founded upon fact, which may be utilized in its original form, or so
skillfully disguised or ingeniously distorted that it will seem like a
product of the imagination. In the first case the resulting story would
be termed realistic, in the second case romantic. A story built on a
plot that is an unvarnished fact will be of course a _True Story_; and
there are incidents and events in real life that need little more than
isolation to make them good stories. There is, however, a danger that
the novice may consider any matter usable which is true to life. Do not
forget that the short story is a form of art.[15]
The best plot is derived from the action of an artistic imagination on a
commonplace fact; the simpler and better known the fact is, the better
will it serve the purpose, for it must be accepted without question:
then it must be built up and developed by imaginative touches, always
with a view to plausibility, till it attains the dignity of a distinct
and interesting plot. Recent discoveries and the attainments of modern
science have introduced us to so many strange things that we have almost
ceased to doubt any statement which we may see in print; and writers
have become so ingenious in weaving together fact and fancy that their
tales are sometimes more plausible than truth itself. This was done with
peculiar skill by Poe. His story, now known as "The Balloon Hoax,"
originally appeared in the New York _Sun_ as a correspondent's account
of an actual occurrence. The tale gained credence through its remarkable
accuracy of detail in regard to recognized scientific principles, and
the fact that at that time the world was considerably agitated by
similar genuine feats of aerostation. As Poe makes one of his characters
to say, "the feat is only so feasible that the sole wonder is why men
have scrupled to attempt it before"--at least on paper.
Yet in spite of the many curious and interesting things that happen
daily, and in spite of the inventive faculty of the mind, it is
impossible to find a new plot. "History repeats itself" in small
affairs as well as in great, and the human mind has not changed
materially since the first days of story telling. Indeed, some one
has said that all the stories ever told can be traced to less than a
dozen original plots, whose origin is lost in obscurity. But if we
can neither find nor invent a new story we can at least ring the
changes on the old ones, and in this lies our hope to-day. Each one
of these old plots is capable of an infinite variety of phases, and
what we are constantly hailing as an original story is merely one of
our old friends looked at from a different point of view. How many
good, fresh stories have you read that were based on the ancient
elemental plot of two men in love with one woman, or on that equally
hoary one of fond lovers severed by disapproving parents? Irving's
"The Legend of Sleepy Hollow" is derived from the first, yet few
readers would so recognize it on first perusal; for unless you stop
and analyze it, it seems distinct and new.
For further illustration of this reworking of old ideas, I have
carefully searched the leading American magazines for March, 1900, for
short stories based upon the old, old elemental plot of two men in love
with one woman, and append herewith rough synopses of such stories. Note
that this one number of _The Munsey_ contains no less than three stories
with this basic plot.
_The Munsey._
"The Folly of It," by Ina Brevoort.
Fred Leighton and John Marchmont are in love with Angela. She
loves Leighton, but they have agreed that he is too poor to make
their married life happy. Marchmont, who is rich, proposes to
her. She and Leighton calmly discuss the situation at their last
dinner together and confirm their former decision; but when the
matter is logically settled they decide to defy poverty and
marry.
"With a Second to Spare," by Tom Hall.
Labarre and I both love Nellie, but Nellie marries me. Labarre
leads a big strike on the railroad by which we are both employed
as engineers; I refuse to join. One noon Labarre overpowers me,
binds me on the rails between the wheels of my engine, and
starts it moving slowly so that it will crush me by twelve, when
Nellie always brings my dinner. After my death he expects to
marry her. Nellie arrives and releases me just in the nick of
time. (This story is really a scene from an amateur melodrama.)
"Mulligan's Treachery," by David H. Talmadge.
Mulligan and Garvey love Ellen Kelly. They agree not to take
advantage of each other in wooing her, and go to the Philippines
together as soldiers. There Garvey, leading a charge, is shot
through the head, but Mulligan goes on and receives a medal for
his bravery. Garvey recovers, but is blind for life. On their
return to America Mulligan finds Ellen's face terribly mutilated
by an accident. He would still gladly marry her; but he makes
Garvey believe he won the medal, tells him nothing of Ellen's
disfigurement, and brings about their marriage. Then he is
conscience stricken at the manner in which he has taken
advantage of his friend's disability.
