodical.
John Milton Edwards, in the pages that follow, will spin the slender
thread of a story recounting his successes and failures. Extracts of
correspondence between him and his publishers will be introduced, and
other personal matters will be conjured with, by way of illustrating
the theme and giving the text a helpful value. This slender thread of
narrative will be broken at intervals to permit of sandwiching in a
few chapters not germane to the story but _en rapport_ with the work
which made the story possible. In other words, while life goes forward
within the Factory-walls it will not be amiss to give some attention to
the Factory itself, to its equipment and methods, and to anything of
possible interest that has to do with its output.
And finally, of course John Milton Edwards is not the author's real
name. Shielded by a _nom de plume_, the author's experiences here
chronicled may be of the most intimate nature. In point of fact, they
will be helpful and entertaining in a direct ratio with their sincerity
and frankness.
"A LITTLE GIFT"
A little gift I have of words,
A little talent, Lord, is all,
And yet be mine the faith that girds
An humble heart for duty's call.
Where Genius soars to distant skies,
And plumes herself in proud acclaim,
O Thou, let plodding talent prize
The modest goal, the lesser fame.
Let this suffice, make this my code,
As I go forward day by day,
To cheer one heart upon life's road,
To ease one burden by the way.
I would not scale the mountain-peak,
But I would have the strength of ten
To labor for the poor and weak,
And win my way to hearts of men.
A little gift Thou gavest me,
A little talent, Lord, is all,
Yet humble as my art may be
I hold it waiting for Thy call.
September 20, 1911. John Milton Edwards.
THE FICTION FACTORY
I.
AUT FICTION,
AUT NULLUS.
"Well, my dear," said John Milton Edwards, miserably uncertain and
turning to appeal to his wife, "which shall it be--to write or not to
write?"
"To write," was the answer, promptly and boldly, "to do nothing else
but write."
John Milton wanted her to say that, and yet he did not. Her conviction,
orally expressed, had all the ring of true metal; yet her husband,
reflecting his own inner perplexities, heard a false note suggesting
the base alloy of uncertainty.
"Hadn't we better think it over?" he quibbled.
"You've been thinking it over for two years, John, and this month is
the first time your returns from your writing have ever been more than
your salary at the office. If you can be so successful when you are
obliged to work nights and Sundays--and most of the time with your wits
befogged by office routine--what could you not do if you spent ALL your
time in your Fiction Factory?"
"It may be," ventured John Milton, "that I could do better work,
snatching a few precious moments from those everlasting pay-rolls, than
by giving all my time and attention to my private Factory."
"Is that logical?" inquired Mrs. John Milton.
"I don't know, my dear, whether it's logical or not. We're dealing with
a psychological mystery that has never been broken to harness. Suppose
I have the whole day before me and sit down at my typewriter to write a
story. Well and good. But getting squared away with a fresh sheet over
the platen isn't the whole of it. The Happy Idea must be evolved. What
if the Happy Idea does not come when I am ready for it? Happy Ideas,
you know, have a disagreeable habit of hiding out. There's no hard and
fast rule, that I am aware, for capturing a Happy Idea at just the
moment it may be most in demand. There's lightning in a change of work,
the sort of lightning that clears the air with a tonic of inspiration.
When I'm paymastering the hardest I seem to be almost swamped with
ideas for the story mill. Query: Will the mill grind out as good a
grist if it grinds continuously? If I were sure--"
"It stands to reason," Mrs. Edwards maintained stoutly, "that if you
can make $125 a month running the mill nights and Sundays, you ought
to be able to make a good deal more than that with all the week days
added."
"Provided," John Milton qualified, "my fountain of inspiration will
flow as freely when there is nothing to hinder it as it does now when I
have it turned off for twelve hours out of the twenty-four."
"Why shouldn't it?"
"I don't know, my dear," John Milton admitted, "unless it transpires
that my inspiration isn't strong enough to be drawn on steadily."
"Fudge," exclaimed Mrs. Edwards.
"And then," her husband proceeded, "let us consider another phase
of the question. The demand may fall off. The chances are that it
WILL fall off the moment the gods become aware of the fact that I am
depending on the demand for our bread and butter. Whenever a thing
becomes absolutely essential to you, Fate immediately obliterates every
trail that leads to it, and you go wandering desperately back and
forth, getting more and more discouraged until--"
"Until you drop in your tracks," broke in Mrs. Edwards, "and give up--a
quitter."
"Quitter" is a mean word. There's something about it that jostles you,
and treads on your toes.
"I don't think I'd prove a quitter," said John Milton, "even if I did
get lost in a labyrinth of hard luck. It's the idea of losing you along
with me that hurts."
"I'll risk _that_."
