hint after another leaked out that Mrs. Daniels, the minister's
wife, was _a most unhappy woman_, and that there was _another
woman in the case_.
At first the members of the congregation hooted at the idea; but
when item after item of scandal came to their notice they begun
to take a little notice, and it was noticeable that a good many
enquiries were _going the rounds, "just to satisfy themselves_
as to the ridiculous part of it", so the _curiosity seekers_
explained.
Other writers attempt to make their commonplaces literary by couching
them in stilted language, and then we have what is technically termed
"fine writing." It is to this tendency that we owe such phrases as,
"After the customary salutations he sought the arms of Morpheus," and
"Upon rising in the morning he partook of an abundant repast," when the
author meant merely to say, "After saying good night he went to bed,"
and "He breakfasted." This error is due to the mistaken idea that things
which are common are necessarily vulgar, and to an absurd squeamish
objection to "call a spade, a spade." It is the worst possible way to
handle commonplaces, for it attracts particular attention to the very
things which it is supposed to hide.
But the writer may purposely subordinate commonplace facts, and yet
suffer from a commonplace style, if he fails to give his narrative
character. It is then that the young writer resorts to the use of
poetry, quoted and original, with which he interlards his stories and
the speeches of his characters. The poetry may be good, even if it is
original, and it may be very apt, but few people in real life quote
poetry in their ordinary speech. You may be well read in poetry and the
kindred arts, but it is hardly the part of modesty or discretion for you
to force your quotations upon a reader who very likely cares neither for
your erudition nor the poets themselves. It is bad technically, too; and
usually, as in the case of the following specimen, shows that the author
has a wider acquaintance with the poets than with the rhetoricians.
Algernon Long was not a person of unbalanced mind, nor was he
superstitious in his interpretations of signs, visions and dreams to
which so many attach supernatural importance; he was simply a successful
man of the world, full of life and buoyancy, devoted to his occupation,
that of a stock-broker, and to his domestic and social relations. And
yet he believed with Lord Byron, that
"Our life is twofold; sleep hath its own world,
And a wide realm of wild reality,
And dreams that in their development have breath,
And tears and tortures and the touch of joy;
They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts,
They take a weight from off our waking toils.
They do divide our being,
They speak like sibyls of the future."
A number of his most cherished friends had recently passed away into
that "undiscovered country, from whose bourne no traveller returns." The
loss to him was intolerable; the experience the most painful he had ever
known. Each case seemed more cruel than its predecessor; to himself
personally most suggestive. He was now in mature manhood, and could
thoroughly appreciate the poet's lines:
"Life is real, life is earnest,
And the grave is not its goal."
So strong is the tendency of the short story toward simplicity that even
figures of speech are to be avoided. This does not mean that we are
carefully to discard any expression which savors of the figurative:
such a thing would be absurd, for literature and everyday speech abound
in figurative language which passes current unquestioned. But figures
which are introduced simply for literary effect are unnatural, and so
are to be avoided. They are really digressions, excrescences--beautiful
enough in themselves, perhaps, but assuredly adding no beauty to the
narrative. Principal among such figures employed by amateurs are the
long complex metaphors and similes in which epic poetry delights; the
figure of apostrophe, too, is much affected by tyros, because it affords
them opportunity to coin orotund phrases concerning the irony of fate,
the haplessness of true lovers, and kindred favorite topics.
Foreign words and phrases form another sad stumbling block in the way of
a simple natural style. They have their uses, of course--and one is to
betray the novice. He fondly imagines that a sprinkling of French
phrases gives his narrative a delightful air of cosmopolitanism; and
that as an evidence of "culture" a line from Horace or Homer is equal
to a college degree. So he thumbs the back of his dictionary, culls
therefrom trite quotations with which to deck his writing, and never
uses an English word when he knows a similar French one. The employment
of a foreign word or phrase to express an idea which can be equally well
couched in English is the cheapest sort of a literary trick, and it is
the unmistakable badge of hopeless mediocrity and self-complacency.
Expressions from other languages may be judiciously and legitimately
used to give local color, and they are, of course, indispensable in the
speeches of certain character types; but as a rule there is no better
medium for your thoughts than good wholesome English.
You will notice that I specify the sort of English you should use, for
many who avoid foreign idioms fall into the equally bad habit of using
poor and incorrect English. I am not referring to the speeches of the
characters, whose privileges in this respect I have already discussed;
but in the necessary introductory and connective phrases you should take
exquisite pains to keep your English pure. The use of slang is of course
absolutely inexcusable, for it offends against good taste as well as
good rhetoric; but the employment of words in a careless or perverted
meaning is equally condemnable. It is also a mistake to use too many
adjectives, to throw every adjective and adverb into the superlative
degree, and in other ways to exaggerate every expression which you
use. Much of this misuse of words is due to ignorance, but more to
carelessness or laziness; in any case you can detect your faults if
you seek for them, and you should take immediate steps to correct
them, with the help of a dictionary, or a rhetoric, or both.
