scenarios, appreciate the above facts because they know what it means
to perfect a scenario with the synopsis of the story, the properties,
settings, &c., &c.
We merely state these things so you will understand that we are
thoroughly fair in your case and will certainly be so in every
instance.
Ideas, if they are entirely original, would be worth more than ten
dollars, but they are scarcer than hen's teeth at any price.
We find most of the ideas which we receive, and we receive hundreds
of them, are nothing but repetition or old ones in new guises.
Again we will say, if we can get original ideas we will pay their
full value."
Another case of _sic transit_--this time, _sic transit mazuma_.
Here follows a transcript from the Factory's books for the two years
with which this chapter has dealt:
1908:
Dillingham, last royalties on "Tales of Two Towns" $ 1.50
45 nickel novels @ $50 each 2250.
"The Shadow of the Unknown" 200.
"The Shadow of the Unknown," translation rights 40.
"Parker & O'Fallon" 300.
"In the Valley's Shadow" 200.
"The Man Who Left," 300.
"Trail of the Mydus," 350.
"Just A Dollar," 350.
"Frisbie's Folly," 350.
"The Man Called Dare," 300.
"The Streak of Yellow," 200.
7 paper-book rights at $100 each, 700.
--------
Total, $5541.50
1909:
34 issues "Motor Boys" @ $75 each $ 2550.
21 paper-book rights @ $100 each 2100.
9 nickel novels @ $60 each, 540.
"The Stop on the 'Scutcheon," short story 35.
Moving-picture, 10.
"Breaking Even," short story 40.
"Divided by Eight," short story 35.
-------
Total $ 5310.
The following advertisement from an English paper, which is vouched
for, once more illustrates the truth of the statement that fact is
stranger than fiction. The owner of the houses, it may be mentioned,
was ill in bed, far away, and the neighbors evidently did not
question the right of the men to do as they did. The advertisement is
as follows:
LOST.--Three fine cottages have mysteriously disappeared from the
property Nos. 296, 298 and 300 High road, Willesden Green, London.
Please communicate with J. M. Godwin, 71 Bank Street, London, W. C.
* * * * *
O. Henry told a whimsical tale of what he considered unfair competition
in the short story field. He was in the office of a big magazine,
when he witnessed the return to a dejected looking young fellow of a
couple of manuscripts. "I am sorry for that fellow," said the editor.
"He came to New York from New Orleans a year ago, and regularly brings
some stories to our office. We can never use them. He doesn't make a
dollar by his pen, and he is getting shabby and pale." A month or so
later O. Henry saw the same writer in the same office, and the editor
was talking to him earnestly. "You had better go back to New Orleans,"
said that gentleman. "Why?" said the young man. "Some day I may write a
story you may want." "But you can do that just as well in New Orleans,"
said the editor, "and you can save board bills." "Board bills,"
ejaculated the young man. "What do I care about board bills! I have an
income of twenty thousand a year from my father's estate."
FOOTNOTES:
[J] A mistake, the story appeared in =The Blue Book=.
[K] Edwards uses a fictitious name for this correspondent.
[L] Now no more as =The Cavalier=, the former monthly, now a weekly has
"absorbed" =The Scrap Book=.
[M] Mr. Rathborne has recently given up his editorial duties and has
retired to what seems to be the ultimate goal of writers and editors--a
farm. He is somewhere in New Jersey.
XXIII.
THE INJUSTICE
OF IT
The commercial world may hearken sentimentally to that plaintive
ballad, "Silver Threads Among the Gold," as it floats into the Emporium
from a street organ, but the commercial world never allows sentiment
to interfere with business. When a man presents himself and asks for
a job, he is examined for symptoms of decrepitude before his mental
abilities are canvassed. The wise seeker for place, before making
the rounds of the Want Column, will see to it that his hair is of a
youthful color, for there is nothing so damned by the octopus of trade
as hoary locks. A bottle of walnut juice, carefully administered, may
bridge the gap and lead from failure to success.
"New blood!" that's the cry. "Age is too conservative, too partial
to the old and outworn standards, too apt to keep in a rut. Give us
the mop of black hair and the bright, snappy eye! Give us energy and
brilliant daring and a fresh view-point! We'll be taking a few chances,
but what of that? We must follow the fashion."