"This is a panic year," John Milton went on, "and money is hard to
get. It is hardly an auspicious time for tearing loose from a regular
pay-day."
John Milton and his wife lived in Chicago, and the firm for which John
Milton worked had managed to keep afloat by having an account in two
banks. When a note fell due at one bank, the firm borrowed from the
other to pay it. Thus, by borrowing from Peter to pay Paul, and from
Paul to pay Peter, the contractors juggled with their credit and kept
it good. Times were hard enough in all truth, yet they were not so hard
in Chicago as in other parts of the country. The World's Columbian
Exposition brought a flood of visitors to the city, and a flood of cash.
"Bother the panic!" jeered Mrs. Edwards. "It won't interfere with your
work. Pleasant fiction is more soothing than hard facts. People will
read all the more just to forget their troubles."
"I'm pretty solid with the firm," said John Milton, veering to another
tack. "I'm getting twelve hundred a year, now, with an extra hundred
for taking care of the Colonel's books."
"Is there any future to it?"
"There is. I can buy stock in the company, identify myself with it
more and more, and in twenty or thirty years, perhaps, move into a
brownstone front on Easy street."
"No, you couldn't!" declared Mrs. Edwards.
"Why not?"
"Why, because your heart wouldn't be in your work. Ever since you were
old enough to know your own mind you have wanted to be a writer. When
you were twelve years old you were publishing a little paper for boys--"
"It was a four-page paper about the size of lady's handkerchief,"
laughed John Milton, "and it lasted for two issues."
"Well," insisted his wife, "you've been writing stories more or less
all your life, and if you are ever a success at anything it will be in
the fiction line. You are now twenty-six years old, and if you make
your mark as an author it's high time you were about it. Don't you
think so? If I'm willing to chance it, John, you surely ought to be."
"All right," was the answer, "it's a 'go.'"
And thus it was that John Milton Edwards reached his momentous
decision. Perhaps you, who read these words, have been wrestling
soulfully with the same question--vacillating between authorship as
a vocation or as an avocation. Edwards made his decision eighteen
years ago. At that time conditions were different; and it is doubtful
whether, had he faced conditions as they are now, he would have decided
to run his Fiction Factory on full time.
"=An eye for an eye.="
A writer whose stories have been used in the Munsey publications,
_Pearson's_ and other magazines, writes:
"How is this as an illustration of timeliness, or the personal
element in writing?--I went in to see Mr. Matthew White, Jr., one
day with a story and he said he couldn't read it because he had a
sore eye. I had an eye for that eye as fiction, so I sat down and
wrote a story in two hours' time about an editor who couldn't read
any stories on account of his bum lamp, whereby he nearly missed the
best story for the year. Mr. White was interested in the story mainly
because he had a sore eye himself and was in full sympathy with the
hero. I took the story down and read it aloud to him, selling it, of
course. The story was called, 'When the Editor's Eye Struck.'"
(Talk about making the most of your opportunities!)
* * * * *
_The Bookman_, somewhere, tells of a lady in the Middle West who
caught the fiction fever and wrote in asking what price was paid for
stories. To the reply that "$10 a thousand was paid for good stories"
she made written response: "Why, it takes me a week to write one
story, and $10 for a thousand weeks' work looks so discouraging that
I guess I'd better try something else."
* * * * *
_Poeta nascitur; non fit._ This has been somewhat freely translated
by one who should know, as "The poet is born; not paid."
II.
AS THE TWIG
IS BENT
Edwards' earliest attempt at fiction was a dramatic effort. The play
was in three acts, was entitled "Roderigo, the Pirate Chief," and was
written at the age of 12. The young playwright was Roderigo, the play
was given in the loft of the Edwards barn, and twenty-five pins was the
price of admission (thirty if the pins were crooked). The neighborhood
suffered a famine in pins for a week after the production of the play.
The juvenile element clamored to have the performance repeated, but the
patrons' parents blocked the move by bribing the company with a silver
dollar. It was cheaper to pay over the dollar than to buy back several
thousand pins at monopoly prices.
In 1881 "Simon Girty; or, The Border Boys of the West" was offered.
The first performance (which was also the last) was given in Ottawa,
Kansas, and the modest fee of admission was 5 cents. The play was very
favorably received and might have had an extended run had not the
mothers of the "border boys" discovered that they were killing Indians
with blank cartridges. Gathering in force, the mothers stormed the barn
and added a realistic climax to the fourth act by spanking Simon Girty
and disarming his trusty "pards."
Shortly after this, the musty records show that Edwards turned from the
drama to narrative fiction, and endeavored successfully to get into
print. The following, copied from an engraved certificate, offers
evidence of his budding aspirations:
Frank Leslie's
BOYS' AND GIRLS' WEEKLY.
