[Sidenote: The first essential]
To feel that you have a story to tell, seems to me a primary essential
for a novice in the art of novel-writing, especially with beginners
young in years and experience. I know that there are masters in
fiction, who tell us that their method is to create one or several
characters, and round them build up a story; but I doubt if this
applies to first efforts, unless those efforts are not made until the
writers have gained that insight into men and things, which only comes
with years of life and observation.
Now, to any beginning under conditions such as these, the few
suggestions and remarks I shall offer will not apply. My object is to
be of service to young beginners, and to try and give them some little
help and encouragement to surmount the difficulties which usually
appear when we first venture to commit our fancies and ideas to paper.
I feel somewhat timid in undertaking this task, because its success
seems to me doubtful, for the reason that no hard and fast rules can be
laid down for the fictionist, who, generally, leaves on each production
the impress of individuality. Frequently it is individuality, when
combined with originality, which is the charm of a new writer, and
gives to a story which we have had repeated a dozen times, and to
characters whom we have met again and again, the freshness of a new
setting.
[Sidenote: A story to tell]
To start, then, we will suppose that you are the possessor of a story
which for some time has dwelt in your mind, and has taken such a hold
of you, that you are engrossed with the plot and the actors in it.
These creatures of your brain become so familiar to you, that they
stand out in your imagination like real persons. You give them names,
you invest them with qualities, you decree that they shall be happy
or miserable, and, having sealed their fate, you are seized with the
desire to make others acquainted with them. Then comes the eventful
moment, when success is imperilled by over-anxiety and a distrust of
your own powers.
[Sidenote: Faults of beginners]
Too frequently the young writer is not content to set down what is
to be said with the straightforward simplicity that would be used if
this story had to be told _vivâ voce_. There is a desire to explain,
to digress, to elaborate. It is thought necessary to tell the reader
that this person is very clever and witty, that that one is stupid and
odious, much in the same way that a child draws some strange creature,
under which it writes, “this is a cow—this is a horse.” We smile at its
being necessary to inform us of what we ought to see for ourselves.
Yet it is the same in fiction—the _dramatis personæ_ of your tale
should themselves discover to us their idiosyncrasies, and by their
actions and conversation reveal to the reader their dispositions and
characters. Young authors often write very good dialogue, there is a
freshness, a crispness about it which more practised hands may seem
to have lost. In this form the new ideas of the rising generation
come pleasantly to us, which is seldom the case when they give way
to digression, explanation, and the dissection of motives and
propensities. The novel of character—the able study of an inner life—is
almost always the outcome of deep thought added to the gift of acute
observation. This is not to be expected of a young beginner. Indeed,
for my own part, were I to learn that one of these clever analytical
studies was the work of an author young in years, I should be filled
with regret. If you possess the capacity, the fitness of age will come
all too soon, and, believe me, when it does come, you will not regret
that you have not forestalled the proper time.
[Sidenote: How to write]
Thus you will see that my theory is that the young should write
_young_. We all know the pleasure we derive from the fresh, natural,
unaffected conversation of an unspoilt girl. Well, then, I want you to
write as you talk, and remember this does not mean that you are to have
no ambition; on the contrary, aim at the topmost point, or you will
never rise. Neither do I mean the slipshod scribbling of ungrammatical
nonsense which would offend the eye as much as it would the ear; but,
starting with the supposition that you have well thought out your
plot, have conceived your characters, and some of the situations in
which they are to be placed, my advice is that you endeavour to give a
graphic relation of your story in words to a friend, so that you may
hear how the arrangement of the incidents and events stand, and bear
in mind while doing this that it is not done so much for your friend’s
criticism as it is for your own. And while dealing with this part of
the subject, let me say in parenthesis that I know of few exercises
more useful to the would-be novel-writer than the telling of stories.
Many writers of romance have been distinguished in the nursery and in
the schoolroom as delightful story-tellers, and most of us can recall
some dear long-lost magician who kept us spell-bound with romances for
which we had petitioned. “Make it up as you go.” We need not tax your
imagination to this extent, it will answer every purpose if you repeat
a story that you have read, and you may gauge your success by the
interest which your hearers show. But to return to our embryo novel;
suppose that from circumstances connected with your surroundings or
your temperament you are not able to carry out this suggestion, then I
would say, write out your plot as a short story, and so have clearly
before you what you mean to tell. This done, try to divide it into
chapters, and arrange your incidents and your dialogue; always bearing
in mind the different dispositions and natures with which you invested
your characters at starting, and endeavouring, as much as you possibly
can, to let all they say and do push the story on to its climax.
[Sidenote: The story completed]
About the length of a novel it is best that you should not trouble.
When you feel that you have told all you have to tell, the book should
come to an end. New pens should know nothing of padding, which is
distasteful to every good writer and reader. Later in your career the
demands of a magazine or a circulating library may compel you to give
a greater amount of copy than your story has strength to bear, but at
starting you are not bound by any of these trammels, and, as a rule,
young brains are very fertile and brimming over with incidents and
plots, therefore you can afford to be generous. And now we may suppose
that your story completed lies before you in manuscript, clearly and
carefully written with the pains we bestow on a thing we value and
feel is our very own. If you are a true author your creation will have
become very dear to you, and in launching it into the world you will
suffer a hundred hopes and fears, and, perhaps, disappointments. Your
friends may have judged your efforts with their hearts rather than
their heads. Few beginners are good critics of their own work, and true
talent and modesty generally go hand in hand. The clouds of distrust
are certain to cast their shadows over you, but if you have the
assurance that you have spared no pains, that you have given your best,
do not fear that they will overwhelm you; there is a moral satisfaction
in having done good work which no one can rob us of. A dozen other
reasons than want of merit lead to a MS. being rejected. Have patience
and courage, and some day, when perhaps it is least expected, the
success I heartily wish for all earnest young authors will most surely
come to you.