_The Cosmopolitan._
"The Pilot of the 'Sadie Simmons,'" by Joseph Mills Hanson.
Tommy Duncan, a Mississippi River pilot, is engaged to Tillie
Vail. Her affections are alienated by Jack Cragg, a disreputable
steamboat engineer, whom Duncan, believing he is deceiving the
girl, threatens to kill on sight. Cragg kills a man in a
drunken brawl on shore, and Duncan assists the sheriff to save
him from would-be lynchers, and swears to protect him, before he
knows who the prisoner is. When he learns he refuses to be bound
by his oath, but as he is about to carry out his threat he is
led to believe that Cragg honestly loves the girl. Cragg is
attacked by a mob, and, though he cannot swim, jumps into the
river to escape. Duncan rescues him and loses his own life.
Cragg reforms and marries Tilly.
_Ainslee's Magazine._
"Mr. Sixty's Mistake," by Chauncey C. Hotchkiss.
William Lewis loves Lillian Blythe. His brother Tom comes
between them and William shoots him and flees west to Pleasant
Valley, where he goes by the name of "Cockey Smith". One night
he tells his story to his companions. Harry Blythe, brother to
Lillian, Lewis' old friend, and now sheriff of his home county,
who arrived that night, overhears him. Blythe reveals his
identity to "Sixty", the butt of the camp, and tells him that
Tom did not die and that Lewis can go back home, where Lillian
is still waiting for him. Sixty breaks the news to Lewis while
the latter is mad with drink, and Lewis, thinking the sheriff
has come for him, kills him. Later he shoots himself.
"A Kentucky Welcome," by Ewan Macpherson.
Edmund Pierce, a New Yorker, is in love with Lucy Cabell, a
Kentucky belle; and hearing that her cousin, "Brook" Cabell, is
endangering his chances, he sets out to pay Miss Cabell a visit.
He gets off at the wrong station and in his confusion is
arrested by the local marshal as a Russian diamond robber. He
telegraphs to the Cabells, and Brook rescues him at the point of
the revolver, though he knows that the Northerner is Miss
Cabell's favorite.
These stories, even in this crude, condensed form, robbed of all the
beauties of imagery and expression, reveal the virtues which won for
them editorial approval and which contribute to the enjoyment of
their readers. Their apparent freshness is due to the treatment of a
thread-bare plot in a new phase, and the phase, in turn, depends upon
the introduction of some new element, unimportant in itself, perhaps,
which presents the old story in the new light. "The Folly of It" is
the best illustration, for though its plot is old and apparently
hopeless, the brightness and naturalness of the conversation which
constitutes almost the entire story makes it most readable. In
"Mulligan's Treachery" the personality of Mulligan gives the
necessary freshness. "The Pilot of the 'Sadie Simmons'" depends on
local color and the interest in Duncan's struggle to distinguish
right from wrong. And so some little freshness of treatment makes
each of the others a good story.
These vivifying elements are by no means extraordinary, or difficult to
find. They are new ideas concerning old subjects, such as you are
continually meeting in your everyday life and reading. A new character,
a new scene, a new invention or discovery, or merely a new mental bias
on the part of the writer, will work wonders in the revivifying of an
old plot. Think how many new phases of old plots have been produced
recently by the incorporation of the "X" ray, or by the influence of the
war with Spain. Try, then, to get a new light on the plot that you
purpose to use, to view it from an unexpected side, to handle it in an
unusual manner--in short, try to be original. If you have not the energy
or the ability to do this, you would better cease your literary efforts
at once, for you will only waste your time.
"But ... there are some themes so hackneyed--such as the lost will, the
glorified governess, or the persecuted maiden who turns out to be an
earl's daughter--that they would not now be tolerated outside the pages
of a 'penny dreadful,' where, along with haughty duchesses, elfin-locked
gypsies and murderous abductors, they have become part of the regular
stock-in-trade of the purveyors of back-stairs literature. The only
theme that never grows trite or commonplace is love."[16] "Another
offense ... is the light theme that, being analyzed, amounts to nothing.