Award of Merit.
This is to certify that John Milton Edwards,
Ottawa, Kansas, has been awarded Honorable
Mention for excellence in literary composition.
New York, Oct. 30, 1882. FRANK LESLIE.
This "honorable mention" from the publisher of a paper, which young
Edwards looked forward to from week to week and read and re-read with
fascination and delight, must have inoculated him for all time with
the fiction virus. Forthwith he began publishing a story paper on a
hektograph. Saturday was the day of publication, and the office of
publication was the loft of the Edwards' barn. Even at that early day
the author understood the advantage of holding "leave-offs"[A] in
serial work. He was altogether too successful with his leave-offs, for
his readers, gasping for the rest of the story and unable to wait for
the next issue of the paper, mobbed the office and forced him, with a
threat of dire things, to tell them the rest of the yarn in advance of
publication. After that, of course, publication was unnecessary.
It was a problem with young Edwards, about this time, to secure enough
blank paper for his scribbling needs. Two old ledgers, only partly
filled with accounts fell into his hands, and he used them for his
callow essays at authorship. He has those ledgers now, and derives
considerable amusement in looking through them. They prove that he was
far from being a prodigy, and reflect credit on him for whipping his
slender talents into shape for at least a commercial success in later
life. Consider this:
Scene III.
J. B.--We made a pretty good haul that time, Jim.
B. J.--Yes, I'd like to make a haul like that every night. We must
have got about $50,000.
J. B.--Now we will go and get our boots blacked, then go and get us a
suit of clothes, and then skip to the West Indies.
Here a $50,000 robbery had been committed and the thieves were calmly
discussing getting their boots blacked and replenishing their wardrobe
(one suit of clothes between them seems to have been enough) before
taking to flight. Shades of Sherlock, how easily a boy of 12 makes
business for the police department!
Or consider this gem from Act II. The aforesaid "J. B." and "B. J."
have evidently been "pinched" while getting their boots blacked or
while buying their suit of clothes:
J. B.--We're in the jug at last, Jim, and I'm afraid we'll be
sentenced to be shot.
B. J.--Don't be discouraged, Bill.
Enter Sleek, the detective.
Sleek.--We've got you at last, eh?
J. B.--You'll never get the money, just the same.
Sleek.--We'll shoot you if you don't tell where it is like a dog.
Then here's something else which seems to prove that young Edwards
occasionally fell into rhyme:
Oh, why cut down those forests,
Our forests old and grand?
And oh, why cheat the Indians
Out of all their land?
Enclosed by civilization,
Surrounded they by towns,
Calmly when this life is done
They seek their hunting-grounds!
John Milton Edwards has always had a place in his heart for the red
man, and another for his country's vanishing timber. He is to be
congratulated on his youthful sentiments if not on the way they were
expressed.
In 1882 the Edwards family removed to Chicago. There were but three
in the family--the father, the mother, and John Milton. The boy was
taken from the Ottawa high school and, as soon as they were all
comfortably settled in the "Windy City," John Milton made what he has
since believed to be the mistake of his career. His father offered him
his choice of either a university or a business education. He chose to
spend two years in Bryant & Stratton's Business College. His literary
career would have been vastly helped had he taken the other road and
matriculated at either Harvard or Yale. He had the opportunity and
turned his back on it.
He was writing, more or less, all the time he was a student at Bryant
& Stratton's. The school grounded him in double-entry bookkeeping, in
commercial law, and in shorthand and typewriting.
When he left the business college he found employment with a firm
of subscription book publishers, as stenographer. There came a
disagreement between the two partners of the firm, and the young
stenographer was offered for $1,500 the retiring partner's interest.
The elder Edwards, who would have had to furnish the $1,500, could not
see anything alluring in the sale of books through agents, and the
deal fell through. Two years later, while John Milton was working for
a railroad company as ticket agent at $60 a month, his old friend of
the subscription book business dropped in on him and showed him a sworn
statement prepared for Dun and Bradstreet. _He had cleared $60,000 in
two years!_ Had John Milton bought the retiring partner's interest he
would have been worth half a million before he had turned thirty.
The fiction bee, however, was continually buzzing in John Milton's
brain. He had no desire to succeed at anything except authorship.
Leaving the railroad company, he went to work for a boot and shoe
house as bill clerk, at $12 a week. The death of his father, at this
time, came as a heavy blow to young Edwards; not only that, but it
brought him heavy responsibilities and led him seriously to question
the advisibility of ever making authorship--as he had secretly hoped--a
vocation. His term as bill clerk was a sort of probation, allowing the
young man time, in leisure hours, further to try out his talent for
fiction. He was anxious to determine if he could make it a commercial
success, and so justify himself in looking forward to it as a life work.
