personal views as he could not secure them through correspondence,
and keep himself prominently before them. In this way he secured
commissions which, undoubtedly, would otherwise have been placed
elsewhere. With each succeeding journey Edwards has made to New York,
his prospecting trips have profited him more and more. This is as
it should be. There is no "marking time" for a writer in the fierce
competition for editorial favor; for one merely to "hold his own" is
equivalent to losing ground. The writer must _grow_ in his work. When
he ceases to do that he will find himself slipping steadily backward
toward oblivion.
Edwards found that in reaching New York in early April 1898, he
had arrived at the psychological moment. Harte & Perkins, already
described as keeping tense fingers on the pulse of their reading
public, had discovered a feverish quickening of interest for which
the Klondike gold rush was responsible. The prognosis was good for a
new five-cent library; so the "Golden Star Library" was given to the
presses. Edwards, because he was on the spot and urging his claims for
recognition, was chosen to furnish the copy. During the year he wrote
sixteen of these stories.
For half of April and all of May and June, Edwards and his wife were
at their old boarding place in Forty-fourth street. During this time,
along with the writing of the Golden Star stories, a juvenile serial
and a Stella Edwards serial were prepared. The title of the Stella
Edwards rhapsody was "A Blighted Heart."
On July 2, owing to the excessive heat in the city and a belief on
Edwards' part that the country would benefit him, the Fiction Factory
was temporarily removed to the Catskill Mountains. Comfortable quarters
were secured in a hotel near Cairo, and the work of producing copy went
faithfully on. Edwards' health improved somewhat, although he was
still unable to keep at his machine for a union day of eight hours.
Under date of Aug. 1, Harte & Perkins wrote Edwards that on account of
the poor success of the Golden Star Library they would have to stop its
weekly publication and issue it as a monthly. Mr. Perkins write:
"I do not think that the quality of the manuscript is so much at
fault as the character of the library itself, though it is very
difficult always to know just what the boys want."
Edwards was depending upon this library to support himself and
wife, and the weekly check was a _sine qua non_. Summer-resorting
is expensive, and he had not yet had his fill of the historic old
Catskills. He wrote the firm and requested them to send on a check for
"A Blighted Heart." The blight did not confine itself to the story
but was visited upon Edwards' hopes, as well. Harte & Perkins did not
respond favorably. The serial was not to begin in "_The Weekly Guest_"
until the latter part of September, and upon beginning publication was
to be paid for in weekly installments of $25. Wrote Mr. Perkins:
"This is a season when, with depressed business and the many accounts
we have to look after, it is difficult for us to make advanced
payments on manuscripts. You may rest assured that, if conditions
were otherwise, I should have been glad to meet your wishes."
This meant an immediate farewell to the stamping grounds of good old
Rip Van Winkle. Forthwith the Edwards struck their tent and boarded
a night boat at Catskill Landing for down river. In their stateroom
that night, with a fountain pen and using the wash-stand for a table,
Edwards completed No. 16 of the ill-fated Golden Star Library. He had
begun this manuscript before the notification to stop work on the
series had reached him. In such cases, Harte & Perkins never refused
to accept the complete story.
December found Edwards again settled on the North Side, in Chicago. He
had consulted a physician regarding his health, and after a thorough
examination had been told that it would require at least a year, and
perhaps a year and a half, to cure him. The physician was a young man
of splendid ability, and as he had just "put out his shingle" and
patients were slow in rallying "round the standard," he threw himself
heart and soul into the task of making a whole man out of Edwards. The
writer helped by leasing a flat within half a block of his medical
adviser and faced the twelve or eighteen months to come with more or
less equanimity.
Edwards, of course, could not recline at his ease while the work of
rehabilitation was going forward. The family must be supported and the
doctor paid. Forty dollars a month from the Golden Star Library would
not do this. It was necessary to run up the returns somehow and another
Stella Edwards story was undertaken. The title of this story was "Won
by Love," and Harte & Perkins acknowledged receipt of the first two
installments on Dec. 6. Inasmuch as "Won by Love" came very near being
the death of its author, it may be interesting to consider the story a
little further. The letter of the 6th ran:
"We have received the first two installments of 'Won by Love' and
like them very much indeed, but before giving you a definite answer
we would like to have four more instalments on approval, making six
in all. Kindly send these at your earliest convenience and oblige."