It may be so cleverly handled that we read with pleasure--and then at
the end are disgusted with ourselves for being pleased, and enraged at
the writer for deluding us; for we thought there would be something
beneath his graceful manners and airy persiflage, and lo, there is
not."[17]
The plot of a short story should allow of expression in a single short,
fairly simple sentence; if it cannot be so compressed there is something
radically wrong with it. This may be called the "elemental" or "true"
plot. It will be in general, perhaps vague, terms, and will permit
differing treatment by different writers; yet its trend and its outcome
will be definitely fixed. This true plot, in turn, can be expressed in
yet more general terms, often as the primal truth which the story
illustrates; this may be called the "theme" of the story. Thus in "The
Ambitious Guest," the theme is "The futility of abstracted ambition;"
or, in its most general terms, "The irony of fate." The true plot is:
An unknown but ambitious youth stops at a mountain tavern and
perishes with its inmates.
In the development of a plot from this germ into the completed story,
it is often of advantage to make what may be called a "skeleton" or
"working plot." This skeleton is produced by thinking through the
story as it has been conceived, and setting down on paper in logical
order a line for every important idea. These lines will roughly
correspond to the paragraphs of the finished story, but in a
descriptive paragraph one line will not suffice, while a line may
represent a dozen paragraphs of dialogue; then, too, paragraphing is
partly logical and partly mechanical, and varies considerably with
the person.
Working Plot of "The Ambitious Guest."
¶ 1.
The scene is a tavern located at the Notch in the White Hills.
The time, a September night.
The place is in danger from landslides and falling stones.
The family--father, mother, grandmother, daughter and
children--are gathered happily about the hearth.
¶ 2, 3.
The tavern is on a well-frequented road.
¶ 4-7.
A young stranger enters, looking rather travel-worn, but
quickly brightens up at his warm reception.
¶ 8, 9.
A stone rolls down the mountain side.
¶ 10.
The guest, though naturally reticent, soon becomes familiar with
the family.
¶ 11.
The secret of the young man's character is high and abstracted
ambition.
¶ 12.
He is as yet unknown.
¶ 13, 14.
He is sensible of the ludicrous side of his ambition.
¶ 15.
The daughter is not ambitious.
¶ 16-19.
The father's ambition is to own a good farm, to be sent to General
Court, and to die peacefully.
¶ 20-23.
The children wish for the most ridiculous things.
¶ 24-27.
A wagon stops before the inn, but drives on when the landlord does
not immediately appear.
¶ 28-31.
The daughter is not really content.
¶ 32.
The family picture.
¶ 33-37.
The grandmother tells of having prepared her grave-clothes.
Fears if they are not put on smoothly she will not rest easily.
¶ 38, 39.
She wishes to see herself in her coffin.
¶ 40, 41.
They hear the landslide coming.
¶ 42.
All rush from the house and are instantly destroyed.
The house is unharmed.
The bodies are never found.
¶ 43, 44.
Even the death of the ambitious guest is in doubt.
You will notice that this working plot omits many little details which
are too trivial to set down, or which probably would not occur to one
until the actual writing; and all the artistic touches that make the
story literature are ruthlessly shorn away, for they are part of the
treatment, not of the plot.
This method of permitting you to study your crude material in the
concrete will prove of value to you. It enables you to crystalize
into ideas what were mere phantasms of the brain, to arrange your
thoughts in their proper order, and to condense or expand details
with a ready comprehension of the effect of such alterations upon the
general proportions of the story. It makes your purposed work
objective enough so that you can consider it with a coolness and
impartiality which were impossible while it was still in embryo in
your brain; and it often reveals the absurdity or impossibility of a
plan which had seemed to you most happy. I believe that the novice
can do no better than to put his every story to this practical test.
The use of this skeleton in the further development of the story depends
upon the methods of the writer, or the matter in hand. Many short story
writers waste no time in preparations, but at once set down the story
complete; and to my mind that is the ideal method, for it is more apt to
make the tale spontaneous and technically correct. But if the story is
not well defined in your mind, or if it requires some complexity of
plot, like the _Detective Story_, this plan can be followed to advantage
in the completion of the work. It may be used as a regular skeleton,
upon which the narrative is built by a process of elaboration and
expansion of the lines into paragraphs; or it may be used merely as a
reference to keep in mind the logical order of events. Usually you will
forget the scheme in the absorption of composition; but the fact of
having properly arranged your ideas will assist you materially, if
unconsciously, in the elaboration.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 11: "The Ambitious Guest," because of its technical perfection
and its apt illustration of the principles discussed, will be used
throughout as a paradigm. It can be found in full in the Appendix.--THE
AUTHOR.]