The elder Edwards had been a rugged, self-made man with no patience
for anything that was not strictly "business." He measured success by
an honorable standard of dollars and cents. For years previous to his
death he had been accustomed to see his son industriously scribbling,
with not so much as a copper cent realized from all that expenditure of
energy. Naturally out of sympathy with what he conceived to be a waste
of time and effort, Edwards, Sr., did not hesitate to express himself
forcibly. On one occasion he looked into his son's room, saw him
feverishly busy at his desk and exclaimed, irascibly, "Damn the verses!"
Young Edwards' mother, on the other hand, was well educated and widely
read; indeed, in a limited way, she had been a writer herself, and
had contributed in earlier life to _Harper's Magazine_. She could see
that perhaps a pre-natal influence was shaping her son's career, and
understood how he might be working out his apprenticeship. Thus she
became the gentle apologist, excusing the boy's unrewarded labors, on
the one hand, and the father's _cui bono_ ideas, on the other.
_The Chicago Times_, in its Sunday edition, used a story by young
Edwards. It was not paid for but it was published, and the elder
Edwards surreptitiously secured many copies of the paper and sent them
to distant friends. Thus, although he would not admit it, he showed his
pride in his son's small achievement.
From the boot and shoe house young Edwards went back to the railroad
company again; from there, when the railroad company closed its Chicago
office, he went to a firm of wholesalers in coke and sewer-pipe; and,
later, he engaged as paymaster with the firm of contractors. Between
the coke and sewer-pipe and the pay-rolls he wedged in a few days of
reporting for _The Chicago Morning News_; and on a certain Friday, the
last of February, he got married, and was back at his office desk on
the following Monday morning.
The first story for which Edwards received payment was published in
_The Detroit Free Press_, Sept. 19, 1889. The payment was $8.
In April, the same year, the _Free Press_ inaugurated a serial story
contest. Edwards entered two stories, one under a _nom de plume_.
Neither won a prize, but both were bought and published. For the first,
published in 1891, he was paid $75 on Feb. 2, 1890; and for the second,
published a year later, he was paid $100.
With the opening installment of the first serial the _Free Press_
published a photograph of the author over a stickful of biography.
On another page appeared a paragraph in boldface type announcing the
discovery of a new star in the literary heavens.
The spirit of John Milton Edwards swelled within him. He feasted his
eyes on his printed picture (the rapid newspaper presses had made a
smudge of it), he read and re-read his lean biography (lean because not
much had happened to him at that time) and he gloried over the boldface
type with its message regarding the new star (he was to learn later
that many similar stars are born to blush unseen) and he felt himself a
growing power in the world of letters.
Verily, a pat on the back is a thing to conjure with. It is more
ennobling, sometimes, than a kingly tap with a swordpoint accompanied
by the words, "I dub thee knight." To the fine glow of youthful
enthusiasm it opens broad vistas and offers a glimpse of glittering
heights. Even though that hand-pat inspires dreams never to be
realized, who shall say that a little encouragement, bringing out the
best in us, does not result in much good?
And in this place John Milton Edwards would make a request of the
reader of fiction. If you are pleased with a story, kindly look twice
at the author's name so you may recall it pleasantly if it chances
to come again under your eye. If you are a great soul, given to the
scattering of benefactions, you might even go a little farther: At the
expense of a postage stamp and a little time, address a few words of
appreciation to the author in care of his publisher. You wist not, my
beloved, what weight of gold your words may carry!
From the summer of '89 to the summer of '93 Edwards wrote many stories
and sketches for _The Detroit Free Press_, _Puck_, _Truth_, _The
Ladies' World_, _Yankee Blade_, _Frank Leslie's Popular Monthly_,
_Chatter_, _Saturday Night_, and other periodicals. In 1890 he was
receiving $10 a month for contributions to a little Chicago weekly
called _Figaro_; and, during the same year, he found a market which
was to influence profoundly a decade of work and his monetary returns;
James Elverson paid him $75 for a serial to be used in _Saturday Night_.
Undoubtedly it was this serial that pointed Edwards toward the
sensational story papers. A second serial, sold to _Saturday Night_,
Oct. 21, 1891, brought $150; while a third, paid for July 20, 1893,
netted a like amount. These transactions carried the true ring of
commercial success. Apart from myth and fable, there is no more
compelling siren song in history than the chink of silver. Edwards,
burdened with responsibilities, gave ear to it.
