THE NOVEL _v._ THE SHORT STORY
Practise the Short Story
The beginner in fiction often asks: Is it not best to prepare for
novel-writing by writing short stories? The question is much to the
point, and merits a careful answer.
First of all, what is the difference between a novel and a short story?
The difference lies in the point of view. The short story generally
deals with one event in one particular life; the novel deals with many
events in several lives, where both characters and action are dominated
by one progressive purpose. To put it another way: the short story is
like a miniature in painting, whilst the novel demands a much larger
canvas. A suggestive paragraph from a review sets forth clearly the
difference referred to: "The smaller your object of artistry, the nicer
should be your touch, the more careful your attention to minutiae. That,
surely, would seem an axiom. You don't paint a miniature in the broad
strokes that answer for a drop curtain, nor does the weaver of a
pocket-handkerchief give to that fabric the texture of a carpet. But the
usual writer of fiction, when it occurs to him to utilise one of his
second best ideas in the manufacture of a short story, will commonly
bring to his undertaking exactly the same slap-dash methods which he has
found to serve in the construction of his novels. . . . Where he should
have brought a finer method, he has brought a coarser; where he should
have worked goldsmithwise, with tiny chisel, finishing exquisitely, he
has worked blacksmithwise, with sledge hammer and anvil; where, because
the thing is little, every detail counts, he has been slovenly in
detail."[155:A]
It has been said that the novel deals with life from the inside, and
short stories with life from the outside; but this is not so. Guy de
Maupassant's "The Necklace" opens out to us a state of soul just as much
as "Tess" does, even though it may be but a glimpse as compared with the
prolonged exhibition of Mr Hardy's "pure woman."
Returning to the question previously referred to, one may well hesitate
to advise a novice to commence writing short stories which demand such
infinite care in conception and execution. The tendency of young writers
is to verbosity--longwindedness in dialogues, in descriptions, and in
delineations of character,--whereas the chief excellence of the story is
the extent and depth of its suggestions as compared with its brevity in
words. Should not a man perfect himself in the less minute and less
delicate methods of the novel before he attempts the finer art of the
short story?
There is a sound of good logic about all this, but it is not conclusive.
Some men have a natural predilection for the larger canvas and some for
the smaller, so that the final decision cannot be forced upon anyone on
purely abstract grounds; we must first know a writer's native capacity
before advising him what to do. If you feel that literary art on a
minute scale is your _forte_, then follow it enthusiastically, and work
hard; if otherwise, act accordingly.
But, after all, there are certain abstract considerations which lead me
to say that the short story should be practised before the novel. Take
the very material fact of _size_. Have those who object to this
recommendation ever thought of what practising novel-writing means? How
long does it take to make a couple of experiments of 80,000 words each?
A good deal, no doubt, depends on the man himself, but a quick writer
would not do much to satisfy others at the rate of 160,000 words in
twelve months. No, time is too precious for practising works of such
length as these, and since the general principles of fiction apply to
both novel and short story alike, the student cannot do better than
practise his art in the briefer form. Moreover, if he is wise, he will
seek the advice of experts, and (a further base consideration) it will
be cheaper to have 4000 words criticised than a MS. containing 80,000.
Further, the foundation principles of the art of fiction cannot be
learned more effectively, even for the purpose of writing novels, than
in practising short stories. All the points brought forward in the
preceding pages relating to plot, dialogue, proportion, climax, and so
forth, are elements of the latter as well as of the former. If, as has
been said, "windiness" is the chief fault of the beginner, where can he
learn to correct that error more quickly? The art of knowing what to
leave out is important to a novelist; it is more important to the short
story writer; hence, if it be studied on the smaller canvas, it will be
of excellent service when attempting the larger. "The attention to
detail, the obliteration of the unessential, the concentration in
expression, which the form of the short story demands, tends to a
beneficent influence on the style of fiction. No one doubts that many of
the great novelists of the past are somewhat tedious and prolix. The
style of Richardson, Scott, Dumas, Balzac, and Dickens, when they are
not at their strongest and highest, is often slipshod and slovenly; and
such carelessly-worded passages as are everywhere in their works will
scarcely be found in the novels of the future. The writers of short
stories have made clear that the highest literary art knows neither
synonyms, episodes, nor parentheses."[159:A]
Short Story Writers on their Art
I cannot pretend to give more than a few hints as to the best way of
following out the advice laid down in the foregoing paragraphs, and
prefer to let some writers speak for themselves. Of course, it does not
follow that Mr Wedmore can instruct a novice in literary art, simply
because he can write exquisite short stories himself; indeed, it often
happens that such men do not really know how they produce their work;
but Mr Wedmore's article on _The Short Story_ in his volume called
"Books and Arts" is most profitable reading.