[Footnote 12: "Have the Plots Been Exhausted?" Editorial Comment.
_Current Literature._ June, '96.]
[Footnote 13: "Have the Plots Been Exhausted?" Editorial Comment.
_Current Literature._ June, '96.]
[Footnote 14: "Rudimentary Suggestions for Beginners in Story Writing,"
by E. F. Andrews. _Cosmopolitan._ Feb., '97.]
[Footnote 15: For a complete discussion of the proper use of facts in
fiction see Chapter V.--THE AUTHOR.]
[Footnote 16: "Rudimentary Suggestions for Beginners in Story Writing,"
by E. F. Andrews. _Cosmopolitan._ Feb., '97.]
[Footnote 17: "Magazine Fiction and How Not to Write It," by Frederick
M. Bird. _Lippincott's._ Nov., '94.]
IV
TITLES GOOD AND BAD
Too often the novice considers the title of his story a matter of no
import. He looks upon it as a mere handle, the result of some happy
afterthought, affixed to the completed story for convenience or
reference, just as numbers are placed on the books in a library. The
title is really a fair test of what it introduces, and many a MS. has
been justly condemned by its title alone; for the editor knows that a
poor title usually means a poor story. Think, too, how often you
yourself pass a story by with but a casual glance, because its title
does not interest you: experience has shown you that you seldom enjoy
reading a story which bears an unattractive title.
"A book's name often has an astonishing influence on its first sale. A
title that piques curiosity or suggests excitement or emotion will draw
a crowd of readers the moment it appears, while a book soberly named
must force its merits on the public. The former has all the advantage of
a pretty girl over a plain one; it is given an instantaneous chance to
prove itself worth while. A middle aged, unalluring title ('In Search of
Quiet,' for instance) may frighten people away from what proves to be a
mine of wit and human interest. A book headed by a man's name unmodified
and uncommented upon--such as 'Horace Chase'--is apt to have a dreary,
unprepossessing air, unless the name is an incisive one that suggests an
interesting personality. Fragments of proverbs and poems are always
attractive, as well as Biblical phrases and colloquial expressions, but
the magic title is the one that excites and baffles curiosity. The
publishers of a recent 'Primer of Evolution' received a sudden flood of
orders for the book simply on account of a review which had spoken of it
under the sobriquet, 'From Gas to Genius.' Many copies were indignantly
returned when the true title was revealed."[18] "In 1850 Dr. O. M.
Mitchell, Director of the Astronomical Observatory in Cincinnati, gave
to the press a volume entitled 'The Planetary and Stellar Worlds.' The
book fell dead from the press. The publisher complained bitterly of this
to a friend, saying, 'I have not sold a single copy.' 'Well,' was the
reply, 'you have killed the book by its title. Why not call it "The
Orbs of Heaven"?' The hint was accepted and acted upon, and 6,000 copies
were sold in a month."[19]
The title might almost be called the "text" of the story; it should be
logically deduced from the plot; so a poor title usually indicates a
poor plot and a poor story. This name line should grow out of the phase
of the plot, rather than the basic theme, else it will be too abstract
and general. It is so closely allied to the plot that they should be
born synchronously--or if anything the title should precede the plot;
for the story is built up around the central thought that the title
expresses, much as Poe said he wrote "The Raven" about the word
"nevermore." At least, the title should be definitely fixed long before
the story is completed, and often before it has taken definite form in
the writer's mind. That this is the practice of professional writers may
be proved by a glance at the literary column of any periodical, where
coming books are announced by title when scarcely a word of them has
been written. So if you have difficulty in finding an appropriate title
for your story, first examine your plot, and make sure that the cause
does not lie there. In case you are unable to decide among a number of
possible titles, any one of which might do, you may find that your plot
lacks the definiteness of impression required by the short story; but a
fertile intellect may suggest a number of good titles, from which your
only difficulty is to select the best.