The serial story, published in the _Free Press_ in 1891, had made
friends for Edwards. Among these friends was Alfred B. Tozer, editor of
_The Chicago Ledger_. Through Mr. Tozer, Edwards received commissions
for stories covering a period of years. The payment was $1.50 a
thousand words--modest, indeed, but regular and dependable.[B]
From 1889 to 1893 Edwards was laboring hard--all day long at his
clerical duties and then until midnight in his Fiction Factory. The pay
derived from his fiction output was small, (_the Ladies' World_ gave
him $5 for a 5,000-word story published March 18, 1890, and _The Yankee
Blade_ sent him $13 on Jan. 10, 1891, for a story of 8,500 words),
but Edwards was prolific, and often two or three sketches a day came
through his typewriter.
Early in 1893, however, he saw that he was at the parting of the
ways. He could no longer serve two masters, for the office work was
suffering. He realized that he was not giving the contracting firm
that faithful service and undivided energy which they had the right to
expect, and it was up to him to do one line of work and one only.
"=Slips and Tips="
One of Mr. White's authors who had never been in Europe set out to
write a story of a traveller who determined to get along without
tipping. The author described his traveller's horrible plight while
being shown around the Paris Bastille--which historic edifice had
been razed to the ground some two centuries before the story was
written! The author received a tip from Mr. White on his tipping
story, a tip never to do it again.
FOOTNOTES:
[A] "Leave-off"--the place where a serial is broken, and the words "To
be continued in our next" appear. Mr. Matthew White, Jr., Editor of the
=Argosy=, is supposed to have coined the expression. At any rate, Mr.
White has a great deal to do with "leave-offs" and ought to know what
to call them.
[B] In these later times, with other hands than those of Mr. Tozer at
the helm, =The Chicago Ledger= seems to have become the Sargasso Sea of
the popular fictionist--a final refuge for story derelicts. The craft
that grows leaky and water-logged through much straining and wearisome
beating about from port to port, has often and often come to anchor in
the columns of the =Ledger=.
III.
METHODS THAT
MAKE OR MAR.
Edwards has no patience with those writers who think they are of a
finer or different clay from the rest of mankind. Genius, however, may
be forgiven many things, and the artistic temperament may be pardoned
an occasional lapse from the conventional. This is advertising, albeit
of a very indifferent sort, and advertising is a stepping-stone
to success. The fact remains that True Genius does not brand with
eccentricity the intelligence through which it expresses itself. The
time has passed when long hair and a Windsor tie proclaim a man a
favorite of the muses.
Edwards knows a young writer who believes himself a genius and who
has, indeed, met with some wonderful successes, but he spoils an
otherwise fine character by slovenliness of dress and by straining
for a so-called Bohemian effect. Bohemia, of course, is merely a
state of mind; its superficial area is fanciful and contracted; it
is wildly unconventional, not to say immoral; and no right-thinking,
right-feeling artist will drink at its sloppy tables or associate with
its ribald-tongued habitues. The young writer here mentioned has been
doped and shanghaied. As soon as he comes to himself he will escape to
more creditable surroundings.
There is another writer of Edwards' acquaintance who, by profane and
blasphemous utterance, seeks to convince the public that he has the
divine fire. His language, it is true, shows "character," but not of
the sort that he imagines.
A writer, to be successful, must humble himself with the lowly or
walk pridefully with the great. For purposes of study he may be
all things to all men, but let him see to it that he is not warped
in his own self-appraisal. Never, unless he wishes to make himself
ridiculous, should he build a pedestal, climb to its crest and pose.
If he is worthy of a pedestal the public will see that it is properly
constructed.
A writer is neither better nor worse than any other man who happens to
be in trade. He is a manufacturer. After gathering his raw product, he
puts it through the mill of his imagination, retorts from the mass the
personal equation, refines it with a sufficient amount of commonsense
and runs it into bars--of bullion, let us say. If the product is good
it passes at face value and becomes a medium of exchange.
Any merchant or professional man who conducts his business with
industry, taste and skill is the honorable and worthy peer of the man
who writes and writes well. Every clean, conscientious calling has
its artistic side and profits through the application of business
principles.
Nowadays, for a writer to scribble his effusions in pale ink with a
scratchy pen on both sides of a letter-sheet is not to show genius
but ignorance. If he is a good manufacturer he should be proud of his
product; and a good idea is doubly good if carefully clothed.
Edwards counts it a high honor that, in half a dozen editorial offices,
his copy has been called "copperplate." "I always like to see one of
your manuscripts come in," said Mr. White, of _The Argosy_. "Here's
another of Edwards' stories," said Mr. Harriman of _The Red Book_,[C]
"send it to the composing room just as it is." Such a condition of
affairs certainly is worth striving for.
As a rule the young writer does not give this matter of neatness of
manuscript the proper attention. Is he careful to count the letters and
spaces in his story title and figure to place the title in the exact
middle of the page? It is not difficult.