The four installments were sent and nothing more was heard from them
until a telegram, dated Jan. 19, 1899, was received:
"Please send more of 'Won by Love' as soon as possible. Must have it
Monday."
Owing to the fact that the writer of the old Five-Cent Library, for
which Edwards had furnished copy some years before, had been taken
seriously ill, this work had been turned over to Edwards on Dec. 27,
1898.
At this time Edwards was confined to his bed, and there he worked, his
typewriter in front of him on an improvised table. He had just finished
several hours' work on a library story when the telegram regarding "Won
by Love" was received. This was Saturday. Edwards wired at once that he
would send two more installments on the following Monday. These 12,000
words went forward according to schedule, and on the night they were
sent the doctor called and found his patient in a state of collapse.
Cause, too much "Won by Love." The young physician took it more to
heart than Edwards did.
"I'm afraid," said he gloomily, "that you have ended your writing for
all time."
"You're wrong, doctor," declared Edwards; "I'm not going to be removed
until I've done something better than pot-boilers."
"I want to call a specialist into consultation," was the reply.
The specialist was called and Edwards was stripped and his body marked
off into sections--mapped out with one medical eye on the "undiscovered
country" and the other on this lowly but altogether lovely "vale
of tears." When the examination was finished, the preponderance of
testimony was all in favor of the Promised Land.
"I should say, Mr. Edwards," said the specialist, in a tone
professionally sympathetic, "that you have one chance in three to get
well. Your other chance is for possibly seven or eight years of life.
The third chance allows you barely time to settle your affairs."
Settle his affairs! What affairs had Edwards to settle? There was the
next library to be written and "Won by Love" to finish, but these would
have netted Mrs. Edwards no more than $340. And the smallest chance
would not suffer Edwards to leave his wife even this pittance. Since
his disastrous Arizona experience Edwards had not been able to save any
money. He was only just beginning to look ahead to a little garnering
when the doctors pronounced their verdict. He had not a dollar of
property, real or personal, if his library was not taken into account,
and not a cent of life insurance. After turning this deplorable
situation over in his mind, he decided that it was impossible for him
to die.
"I'm going to take the first chance," said he, "and make the most of
it."
He did. The young physician gave up more of his time and worked like
a galley slave to see his patient through. Now, thirteen years after
the specialist spoke the last word, Edwards is in robust health--the
monument of his own determination and the young doctor's skill. Nothing
succeeds--sometimes--like the logic of _nil desperandum_.
To regain a foothold with his publishers, following the disastrous
year of 1897, had cost Edwards so much persistent work that he would
not cancel a single order. He hired a stenographer and for two weeks
dictated his stories, then again resumed the writing of them himself,
in bed and with the use of the improvised table. Success awaited all
his fiction, even when turned out in such adverse circumstances.
This, perhaps, was the best tonic he could have. He improved slowly
but surely and was able, in addition to his regular work, to write a
hundred-thousand word novel embracing his Arizona experiences. This
novel he called "He Was a Stranger."
The title was awkward, but it had been clipped from the quotation,
"he was a stranger, and they took him in." The story was submitted to
Harte & Perkins, but they were not in the mood for taking in strangers
of that sort. But the year following the novel secured the friendly
consideration of Mr. Matthew White, Jr., and introduced Edwards into
the Munsey publications.
Another novel, "The Man from Dakota," was returned by Harte & Perkins
after they had had it on hand for a year. It was declined in the face
of a favorable report by one of their readers because, "We have so many
books on hand that must be brought out during the next year that we
cannot consider this story."
The year 1899 closed with Fortune's smile brightening delightfully for
Edwards, and the new century beckoning him pleasantly onward with the
hope of better things to come. The returns for the two years, standing
to the credit of The Fiction Factory, are summarized thus:
1898:
"Lovers En Masque," $ 300.
"Golden Star Library," 16 at $40 each, 640.
Boys Serial, 100.
"A Blighted Heart," 300.
--------
Total $1340.
1899:
"Won by Love," $ 300.
3 "Golden Stars" at $40 each, 120.
35 Five-Cent Libraries at $40 each, 1400.
--------
Total $1820.