A good story may be given a bad title by its author, and so started
toward failure. Novices are peculiarly liable to this fault, usually
through allowing themselves to be too easily satisfied. They go to
infinite pains to make the story itself fresh and individual, and then
cap it with a commonplace phrase that is worse than no title at all. A
good title is apt, specific, attractive, new, and short.
A title is apt if it is an outgrowth of the plot--a text, as I have
said. It stands definitely for that particular story, and gives a
suggestion of what is to come--but only a suggestion, lest it should
anticipate the denouement and so satisfy the curiosity of the reader too
soon. An apt title excites and piques the curiosity almost as much as
does the story itself. Examples: Hawthorne's "The Wedding Knell;" Poe's
"'Thou Art the Man!'" Wilkins' "The Revolt of Mother." Each of these
titles conveys an idea, though a vague one, of the theme of the story,
and so its aptness is apparent; but frequently the relevancy of the
title is evident only after the story has been read, as in the case of
James' "The Real Thing" and "The Lesson of the Master." Such a title is
almost ideal. This suspension of aptness, carried to the extreme,
produces such vague and weak titles as:
"Happiness Won."
"Almost Too Late."
"After All."
"Reorganized."
The title must be specific or it is seldom apt. It is in this particular
that the novice generally fails. He deduces his title rather from the
original plot, or even from the theme, than from the particular phase
which he presents; but its title should distinguish his story from the
host of tales builded upon the same basic plot, just as the Christian
name of a Smith distinguishes him from the rest of the great family of
which he is a member. Thus we have such titles as the following, which
are more appropriate for essays in psychology, moral philosophy, or some
kindred subject, than for fiction:
"How Dreams Come True."
"Moral Vision."
"Sorrow and Joy."
"The Straight Path."
More often the unspecific title is simply a vague reference to the
general style of the story:
"A Wedding in a Texas Jail."
"A Frightful Night Ride."
"A Unique Rescue."
"A Lynching Incident."
"Nature's Freaks."
"A Valuable Discovery."
"The Widow."
"A Valued Relic."
"A Strange Case."
"The Old Clock."
"The Office Boy."
None of these titles represents any definite idea, and in nearly every
case it served to introduce a story which was equally vague, ordinary,
and uninteresting. Several of them, too--notably the first four--were
not stories at all, but were simply bits of description by narrative,
as their titles would suggest.
In general a phrase, otherwise indefinite, becomes specific when united
with the name of a character, as in Hawthorne's "Howe's Masquerade" and
"Lady Eleanor's Mantle;" but such titles are usually ordinary and
unattractive. Some words frequently found in these compound titles are
so vague in meaning or so worn from use that their total avoidance is
the only safe course. Such are "Christmas," "Adventure," "Romance,"
"Story," "Vision," and "Dream." A "Dream" or a "Vision" is usually the
relation of some commonplace incident with absurd adornments; and an
"Adventure" is more often a piece of description than of narration. I
know that these words may be found in combination in many happy titles,
but it is best that the novice let them severely alone. That such titles
are really a serious impediment to the success of their stories is shown
by the action of the Chicago _Record_. For some years it was the custom
of the _Record_ to offer substantial cash prizes for the best Christmas
stories written by school children; and prominent among the rules
governing the competition was the announcement that stories bearing
such titles as "Johnnie's Christmas," "Nellie's Christmas," "Mary's
Christmas," would not even be read. The following titles show how
fond is the novice of these objectionable words in their baldest
combinations:
"Sarah's Christmas Present."
"Adventures with a Bear."
"Nettie's Romance."
"Lee's Romance."
"A Woman's Love Story."
"The Captain's Story."
"A True Story."
"The Story of a Vision."
"The Dream at Sea."
"Viola's Dream."
"Mabel's Dream."
"Eleanor's Dream."
The title should be attractive because it will be the test of the
story, and it must be sufficiently interesting to arouse at a glance
the curiosity of the reader, and induce in him a desire to peruse the
narrative that it offers. Commonplaceness is the chief cause of the
unattractive title, and that fault is usually traceable to the plot
itself. It may, however, be due to a conventional expression of the
dominant idea of the story, as in the list just given; and also in
the following:
"How Amy Won the Prize."
"Fred Norton, the Artist."
Or it may be unattractive through comprising only the name of the chief
character:
"Lucy Bonneville."
"Lester Rice."