When a line is drawn between title, writer's name and the body of the
story, it is easy to set the carriage pointer on "35" and touch hyphens
until you reach "45." It is easy to number the pages of a manuscript in
red with a bichrome ribbon, and to put the number in the middle of the
sheet. Nor is it very difficult to turn out clean copy--merely a little
more industry with a rubber eraser, or perhaps the re-writing of an
occasional sheet.
After a manuscript is written, the number of words computed, and a
publication selected wherewith to try its fortunes, a record should be
made. Very early in his literary career Edwards devised a scheme for
keeping track of his manuscripts. He had a thousand slips printed and
bound strongly into two books of 500 slips each. Each slip consisted of
a stub for the record and a form letter, with perforations so that they
could easily be torn apart.
Record of Ms., No. ......
Title..........................
Class..........................
No. Words......................
Sent to........Date............
Returned......Condition........
Sent to........Date............
Returned......Condition........
Sent to........Date............
Returned......Condition........
Sent to........Date............
Returned......Condition........
Accepted.......................
Am't paid......Date............
Remarks........................
...............................
411 Blank Street,
Chicago, Ill.,........189..
Editor.............
.................
..................
Dear Sir:
The inclosed Ms., entitled..
...............................
containing about.........words,
and signed.....................
is offered at your usual rates.
If not available please return.
Stamped and addressed envelope
inclosed.
Very truly yours,
John Milton Edwards.
Every manuscript was numbered and the numbers, running consecutively,
were placed in the upper right-hand corners of the stubs. This made
it easy to refer to the particular stub which held the record of a
returned story.
Edwards used this form of record keeping for years. Even after he came
to look upon a form letter with a manuscript as a waste of effort,
he continued to use the stubs. About the year 1900 card indexes came
into vogue, and now a box of cards is sufficient for keeping track of
a thousand manuscripts. It is far and away more convenient than the
"stub" system.
Each story has its card, and each card gives the manuscript's life
history; title, when written, number of words, amount of postage
required for its going and coming through the mail, when and where
sent, when returned, when accepted and when paid for, together with
brief notes regarding the story's vicissitudes or final good fortune.
After a story is sold the card serves as a memorandum, and all these
memoranda, totalled at the end of the year, form an accurate report of
the writer's income.
In submitting his stories Edwards always sends the serials flat,
between neatly-cut covers of tarboard girded with a pair of stout
rubber bands. This makes a handy package and brings the long story to
the editor's attention in a most convenient form for reading.
With double-spacing Edwards' typewriter will place 400 words on the
ordinary 8-1/2 by 11 sheet. Serials of 60,000 words, covering 150
sheets, and even novelettes of half that length, travel more safely and
more comfortably by express. Short stories, running up to 15--or in
rare instances, to 20--pages are folded twice, inclosed in a stamped
and self-addressed No. 9, cloth-lined envelope and this in turn slipped
into a No. 10 cloth-lined envelope. Both these envelopes open at the
end, which does not interfere with the typed superscription.
By always using typewriter paper and envelopes of the same weight,
Edwards knows exactly how much postage a story of so many sheets will
require.
In wrapping his serial stories for transportation by express, Edwards
is equally careful to make them into neat bundles. For 10 cents he can
secure enough light, strong wrapping paper for a dozen packages, and 25
cents will procure a ball of upholsterer's twine that will last a year.
Another helpful wrinkle, and one that makes for neatness, is an address
label printed on gummed paper. Edwards' name and address appear at the
top, following the word "From." Below are blank lines for name and
address of the consignee.
In his twenty-two years of work in the fiction field Edwards has
made certain of this, that there is not a detail in the preparation
or recording or forwarding of a manuscript that can be neglected.
Competition is keen. Big names, without big ideas back of them, are not
so prone to carry weight. It's the _stuff_, itself, that counts; yet a
business-like way of doing things carries a mute appeal to an editor
before even a line of the manuscript has been read. It is a powerful
appeal, and all on the writer's side.
Is it necessary to dwell upon the importance of a carbon copy of
every story offered through the mails, or entrusted to the express
companies? Edwards lost the sale of a $300 serial when an installment
of the story went into a railroad wreck at Shoemaker, Kansas, and,
blurred and illegible, was delivered in New York one week after another
writer had written another installment to take its place. In this
case the carbon copy served only as an aid in collecting $50 from the
express company.
At another time, when The _Woman's Home Companion_ was publishing a
short serial by Edwards, one complete chapter was lost through some
accident in the composing room. Upon receipt of a telegram, Edwards
dug the carbon copy of the missing chapter out of his files, sent it
on to New York, and presently received an extra $5 with the editor's
compliments.
"=My brow shall be garnished with bays.="
AMERICA
Editorial Rooms, Chicago.
Aug. 16, 1889.