Some time ago a symposium appeared in a popular journal,[160:A] on the
subject _How to Write a Short Story_. Mr Robert Barr could be no other
than pithy in his recipe. He says: "It seems to me that a short story
writer should act, metaphorically, like this--he should put his idea for
a story into one cup of a pair of balances, then into the other he
should deal out words--five hundred, a thousand, two thousand, three
thousand, as the case may be--and when the number of words thus paid in
causes the beam to rise on which his idea hangs, then his story is
finished. If he puts a word more or less he is doing false work. . . .
My model is Euclid, whose justly celebrated book of short stories
entitled 'The Elements of Geometry' will live when most of us who are
scribbling to-day are forgotten. Euclid lays down his plot, sets
instantly to work at its development, letting no incident creep in that
does not bear relation to the climax, using no unnecessary word, always
keeping his one end in view, and the moment he reaches the culmination
he stops." Mr Walter Raymond is apologetic. He fences a good deal, and
pleads that the mention of "short story" is dangerous to his mental
sequence, so much and so painfully has he tried to solve the problem of
how one is written. Finally, however, he delivers himself of these
pregnant sentences: "Show us the psychological moment; give us a sniff
of the earth below; a glimpse of the sky above; and you will have
produced a fine story. It need not exceed two thousand words."
The author of "Tales of Mean Streets" says: "The command of form is the
first thing to be cultivated. Let the pupil take a story by a writer
distinguished by the perfection of his workmanship--none could be better
than Guy de Maupassant--and let him consider that story apart from the
book as something happening before his eyes. Let him review mentally
_everything_ that happens--the things that are not written in the story
as well as those that are--and let him review them, not necessarily in
the order in which the story presents them, but in that in which they
would come before an observer in real life. In short, from the fiction
let him construct ordinary, natural, detailed, unselected, unarranged
fact, making notes, if necessary, as he goes. Then let him compare his
raw fact with the words of the master. He will see where the unessential
is rejected; he will see how everything is given its just proportion in
the design; he will perceive that every incident, every sentence, and
every word has its value, its meaning, and its part in the whole."
Mr Morrison's ideas are endorsed by Miss Jane Barlow, Mr G. B. Burgin,
Mr G. M. Fenn, and Mrs L. T. Meade. Mr Joseph Hocking does not seem to
care for the brevity of short story methods. He cites eight lines which
he heard some children sing:
"Little boy,
Pair of skates,
Broken ice,
Heaven's gates.
Little girl
Stole a plum,
Cholera bad,
Kingdom come,"
and remarks: "Many of our short stories are constructed on the principle
of these verses. So few words are used, that the reader does not feel he
is reading a story, but an outline." Mr Hocking has the British Public
on his side, no doubt, but the great British Public is not always right,
as he appears to believe.
I think if the reader will study the short stories of Guy de Maupassant
and Mr Frederic Wedmore, and digest the advice given above, he will know
enough to begin his work. Each experiment will enlarge his vision and
discipline his pen, so that when he has accomplished something like
tolerable success, he may safely attempt the larger canvas on the lines
laid down in the preceding chapters.
FOOTNOTES:
[155:A] _Daily Chronicle_, June 22, 1899.
[159:A] _The International Monthly_, vol. i.
[160:A] _The Young Man._