Edwards lives in the outskirts of a small town, on a road much
travelled by farmers. Two honest tillers of the soil were passing
his home, one day, and one of them was heard to remark to the other:
"A man by the name of Edwards lives there, Jake. He's one of those
fictitious writers."
* * * * *
Edwards has few friends whom he prizes more highly than he does Col.
W. F. Cody, "Buffalo Bill," and Major Gordon W. Lillie, "Pawnee
Bill." While the Wild West and Far East Show, of which Cody and
Lillie are the proprietors was making its farewell tour with the Last
of the Scouts, Major Lillie had this to tell about Colonel Cody:
"You'd be surprised at the number of people who try to beat their
way into the show by stringing the Colonel. The favorite way is by
claiming acquaintance with him. A stranger will approach Buffalo Bill
with a bland smile and an outstretched hand. 'Hello, Colonel!' he'll
say, 'guess who I am! I'll bet you can't guess who I am!' Cody will
give it up. 'Why,' bubbles the stranger, 'don't you remember when you
were in Ogden, Utah, in nineteen-two? Remember the crowd at the depot
to see you get off the train? Why, I was the man in the white hat!'"
"Just this afternoon," laughed the Major, "Cody came up to where I
was standing. He was wiping the sweat from his forehead and his face
was red and full of disgust. 'What's the matter?' I inquired. 'Oh,'
he answered, 'another one of those d-- guessing contests! Why in
blazes can't people think up something new?'"
XIII.
OUR FRIEND,
THE T. W.
In some localities of this progressive country the pen may still be
mightier than the sword; but if, afar from railroad and telegraph,
holed away in barbaric seclusion, there really exists a community that
writes with a quill and uses elderberry ink and a sandbox, it is safe
to say that this community has never been heard of--and the cause is
not far to seek. Just possibly, however, it is from such a backwoods
township that the busy editor receives those rare manuscripts whose
chirography covers both sides of the sheet. In this case the pen is
really mightier than the sword as an instrument for cutting the ground
out from under the feet of aspiring genius. Just possibly, too, it was
from such a place that a typewritten letter was returned to the sender
with the indignant scrawl: "You needn't bother to print my letters--I
can read writin'."
Nowadays penwork is confined largely to signing letters and other
documents and indorsing checks; to use it for anything else should be
named a misdemeanor in the statutes with a sliding scale of punishments
to fit the gravity of the offense.
It is not to be inferred, of course, that a man will dictate his love
letters to a stenographer. Here, indeed, "two's company and three's a
crowd." Every man should master the T. W., and when he confides his
tender sentiments to paper for the eyes of the One Girl, his own
fingers should manipulate the keys and the T. W., should be equipped
with a tri-chrome ribbon--red and black record and purple copying.
Black will answer for the more subdued expressions, red should be
switched on for the warmer terms of endearment, and purple should be
used for whatever might be construed as evidence in a court of law.
Even _billets-doux_ have been known to develop a commercial value.
When a serviceable typewriter may be bought for $25 what excuse has
anyone for side-stepping the inventive ingenuity of the day which makes
for clearness and speed? How much does Progress owe the typewriter? Who
can measure the debt? How much does civilization owe the telephone,
the night-letter, the fast mail and two-cent postage? Even more than
to these does Progress owe to that mechanism of springs, keys and
type-bars which makes plain and rapid the written thought.
In the Edwards Fiction Factory the T. W., comprises the entire "plant."
The "hands" employed for the skilled labor are his own, and fairly
proficient. His own, too, is the administrative ability, modest enough
in all truth yet able to guide the Factory's destiny with a fair meed
of success.
Since the T. W., is so important, Edwards believes in always keeping
abreast of improvements. The best is none too good. A typed script, no
less than a stereotyped idea, is damned by mediocrity. If a typewriter
appears this year which is a distinct advance over last year's machine,
Edwards has it. Keeping up-to-date is usually a little expensive, but
it pays.
In the early days of his writing Edwards used the old Caligraph. It was
a small machine and confined itself to capital letters. Whenever he
wished to indicate the proper place for a capital he did it thus: HIS
NAME WAS CAESAR, AND HE LIVED IN ROME. If he lost a letter--and letters
in those days were not easily replaced--he allowed the unknown quantity
"X" to piece out: HIX NAME WAX CAEXAR--. In due time he came to realize
the importance of neatness and traded his first Caligraph for a later
model equipped with letters from both "cases." During twenty-two years
he has purchased at least twenty-five typewriters, each the last word
in typewriter construction at the time it was bought. At present he has
two machines, one a "shift-key" and the other with every letter and
character separately represented on the key-board.
There are many makes of typewriters, and operators are of many minds
regarding the "best" makes. Edwards has favored the full key-board as
being less of a drain upon the attention than the "shift-key" machine.
For the writer who composes upon his machine the operating must become
a habit, otherwise an elusive idea may take wings for good while the
one who evolved it is searching out the letters necessary to nail it
hard and fast to the white sheet. Edwards has recently discovered that
he can change from his full key-board to a shift-key and back again
without materially interrupting his flow of ideas.
The characters of the key-board used for ordinary business purposes
and those in demand by the writer are somewhat different. Not always,
on the key-board designed for commercial use, will the exclamation
point be found. This, if wanted, must be built up out of a period and
a half-ditto mark,--"." plus "'" equals "!" Such makeshifts should be
tabooed by the careful writer. Whatever is worth doing at all is worth
doing well, and _once_. Three motions, two at the key-board and one at
the back-spacer, are two too many. By all means have the real thing in
exclamation points--!
Another makeshift with which Edwards has little patience is the
custom of using ditto marks for quotation marks, and semi-dittos for
semi-quotes. These, and other characters, may be added to most machines
by eliminating the fractions, the oblique mark or the per cent. sign.
It seems poor policy, also, to use a hyphen, or two hyphens, to
indicate a dash. Why not have the underscore raised to the position of
a hyphen and so have a dash that _is_ a dash?
The asterisk, "*," is a character valuable for indicating footnotes,
and the caret is often useful in making typewritten interlineations.
All these characters Edwards has on his full key-board machine. On the
shift-key machine he must still struggle with the built-up exclamation
point, the ditto quotes and the hyphen dash. No wonder he prefers a
Smith Premier!
Even the best and most up-to-date typewriter cannot answer all the
demands made upon it by writers, however. Some day the growing army of
authors will receive due attention in this matter, and the manuscript
submitted to editors will compare favorably with the printed story.
In "Habits that Help," a very instructive article by Walter D. Scott,
professor of psychology at Northwestern University, published in
_Everybody's Magazine_ for September, 1911, appears this paragraph:
"Some time ago I could pick out the letters on a typewriter at a rate
of about one per second. Writing is now becoming reduced to a habit,
and I can write perhaps three letters a second. When the act has been
reduced to the pure habit form, I shall be writing at the rate of not
less than five letters per second."
The "pure habit form" is one for those who compose on the typewriter
to acquire. It not only means ease of composition, but speed in the
performance and perfect legibility.
Until a few years ago, Edwards always carried his typewriter with him
on his travels. The machine was large and heavy and had to be handled
with care, so its transportation was no easy matter. In course of time,
and pending the invention of a practical typewriter to fit the pocket,
he became content to leave his machine at home and rent one wherever he
happened to be.
During one of his eastern "prospecting" trips, Edwards and his wife
left New York for a few summer weeks in the Berkshire Hills. The T. W.,
remained temporarily in the city to be overhauled and forwarded. For
a fortnight Edwards slaved with a pen, _writing four manuscripts of
25,000 words each_. He appreciated then, as he had never done before,
the value of the typewriter in his work. Late in the first week he
began writing and telegraphing for his machine to be sent on.
About the hotel it was known that Edwards expected a typewriter by
every stage from Great Barrington. He had fretted about the non-arrival
of the typewriter, and in some manner had let fall the information
that his typewriter weighed sixty pounds. Speculation was rife as
to whether the T. W., had blue eyes or gray, and as to what manner
of dwarf or living skeleton could fulfill the requirements at sixty
pounds. When the machine finally arrived and the square packing case
was unloaded, a host of curious ladies received the surprise of their
lives.
"Typewriter," commonly used as a generic name for the machine that
prints, as well as for the person who operates it, should have its
double meaning curtailed. The young lady of pleasing face and amiable
deportment, whose deft fingers hover over the keys of a senseless
machine, is entitled to something more appropriate in the way of a
professional title.
Let it be "typist," after the English fashion; and instead of saying
"the typist typewrote the letter," why not say she "typed" it?
An editor once returned a manuscript with a note like this:
Dear Sir:--Put it into narrative form.
Yours truly, "The Editor."
I did so. A week later came this:
"Dear Sir:--A little mystery would help. We like your style very
much. Yours truly, "The Editor."
I put in the mystery. A week later,--
"Dear Sir:--You send us good verse. Why not turn the marked
paragraphs into verse, with strong influence on story? Well
written. "Yours truly, etc."
It was a good idea. The verse was acceptable. It was so acceptable
that the editor sent back the story and a check for $5 in payment for
the verse--which was all he kept!
XIV
FRESH FIELDS
AND PASTURES NEW
So far in his writing career Harte & Perkins had been the heaviest
purchasers of Edwards' fiction. They had given him about all he could
do of a certain class of work, and he had not tried to find other
markets for the Factory's product. Pinning his hopes to one firm,
even though it was the best firm in the business, was unsatisfactory
in many respects. For various reasons, any one of which is good and
sufficient, a writer should have more than one "string to his bow."
Harte & Perkins, jealously watching the tastes of their reading public,
were compelled to make many and sudden changes in the material they put
out. This directly affected the writers of the material, and Edwards
was often left with no prospects at all, and perhaps at just the time
when he flattered himself that his prospects were brightest.
In preceding chapters mention has been made of two serial stories in
which Edwards had vainly endeavored to interest Harte & Perkins. One of
these was "The Man from Dakota," and the other, "He Was A Stranger."
These, and another entitled "A Tale of Two Towns," written late in
1900, were ultimately to open new markets.
In a diary for the year 1900, Edwards has this under date of Tuesday,
Jan. 2:
"Mr. Paisley called to see me this morning on a business matter.
It appears that the proprietor of _The Western World_ had ordered
a serial from Opie Read and was not satisfied with it.[G] As _The
Western World_ goes to press in a few days they must have another
story at once. Later in the day I talked with Mr. Underwood the (as
I suppose) proprietor, and he asked me to get 'The Man from Dakota'
from Mr. Kerr, of _The Chicago Ledger_. I did so and took the
manuscript over to Mr. Paisley. If it is acceptable they are to pay
me $200 for it."
Mr. Paisley was a gentleman with whom Mrs. Edwards had become
acquainted while attending Frank Holme's School for Illustration, in
Chicago. He was a man of much ability.
Under Thursday, Jan. 4, the diary has a memorandum to this effect:
"Mr. Paisley came out to see me at noon. They like 'The Man from
Dakota' and will pay me $200 for it, divided into three payments of
$50, $50 and $100."
So, finally, "The Man from Dakota" got into print. While it was still
appearing in _The Western World_; Mr. Underwood conceived the idea of
booming the circulation of his paper by publishing a mystery story--one
of those stories in which the mystery is not revealed until the last
chapter, and for the solution of which prizes are offered. He asked
Edwards if he would write such a story. Why should Edwards write one
when he already had on hand the mystery story unsuccessfully entered in
the old _Chicago Daily News_ contest? He offered this to Mr. Underwood.
He read it and liked it. Mr. Paisley read it and liked it. What was the
very lowest figure Edwards would take for it?
Mr. Underwood, in getting around to this point, told how he had sent
for Stanley Waterloo and asked him to write the mystery story. "What
will you pay?" inquired Mr. Waterloo. "I'll give you $100," said Mr.
Underwood. Whereupon Mr. Waterloo arose in awful majesty and strode
from the office. He did not even linger to say good-by.
"Now," said Mr. Underwood to Edwards, with a genial smile, "don't you
do that if I offer you seventy-five dollars for 'What Happened to the
Colonel.'"
"Cash?" asked Edwards.
"On the nail."
"Give me the money," said Edwards; "I need it."
Now that the diary has been quoted with a reference to Opie Read,
perhaps another reference to the same genial and talented gentleman may
be pardoned:
Jan. 19, 1900.--"Opie Read made his 'first appearance in vaudeville'
this week, and Gertie (Mrs. Edwards) and I went to the Chicago Opera
House this afternoon to hear him. He was very good, but I would
rather read one of his stories than hear him tell it."