Dear Mr. Edwards:--
In regard to the enclosed verse, we would take pleasure in publishing
it, but before doing so we beg to call your attention to the use
of the word "garnish" in the last line of the first verse, and the
second line of the second. The general idea of "garnish" is to
decorate, or embellish. We say that a beefsteak is "garnished" with
mushrooms, and so it would hardly be right to use the word in the
sense of crowning a poet with a wreath of bays.
You will pardon us for calling attention to this, but you know that
the most serious verse can be spoiled by just such a slip, which of
course is made without its character occurring to the mind of the
writer.
Yours respectfully,
Slason Thompson & Co.
FOOTNOTES:
[C] Mr. Harriman is now with =The Ladies' Home Journal=.
IV.
GETTING "HOOKED UP"
WITH A BIG HOUSE.
It was during the winter of 1892-3 that Edwards happened to step into
the editorial office of a Chicago story paper for which he had been
writing. His lucky stars were most auspiciously grouped that morning.
We shall call the editor Amos Jones. That was not his name, but it will
serve.
Edwards found Jones in a very exalted frame of mind. Before him, on his
desk, lay an open letter and a bundle of newspaper clippings. After
greeting Edwards, Jones turned and struck the letter triumphantly with
the flat of his hand.
"This," he exclaimed, "means ten thousand a year to Yours Truly!"
He was getting $50 a week as editor of the story paper, and a sudden
jump from $2,600 to $10,000 a year was sufficiently unsettling to make
his mood excusable. Edwards extended congratulations and was allowed to
read the letter.
It was from a firm of publishers in New York City, rated up in the
hundreds of thousands by the commercial agencies. These publishers, who
are to figure extensively in the pages that follow, will be referred to
as Harte & Perkins. They had sent the clippings to Jones, inclosed in
the letter, and had requested him to use them in writing stories for a
five-cent library.
Jones' enthusiasm communicated itself to Edwards. For four years the
latter had been digging away, in his humble Fiction Factory, and his
literary labors had brought a return averaging $25 a month. This was
excellent for piecing out the office salary, but in the glow of Jones'
exultation Edwards began to dream dreams.
When he left the editor's office Edwards was cogitating deeply. He had
attained a little success in writing and believed that if Jones could
make ten thousand a year grinding out copy for Harte & Perkins he could.
Edwards did not ask Jones to recommend him to Harte & Perkins. Jones
was a good fellow, but writers are notoriously jealous of their
prerogatives. After staking out a claim, the writer-man guards warily
against having it "jumped." Edwards went about introducing himself to
the New York firm in his own way.
At that time he had on hand a fairly well-written, but somewhat
peculiar long story entitled, "The Mystery of Martha." He had tried it
out again and again with various publishers only to have it returned
as "well done but unavailable because of the theme." This story was
submitted to Harte & Perkins. It was returned, in due course, with the
following letter:
New York, March 23, 1893.
Mr. John Milton Edwards,
Chicago, Ills.
Dear Sir:--
We have your favor of March the 19th together with manuscript of
"The Mystery of Martha," which as it is unavailable we return to you
to-day by express as you request.
We are overcrowded with material for our story paper, for which we
presume you submitted this manuscript, and, indeed, we think "The
Mystery of Martha" is more suitable for book publication than in any
other shape.
The only field that is open with us is that of our various five and
ten cent libraries. You are perhaps familiar with these, and if you
have ever done anything in this line of work, we should be pleased
to have you submit the printed copy of same for our examination, and
if we find it suitable we think we could use some of your material in
this line.
Mr. Jones, whom you refer to in your letter, is one of our regular
contributors.
Yours truly,
Harte & Perkins.
Here was the opening! Edwards lost no time in taking advantage of it
and sent the following letter:
Chicago, March 25, '93.
Messrs. Harte & Perkins, Publishers,
New York City.
Gentlemen:--
I have your letter of the 23d inst. In reply would state that I have
done some writing for Beadle & Adams ("_Banner Weekly_") although
I have none of it at hand, at present, to send you. I also am a
contributor to "_Saturday Night_," (James Elverson's paper) and have
sold them a number of serial stories, receiving from them as much as
$150 for 50,000 words. It is probable that material suitable to the
latter periodical would be out of the question with you; still, I can
write the kind of stories you desire, all I ask being the opportunity.
Inclosed please find Chapter I of "Jack o' Diamonds; or, The Cache
in the Coteaux." Perhaps Western stories are bugbears with you (they
are, I know, with most publishers) but there are no Indians in this
one. I should like to go ahead, write this story, submit it, and let
you see what I can do. I am able to turn out work in short order, if
you should desire it, and feel that I can satisfy you. All I wish to
know is how long you want the stories, what price is paid for them
and whether there is any particular kind that you need. I have an
idea that the Thrun case would afford material for a good story. At
least, I think I can write you a good one with that as a foundation.