Some of the publishers have gone to the extreme of the prevailing
mode. The yearling from the football field, if he happens to have been
sporting editor of the college journal, is brought to the sanctum,
shoved into the chair of authority, and given $50 a week and the power
to go ahead and be ruthless. He rarely disappoints his employer.
Whenever he does, his employer is to be congratulated. Usually,
however, he sticks to his schedule. He thinks he is Somebody, and
attempts to prove it by kicking all the old contributors out of the
office and forwarding invitations for manuscripts to every member of
the Class of '10.
There is no writer of experience who has failed to meet this sort
of editor. For years a publishing house may have steadily increased
in power and prestige through the loyalty and labor of the old
contributor, only to give some darling of the campus a desk and the
authority to begin oslerizing faithfulness and ability.
This injustice would be humorous were some of its aspects not so
tragic. The smug publishers themselves may have something to answer
for. They have wrung their ratings in Dun and Bradstreet from the old
contributor, and when they abandon a policy that has brought success
they are steering through troubled waters and into unknown seas.
For anything short of incompetence this casting aside of the old in
order to try out the new is reprehensible. To weather a decade or two
of storm and stress a writer must have been versatile. Versatility
increases with his years, and he is as capable of brilliant daring and
a fresh viewpoint as any youth in the twenties.
Times out of number this has been made manifest. Stories disguised with
a pen-name and a strange typewriter have won welcome and success where
the old name and the old typewriter would have insured rejection. Note
this from one who has been twenty-five years at the game:
"In the near-humorous line I may mention the fact that I once tried
to get the editor of a certain paper to let me furnish him a serial,
but he didn't think I could write it. Soon afterward a friend who had
been contributing serials to that particular paper was asked by the
editor to furnish a serial. As it chanced, the writer happened to be
engaged in other work. So he came to me and wanted to know if I could
not write the desired serial. When I informed him that the editor had
turned my offer down, he then suggested that I write the serial and
let him send it in under his own name. It was a chance to try the
sagacity of that particular editor. I salved my conscience, wrote the
serial, and my typewritten copy was submitted to the editor under
the name of my friend. The serial was accepted, with medals thrown
all over it--my literary friend being informed that it was just the
thing the editor wanted, and that he had hard work to get authors
who could suit his view as to what was available for his particular
publication. My friend got the honor, if there was any, of seeing the
serial run under his name; and I got the money for doing the work."
If an author ever suffers an editor's contempt, what must the editor
suffer on being caught red-handed in such a way as this? It is the
worm's prerogative to turn whenever it finds the opportunity.
Illustrating this point, and several other points with which this
chapter is concerned, the following letter from another writer, who has
been turning out successful manuscripts for upward of twenty years, is
reproduced:
"Dear Bro. Edwards:
You certainly DO put a poser to me. At the present time I have
difficulty in seeing anything that has happened to me in the
twenty-odd years of my following the literary game in anything but
a tragic light. I believe my success, such as it was, was tragic.
At least, it has rivetted my reputation to a certain class of
literature--heaven save the mark!--and makes it almost impossible
for me to sell anything of a better quality. I might tell you of
plenty of cruel things that have been done to me by publishers and
editors when they knew or suspected that I was hard up; and plenty of
silly things done to me by the same folk when they thought I didn't
particularly NEED their money. But funny things----?
It's the point of view makes the thing funny. The child pulling the
wings off a fly to see the insect crawl over the window pane is
amused; but I don't suppose the fly sees the humor of the situation.
I could tell you tales of submitting the same manuscript three times
to an editor whom we both know well, having it shot through with
criticism the first two times and then having it accepted and paid
for at extra rates within two years of the first submission, and
without even a word of the title changed! Is THAT the kind of an
incident you want?
One of the funniest things that ever happened to me was that an
editor of a popular magazine used to say that my stuff resembled
Dickens, and when I wrote half-dime novels the readers used to write
in and say the same. The quality of mind possessed by the scholarly
editor and the street boys who read 'Bowery Billy' must be somewhat
the same--eh?
There was once a magazine that bore as its title the name of a
publisher as famous as any American ever saw, and the editor bought
a story of me at the rate of half a cent a word, and owed me two
years for it. Finally, one time when I was very hard up I went to the
office and hung around until I could see the 'boss' and put it up to
him to pay me. He did. He knocked off 33 1-3 per cent for 'cash.'
Pretty good, eh?
I tell you, Edwards, there's nothing funny in the game that I can
see--not for the so-called literary worker. The gods may laugh when
they see a man with that brand of insanity on him that actually
forces him to write. But I doubt if the writer laughs--not even if
he writes a 'best seller.' For success entails turning out other
successes, and that is hard work. Excuse me! I am going back to the
farm. I will write only when I have to, and only as long as my farm
will not support me. I've got hold of a pretty good place cheap, down
here with the outlook of making a good living on it in time. No more
the Great White Way, with the Dirty Black Alley behind it, in mine!
I am not going to carry my hat in my hand around to editors' offices
and take up collections for long. Besides, most of the editors
blooming now are just out of college and are not dry behind the ears
yet. They think that Johnny Go-bang, who edited the sporting page in
the Podunk University Screamer, knows more about writing fiction than
the old fellows who have been at it a couple of decades. And I reckon
they are right. They are looking for 'fresh' material; some of it is
pretty 'raw' as well as fresh. I fooled an editor the other day by
sending a manuscript on strange paper, written on a new typewriter,
and with an assumed name attached. Sold the story and got a long
letter of encouragement from the editor. Great game--encouraging
'new' writers! About on a par with the scheme some rum sellers have
of washing their sidewalks with the dregs of beer kegs. The spider
and fly game. Now, if I told that editor what an ass he had made of
himself, would he ever buy another manuscript of me again? I fear not!
Perhaps I am pessimistic, Brother Edwards. There's no real fun in
the writing game--not for the writer, at least. Not when he is forty
years old and knows that already he is a 'has-been.' Good luck to
you. Hope your book is a success, and if I really knew just what
you wanted I'd try to whip something into shape for you. For you
very well know that, if other fiction writers give you incidents for
your book, they'll mostly be fiction! That is the devil of it. If a
fiction writer cuts a sliver off his thumb while paring the corned
beef for dinner, he will make out of the story a gory combat between
his hero and a horde of enemies, and give details of the carnage fit
to make his own soul shudder.
I hope to meet up with you again some time. But pretty soon when I go
to New York I'll wear my chin-whiskers long and carry a carpet-bag;
and you bet I'll fight shy of editors' offices."
Another example of injustice to writers which, however, happened to
turn out well for the writer:
"I offered a short serial to a certain newspaper syndicate. Soon
I received a letter saying they could pay me $200 for the serial
rights. Before my letter accepting the offer reached them, I had
another letter from the syndicate withdrawing the offer. The editor
stated pathetically that the proprietor had returned and had asked
him to withdraw it. I then sent the serial to a Chicago newspaper,
which paid me $200 for serial rights--BUT NEVER PUBLISHED THE STORY.
Finally I rewrote the story, had it published as a book by a leading
Eastern publishing house, and it sold well."
Here, again, is injustice of another kind:
"Once a certain Eastern magazine authorized me to go to Santa Fe, New
Mexico, and write a description of a Pueblo dance and of Pueblo life,
and send the manuscript on with photographs for illustration. I did
the work. And I was rewarded by the generous editor with a check for
$20! You can imagine how profitable that particular stunt was, for
I took a week's time and paid my own expenses. But not out of that
twenty. There wasn't enough of it to go 'round."
XXIV.
WHAT SHALL
WE DO
WITH IT?
Edwards wrote only one serial story during 1910, and turned his hand
to that merely to bring up the financial returns and leave a safe
margin for expenses. Nickel novels, a few short stories, a novelette
for _The Blue Book_ and the lengthening of two stories for paper-book
publication comprised the year's work. He "soldiered" a little, but
when a writer "soldiers" he is not necessarily idle. Edwards' thoughts
were busy, and the burden of his reflections was this: Heaven had
endowed him with a small gift of plot and counter-plot, and a little
art for getting it into commercial form; but were his meager talents
producing for him all that they should? Was the purely commercial aim,
although held to with a strong sense of moral responsibility, the
correct aim? After a score of years of hard work did he find himself
progressing in any but a financial direction? Forgetting the past and
facing the future with eyes fixed at a higher angle, how was he to
proceed with his "little gift of words?" What should he do with it?
In the bright summer afternoons Edwards would walk out of his Fiction
Factory and make a survey of it from various points. He was always so
close to his work that he lost the true perspective. He was familiar
with the minutiae, the thousand and one little details that went to
make up the whole, but how did it look in the "all-together," stripped
of sentiment and beheld in its three dimensions?
Paradoxically, the work appeared too commercial in some of its aspects,
and not commercial enough in others. The sordid values were due to the
demand which came to Edwards constantly and unsolicited, and which
it was his unvarying policy always to meet. "All's fish that comes
to the writer's net" was a saying of Edwards' that had cozzened his
judgment. He was giving his best to work whose very nature kept him to
a dead level of mediocrity. And within the last few years he had become
unpleasantly aware that at least one editor believed him incapable of
better things. This was largely Edwards' fault. Orders for material
along the same old lines poured in upon him and he hesitated to break
away from them and try out his literary wings.
Years before he had faced a similar question. The same principal of
breaking away from something that was reasonably sure and regular
for something else not so sure but which glowed with brighter
possibilities, was involved. Vaguely he felt the call. He was
forty-four, and had left behind him twenty-odd years of hard and
conscientious effort. As he was getting on in years so should he be
getting on with some of his dreams, before the light failed and the
Fiction Factory grew dark and all dreaming and doing were at an end.
One evening in Christmas week, 1910, he mentioned his aspirations to a
noted editor with whom he happened to be at dinner. The book that was
to bring fame and fortune, the book Edwards had always been going to
write but had never been able to find the time, was under discussion.
"Write it," advised the noted one, "but not under your own name."
Edwards fell silent. What was there in the work he had done which
made it impossible to put "John Milton Edwards" on the title page of
his most ambitious effort? Were the nickel novels and the popular
paper-backs to rise in judgment against him? He could not think so
then, and he does not think so now.
"Why don't you write up your experiences as an author?" inquired the
editor a few moments later. "You want to be helpful, eh? Well, there's
your chance. Writers would not be the only ones to welcome such a book,
and if you did it fairly well it ought to make a hit."
This suggestion Edwards adopted. Having the courage of convictions
directly opposed to the noted editor's, the other one he will not
accept.
The reflections of 1910 began to bear fruit in 1911. With the beginning
of the present year Edwards gave up the five-cent fiction, not
because--as already stated in a previous chapter--he considered it
debasing to his "art," but because he needed time for the working out
of a few of his dreams.
Presently, as though to confirm him in his determination, two
publishing houses of high standing requested novels to be issued with
their imprint. He accepted both commissions, and at this writing the
work is well advanced. If he fails of material success in either or
both these undertakings, by the standards elsewhere quoted and in which
he thoroughly believes, the higher success that cannot be separated
from faithful effort will yet be his. And it will suffice.
Even in 1910 Edwards had been swayed by his growing convictions. Almost
unconsciously he had begun shaping his work along the line of higher
achievement. During 1911 he has been hewing to the same line, but more
consistently.
Edwards has demonstrated his ability to write moving picture scenarios
that will sell. But is the game worth the candle? Is it pleasant for an
author to see his cherished Western idea worked out with painted white
men for Indians and painted buttes for a background? Of course, there
are photoplays enacted on the Southwestern deserts, with real cowboys
and red men for "supers," but somewhere in most of these performances
a false note is struck. One who knows the West has little trouble in
detecting it.
This, however, is a matter of sentiment, alone. The nebulous ideas most
scenario editors seem to have as to rates of payment, and the usually
long delay in passing upon a "script," are important details of quite
another sort. And, furthermore, it is unjust to throw a creditable
production upon the screen without placing the author's name under the
title. Of right, this advertising belongs to the author and should not
be denied him.
In 1910 a moving picture concern secured a concession for taking
pictures with Buffalo Bill's Wild West and Pawnee Bill's Far East Show,
and Edwards was hired to furnish scenarios at $35 each. He furnished
a good many, and of one of them Major Lillie (Pawnee Bill) wrote from
Butte, Montana, on Sep. 2;
"Friend Edwards:
I saw one of the films run off at a picture house a few days ago
and I think they are the greatest Western scenes that I have ever
witnesed--that is, they are the truest to life. I had a letter from
Mr. C---- yesterday, and he thinks they are fine.
Your friend,
G. W. Lillie."
For a time Edwards thought his faith in the moving picture makers was
about to be justified. But he was mistaken. He received a check for
just $25, which probably escaped from the film men in an unguarded
moment, and no further check, letter or word has since come from the
company. The proprietors of the Show had nothing to do with the picture
people, and regretted, though they could not help the loss Edwards had
suffered.
When the moving picture writers are assured of better prices for their
scenarios, of having them passed upon more promptly and of getting
their names on the films with their pictures, the business will have
been shaken down to a more commendable basis. Possibly the film
manufacturers borrow their ideas of equitable treatment for the writer
from some of the publishing houses.
The "hack" writer, in many editorial offices, is looked down upon with
something like contempt by the august personage who condescends to buy
his "stuff" and to pay him good money for it. Perhaps the "hack" is at
fault and has placed himself in an unfavorable light. Writers are many
and competition is keen. Among these humble ones there are those who
have suffered rebuff after rebuff until the spirit is broken and pride
is killed, and they go cringing to an editor and supplicate him for an
assignment. Or they write him: "For God's sake do not turn down this
story! It is the bread-line for me, if you do."
Did you ever walk through the ante-room of a big publishing house on
the day checks are signed and given out? Men with pinched faces and
ragged clothes sit in the mahogany chairs. They have missed the high
mark in their calling. They had high ambitions once--but ambitions are
always high when hope is young. They are writing now, not because they
love their work but because it is the only work they know, and they
must keep at it or starve (perhaps _and_ starve).
A taxicab flings madly up to the door in front, and a stylishly clad
gentleman floats in at the hall door and across the ante-room to the
girl at the desk. They exchange pleasant greetings and the girl punches
a button that communicates with the private office of the powers that
be.
"Mr. Oswald Hamilton Brezee to see Mr. Skinner."
Delighted mumblings by Mr. Skinner come faintly to the ears of the
lowly ones. The girl turns away from the 'phone.
"Go right in, Mr. Brezee." she says. "Mr. Skinner will see you at once."
Mr. Brezee's "stuff" has caught on. Dozens of magazines are clamoring
for it. Mr. Brezee vanishes and presently reappears, tucking away his
check with the careless manner of one to whom checks are more or less
of a bore. He passes into the hall, and in a moment the "taxi" is heard
bearing him away.
The lowly ones twist in their chairs and bitterness floods their
hearts. Like the author of "Childe Harold," Brezee awoke one morning to
find himself famous. These others, with the dingy Windsor ties and the
long hair and pinched faces never awake to anything but a doubt as to
where the morning meal is to come from.
After hours of waiting in the ante-room, checks are finally produced
and passed around to the lowly ones and they fade away into the haunts
that know them best. Next pay-day they will be back again, if they are
alive and have been given anything to do in the meantime.
Is _this_ game worth the candle? What shall these men do with their
"little gift" but keep it grinding, merciless though the grind may be?
They cannot all be Oswald Hamilton Brezees.
Before a young man throws himself into the ranks of this vast army of
writers, let him ponder the situation well. If, under the iron heel of
adversity, he is sure he can still love his work for the work's sake
and be true to himself, there is one chance in ten that he will make a
fair living, and one chance in a hundred that he may become one of the
generals.
The Factory returns for 1910 and for part of 1911 are given below.
Edwards believes that, in its last analysis, 1911 will offer figures
close to the ten-thousand dollar mark--but it is a guess hedged around
with many contingencies.
1910:
54 nickel novels @ $60 each, $3240.00
Short story for Munsey's, 75.00
Short story for The Blue Book, 40.00
Novelette for The Blue Book, 200.00
Moving picture, Essanay Co, 25.00
Short story for Gunter's, 40.00
Short story for Columbian, 15.00
Paper-book rights, 200.00
Serial story for Scrap Book, 400.00
Moving picture, 25.00
--------
Total $4260.00