The style of the short story should be easy and flowing, so that it
shall be pleasant reading. Good ideas may be expressed in good language
and still be afflicted with a nervousness or stiffness of style that
will make the work difficult of perusal, and so lessen its power to
hold the reader. One of the first requisites for this desired ease is
a lightness of phrasing which is at once a matter of thought and of
rhetorical construction. Try to avoid heaviness and austerity of thought
as much as you would similar qualities in writing. Get at the lighter,
brighter, perhaps more frivolous side of things; do not take your work
too seriously, you are seldom writing tragedies; permit yourself to be
humorous, witty, a little ironical; do not plunge too deeply into dark
abysses of metaphysics or theology. I do not mean that you should not
treat of serious things, or that you should make light of serious
subjects; but there are several ways of looking at any matter, and the
atmosphere of intense and morbid gloom which Poe casts over so many of
his weird tales is not characteristic of the short story in general. At
the same time I am far from advocating flippancy or superficiality, for
both are deadly sins in literature. I merely wish to impress upon you
the absurdity of the solemn tone which some amateurs seem to think a
mark of depth of thought or feeling. An apt, simple phrase is the most
forceful means of expression known to literature.
Your bright thoughts should be expressed in words and sentences which
are in themselves light and easy. There is a good deal of difference
between words which may mean the same thing, and it is not altogether
a matter of length. Words which are heavy and lumbering, or harsh, or
suggestive of unpleasant thoughts, should be used with care, for their
thoughtless introduction will often injure the ease of a passage. Tone
color in words is of almost as much importance in prose as in verse.
Similarly the sentence structure should be carefully tested for ease.
The periodic style should be practically tabooed: it is seldom
appropriate to the matter of the short story, and it is always heavy
and retarding. The very short sentence, which is so typical of the
French, may be used only in moderation, for its excessive employment
gives a nervous jerky style which is tiresome and irritating. Among
American writers Stephen Crane is an awful example of this
"bumpety-bump" method of expression, though his later works show a
tendency to greater ease. The exclamatory and interrogative sentences,
of which amateurs use so many, under the mistaken impression that they
lend vivacity and vividness, should be totally eschewed. They offend
against almost every principle of the short story, and they have nothing
to recommend them. Usually they are irrelevant and inartistic asides by
the author. The proper sentence structure for the bulk of the short
story is the simple straightforward declarative sentence, rather loose,
of medium length, tending to short at times to avoid monotony and give
vividness.
Exclamation points must be used sparingly: a row of three or four of
them at the end of a sentence is a sign of amateurism. The mere presence
of a point of punctuation will not make a thrilling sentence or produce
a climax. Punctuation marks are designed to draw attention to what
already exists, and they have no inherent power to create interest. Very
few sentences really need or merit a mark of exclamation; and if they
are properly constructed the reader will feel the exclamatory force,
whether the point is expressed or not. Italics, as a method of emphasis,
are seldom necessary in a well-written story. They, too, are signs of
what has already been expressed, and not the expression of a new force.
A word or a phrase which needs sufficient emphasis to excuse italics
should be so placed that the reader will involuntarily give it the
proper stress; and an expression thus brought into notice far exceeds in
importance one which owes its prominence to a mere change in type. Words
in still more staring type--small capitals or capitals--are entirely out
of place.
Finally, the style of the short story should be concise. "One of the
difficulties of the short story, the short story shares with the actual
drama, and that is the indispensableness of compression--the need that
every sentence shall tell."[44] It is not sufficient that all irrelevant
ideas be carefully pruned away; all unnecessary fullness of expression
must likewise be cut, that the phrasing of the story may always be crisp
and to the point. This is sometimes a matter of the expunging of a
superfluous word or phrase; but it is fully as often a recasting of a
sentence so as to avoid redundancy. The object of this conciseness is
twofold: to waste as little as possible of the valuable and abridged
space of the short story, and to make the movement of the language as
quick as the action of the plot.
The fault to be avoided here is commonly called "padding." Briefly
speaking the term padding, as applied to a piece of literature, denotes
the presence of irrelevant matter. It may consist of the introduction of
scenes, persons, episodes, conversations or general observations which
have no part in advancing the action; or, more dangerous still, it may
consist of the presence of occasional words and phrases which lengthen
and perhaps round out the sentences without adding to their value.
Irrelevant scenes, persons, episodes, conversations and general
observations have already been discussed at length, and need no further
treatment here. But I must warn the novice against that most insidious
form of padding which is responsible for so many long and dreary
sentences, cluttered with repetitious words and phrases which retard the
narrative and exasperate the reader. This redundancy is a rhetorical
fault, which is best corrected by a return to the old school day methods
of testing a sentence for coherence. It must be corrected, and that
vigorously and radically, for it is fatal to a good short story style.
An instance of how much stress editors lay upon procuring only the
"concentrated extract of the story-teller's art" may be found in a
letter received by a young writer from the editor of a prominent
publication: "We will pay $100 for your story as it is. If you can
reduce it a third, we will pay you $150; if a half, $200."
Concise must not be understood to mean exhaustive, for it is bad policy
to leave nothing to the imagination of the reader. The average person is
fond of reading between the lines, and usually prides himself upon his
ability in this respect; accordingly he is easily exasperated with the
exhaustive style which leaves no chance for the exercise of his subtle
power, while he takes huge delight in expanding the sly hints which the
knowing writer throws out for his benefit. Such a reader never stops to
consider that he has fallen into a skillfully laid trap; he compliments
the author upon his artistic method and turns from the story well
pleased with himself and with the writer. There is, however, something
more than a pampering of pride in the charm of this suggestive method:
it enables the writer to cast a light veil of uncertainty over rather
bald facts, and thus to maintain that romantic glamour of unreality
which plays so important a part in fiction.
A good style can be acquired by the exercise of knowledge, patience and
labor. The first requisite is a practical working knowledge of rhetoric
and English composition. It seems absurd to suppose that any one would
attempt to write stories without being able to write correct English,
but at least two-thirds of the stories submitted to editors contain
inexcusable grammatical and rhetorical errors; and many of the faults
which I have found it necessary to discuss in the first part of this
chapter are matters of rhetoric. If you cannot write correct English
now, set about perfecting yourself in that respect before you dare to
essay story telling. There are books and correspondence courses galore
which will assist you. If you won't do that you had better turn your
energies in some other direction, for you have neither the courage nor
the spirit necessary for a successful short story writer.
Your next duty is to cultivate your individuality. "Style is the
personal impress which a writer inevitably sets upon his production. It
is that character in what is written which results from the fact that
these thoughts and emotions have been those of the author rather than of
any other human being. It is the expression of one man's individuality,
as sure and as unique as the sound of his voice, the look from his eye,
or the imprint of his thumb."[45] Every person who has any call to write
has a strong personality--an original manner of looking at life and of
treating its problems. He wishes so to influence the world by this
personality that it will consent to see through his eyes, or will at
least listen patiently to what he sees. It is this ego, this that is the
man himself, that he really desires to show through his writings. His
first step, then, is to cultivate this individuality, to train his
originality, so to speak, in order that he may see everything in a new
and distinctive light. He should also give attention to the expression
of his personality. It is not sufficient that he shall see life at a
new angle, but he must so train himself that he shall be able to put in
an original way the new phases which his individuality has discovered.
It is this expression of the individuality which causes so much trouble,
for hundreds of stories are written which show originality in
conception, but which fall into conventionality in the execution. The
best way to express your personality is to be perfectly natural, and say
exactly what you think; any labored striving after effects will produce
an artificial style which will be fatal to success.
It is a great aid to the attainment of a good style thoroughly to
understand your own mind before you put pen to paper. It may seem odd
that you should be ignorant of your own ideas on a subject, but often
difficulty of expression is due to indecision of mind. Vagueness or
confusion of ideas in a writer's mind is always the precursor of a poor
style. Too often, struck by a happy thought, he attempts to put it on
paper before it has yet sufficient definiteness of form to justify
expression, and when he would project it into writing he loses the
thought in a mass of the very words in which he seeks to voice it.
Again, the writer's mind may contain several jumbled ideas, each one
good in itself but totally independent of the others; and if he attempts
to express any particular one before it has had time to disentangle
itself, it is bound to bring with it portions of other and distinct
ideas. Clear thinking is the basis of clear writing; and clear writing
prevents the chief errors that threaten your style.
Study the stories of great writers; you know what parts most trouble
you--compare your work with that of others and see how they have
obtained the effect that you desire to produce. It is not wise to limit
your study to any one writer. Your style should possess a certain
flexibility, to enable it to adapt itself readily to your varying
themes, and you should master the methods of all good writers; if you
have sufficient individuality to have any excuse for writing you need
have little fear of imitating them too closely. For style alone it is
better to confine yourself to the more modern writers. There is always a
change in style, if not exactly a progression, from one literary
generation to the next, and you should aim at conformity to the canons
of your own age. Those early masters of the short story, Irving,
Hawthorne and Poe, had a tendency toward a diffuse, almost discursive
style, which is not much in vogue now. Their ease and elegance are most
commendable, but they lost somewhat more in force and conciseness than
is thought correct to-day.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 44: "The Short Story," by Frederick Wedmore. _Nineteenth
Century._ Mar., '98.]
[Footnote 45: "Talks on Writing English," by Arlo Bates. Chapter on
"Style."]
XII
THE LABOR OF AUTHORSHIP
Because literature is an art and you have a leaning toward it, do not
therefore consider yourself a genius and so exempt from work. There is
no royal road to success, and no one ever yet won a high place in the
world of letters who did not earn it by the sweat of his brow. In these
days literature is just as much a trade as boilermaking: it has its
tools and its rules; and if one likes his occupation, he will naturally
make better stories--or boilers. That is all there is to genius--the
matter of aptitude for a certain thing; and even that can be to a great
degree cultivated. If a man, with absolutely no knowledge of the tools
and methods of the craft, attempt to make a boiler, he will create a
deal of noise but no boilers, though he may be well pleased with his own
efforts; and so it is with writing.
So even if your literary efforts are praised by friends and published by
local editors, don't get the idea into your head that the world at large
is sighing for the products of your pen: it is far more likely that
your friends' encouragement is prompted rather by regard for you than by
any real merit in your work, and that the editor's chief desire is to
get cheap copy. You will learn later that the truest estimate of your
work comes from those who know you the least, and that usually criticism
is valuable in inverse proportion to the regard which the critic has for
you. If, however, you feel that, whatever the real worth of your present
work, there is that within you which demands utterance, you will
modestly accept this early adulation as prophetic of the true fame to
come, and will go about your writing in all humility and seriousness,
with that careful, plodding application which alone succeeds.
Since as a story writer you purpose handling life in all its varied
phases, it is necessary that you should acquire an intimate knowledge of
it. This you may do in several ways, as already indicated in Chapter V.,
but do it you must, and seriously. You must have in your possession and
ready for instant use a large and varied assortment of facts, incidents,
odd characters, impressions, and all the other miscellaneous details
that go to the making of a good story. However you may gain this
material it is best not to depend too much on your memory to retain it
and to produce it promptly at the proper time. The human memory is apt
to be treacherous and unreliable. It will very likely fail to retain the
important details of a usable actual occurrence, as well as the bright
idea in connection with it which flashed across your mind when first you
found it. The only safe way is for you to keep a scrap book and a note
book, or perhaps a combination of the two, in which you may preserve
crude material, bright ideas, and all sorts of odds and ends which you
think may be of use to you at some future day. Much that you carefully
preserve will never be of service to you, but you cannot afford to risk
losing possible good matter through failure to make note of it. "I would
counsel the young writer to keep a note book, and to make, as regards
the use of it, _nulla dies sine linea_ his revered motto. It is a great
deal better that he should have his notes too copious than too meagre.
By filling page after page with jottings of thoughts, fancies,
impressions, even doubts and surmises of the vaguest kind--of a kind
which he himself can only understand at the time and perhaps may
afterward fail to recollect when re-reading them--he will never, in the
long run, account himself a loser."[46]
When finally putting your ideas into concrete form do not depend too
much on the "moment of inspiration." It is not my intention to ridicule
this most valuable incentive to artistic work. I believe in it
thoroughly when it is genuine, and I would advise you to take all
advantage of it. Dash off your story as swiftly as you will--the swifter
the better, for if it runs easily from your pen it stands a better
chance of being spontaneous. But we are not all of us gifted with the
ability to work in this manner, nor will all themes permit of such
treatment. A short story that you can rush through at a sitting should
be viewed with skepticism: either it is a perfect work of genius, and
you have a Heaven-sent call to write; or, and more probably, it is too
trite and trivial to justify the expenditure of serious labor upon it,
and your "inspiration" was merely a flush of vanity. "As for trusting
to the 'inspired moment,' or waiting for it, or deploring its delay,
he (the young author) should take heed how he permits any such folly or
superstition to clutch him in its vitiating grasp. 'Inspiration' either
means, with a writer, good mental and physical health, or it has no
meaning whatever.... Late hours and stimulants are especially fatal
to the young writer when both are employed in the sense of literary
co-adjutors."[47]