Please let me hear from you.
Yours very truly,
John Milton Edwards.
To this Edwards received the following reply, under date of March 30:
We have your favor of March 25th together with small installment
of story entitled "Jack o' Diamonds." Our careful reading of the
installment leads us to believe that you write easily, and can
probably do suitable work for our Ten-Cent Library, though the
particular scene described in this installment is one that can be
found in almost any of the old time libraries. It is a chestnut. A
decided back number.
What we require for our libraries is something written up-to-date,
with incidents new and original, with which the daily press is
teeming. I inclose herewith a clipping headed, "Thrun Tells it All,"
which, used without proper names, might suggest a good plot for a
story, and you could work in suitable action and incident to make a
good tale.
If you will submit us such a story we shall be pleased to examine
same, and if found suitable we will have a place for it at once. We
pay for stories in this library $100; they should contain 40,000
words, and when issued appear under our own _nom de plume_.
Installment "Jack o' Diamonds" returned herewith.
Thus it was up to Edwards to go ahead and "make good." Such a climax
has a weird effect on some authors. They put forth all their energy
securing an order to "go ahead" and then, at the critical moment,
experience an attack of stage fright, lose confidence and bolt, leaving
the order unfilled.
Years later, in New York, such a case came under Edwards' observation.
A young woman had besieged a certain editor for two years for a
commission. When the coveted commission arrived, the young woman took
to her bed, so self-conscious that she was under a doctor's care for a
month. The story was never turned in.
Edwards, in his own case, did not intend to put all his eggs in one
basket. He not only set to work writing a ten-cent library story (which
he called "Glim Peters on His Mettle") but he also wrote and forwarded
a five-cent library story entitled, "Fearless Frank." "Fearless
Frank"--galloped home again bearing a request that Edwards make him
over into a detective. On April 15 Edwards received the following:
We have your favor of April 13, and note that the insurance story,
relating to Thrun, is nearly completed, and will be forwarded on
Monday next. I hope you have not made the hero too juvenile, as this
would be a serious fault. The stories in the Ten-Cent Library are not
read by boys alone but usually by young men, and in no case should
the hero be a kid, such as we fear would be your idea of a Chicago
newsboy.
We note that you have considered our suggestions, and also that you
will fix up the "Fearless Frank" manuscript with a view of making it
a detective story.
For your information, therefore, we mail you under separate cover
Nos. 2, 11, 15 and 20 of the Five-Cent Library, which will give you
an idea of the character of this detective. We hope you will give us
what we want in both these stories.
On April 25 Edwards received a long letter that delighted him. He was
"making good."
I have carefully read your story, "Glim Peters on His Mettle," and,
as I feared, find the same entirely too juvenile for the Ten-Cent
Library, though quite suitable for the Five-Cent Library, had it not
been double the length required. I first considered the question of
asking you to make two stories of it for this library, but finally
decided that this would be somewhat difficult and unnecessary, as we
shall find a place for it later in the columns of our _Boy's Story
Paper_, to be issued under _nom de plume_, and will pay you $75 for
same.
The chief point of merit in the story is the excellent and taking
dialogue between Glim Peters, his chum and the detectives. This boy
is a strong character, well delineated and natural. The incident
covered by clairvoyant visits, the scene at the World's Fair and the
Chinese joint experience were all excellent; but the ghost in the old
Willett house, and indeed the whole plot, is poor. Judging from this
story and the previous one submitted, the plot is your weak point. In
future stories make no special effort to produce an unusual plot, but
stick closer to the action and incident, taken as much as possible
from newspapers, which are teeming with material of this character.
We shall now expect to receive from you at an early date, the
detective story, and to follow this we will forward you material,
in a few days, for a Ten-Cent Library story. We forward you to-day,
under separate cover, several numbers to give you an idea of the
class of story that is suitable for the Ten-Cent Library. Such scenes
in your last story as where Glim Peters succeeded in buying a
mustang and defeated the deacon in so doing, are just the thing for
the Ten-Cent Library; the same can also be said of the scene in which
Meg, the girl in the bar, stands off the detectives in a vain attempt
to save the villains. That is the sort of thing, and we feel that you
will be able to do it when you know what we want.
I forward you, also, a copy of Ten-Cent Library No. 185, which I
would like you to read, and let me know whether you could write us a
number of stories for this particular series, with the same hero and
the same class of incidents. If so, about how long would it take you
to write 40,000 words? It is possible I may be able to start you on
this series, of which we have already issued a number.
About May 1 Edwards sent the first detective story. On May 10 he
received a letter, of which the following is an extract: