[Sidenote: No royal road]
There is, we are told, no royal road to learning. Is there a royal
road to any good thing? Are not hard work, more or less drudgery,
perseverance, self-control, and self-restraint the unavoidable
travelling companions, the only trustworthy couriers through the
journey to the country of success? I think so.
But the way is not always the same. None of the paths are “royal,”
in the sense of being smooth and flower-bestrewn; but beyond this,
similarity no longer necessarily holds good. To literary success, even
in its humbler departments, there are many and varying roads. Were it
not so indeed, the thing itself would be infinitely less worthy of
achievement. For if literary work is to be in any sense admirable,
it must be individual and characteristic; it is not of the nature of
manufactured goods; its essence must be of the author’s personality.
[Sidenote: Writing for the young]
I wish thus to preface the little I have to say of possible service to
others on that branch of writing as to which I am credited with some
experience—fiction for the young, more especially for children—because,
underlying any information or advice I can give, is the very strongest
belief in every writer taking his or her own path, trusting to his
or her own intuitions. Yet these intuitions, if I may be forgiven an
apparent paradox, must be those of a cultivated taste, a thoughtful
intellect, an imagination all the more luxuriant from having been
well pruned. Therefore before beginning to write, even for childish
minds, I would urge upon young authors to see well to their own mental
possessions. You cannot “give” out of nothing, and if you would give
of the best, with the best must you be furnished. Read the best
books, study the best models, till in a sense they become your own.
“Originality,” if originality you have, will never be crushed by real
study; and if the result of your self-training should be to prove to
you, by comparison with its undoubted owners, that this incommunicable
gift is _not_ yours, the sooner, for yourself and for others, that you
make the discovery the better, though you will have been far from a
loser in the process of making it.
There is nothing “original” in this advice, I well know. But it seems
to be not uncalled for in the present instance, because so many young
writers, too modest to aspire very high, think they can “write for
children.” And often this is a mistake. Writing for children calls for
a peculiar gift. It is not so much a question of taking up one’s stand
on the lower rungs of the literary ladder, as of standing on another
ladder altogether—one which has its own steps, its higher and lower
positions of excellence.
[Sidenote: Special gifts demanded]
It is very difficult to define this gift. It is more than the love of
children. Many people love children dearly who could not write for, or
about them even, at all. It is to some extent the power of clothing
your own personality with theirs, of seeing as they see, feeling as
they feel, realising the intensity of their hopes and fears, their
unutterably pathetic sorrows, their sometimes even _more_ pathetic
joys, and yet—_not_ becoming one of them: remaining yourself, in full
possession of your matured judgment, your wider and deeper views. Never
for one instant forgetting the exquisite delicacy of the instruments
you are playing upon, the marvellous impressionableness of the little
hearts and minds; never, in commonplace words, losing sight of what
is in the best sense _good_ for them. Yet all this so skilfully, so
unobtrusively, that the presence of the teacher is never suspected. Not
perhaps till your readers are parents and guardians themselves—possibly
writers!—need they, nor should they, suspect how in every line, far
more than their passing entertainment or amusement was considered,
how scrupulous was the loving care with which, like a fairy gardener,
you banished from the playground which you were preparing for their
enjoyment, all things unsightly, or terrifying, or in any sense
hurtful—all false or exaggerated sentiment in any form.
And yet you must be true to nature. Save in an occasional flight to
fairyland (and is true fairyland _un_real after all?) children’s
stories should be _real_—true, that is to say, to what may be or are
actual experiences in this always chequered, often sorrowful, world of
ours. It would be very false love for children—it would be repellent to
their own true instincts—to represent life to them as a garden of roses
without thorns, a song with no jarring notes. But underlying the sad
things, and the wrong things, and the perplexing things which must be
touched upon in the little dramas, however simple, there must be belief
in the brighter side—in goodness, happiness, and beauty—as the real
background after all. And any one who does not feel down in the bottom
of their hearts that this “optimism” is well-founded, had better leave
writing for children alone.
[Sidenote: Childhood and youth]
It is not always those who are nearest childhood who are the best
fitted to deal with it. There is a phase of melancholy and hopelessness
which youth often has to pass through, and though much mingled with
false sentimentality, it is a real enough thing while it lasts. It is
those who have outgrown this, who while not closing their eyes to the
dark and sad side of things, yet have faith in the sunlight behind and
beyond, who, to my mind, are the best story-tellers for the little
ones, whose own experience of life is all to come.
[Sidenote: A point to consider]
Before passing on to a few questions of practical detail, I should
like to dwell a little on a point which it seems to me is too often
disregarded or confused. It is this—writing _about_ children is by no
means the same thing as writing _for_ them. So much the contrary is it
indeed, that I could instance several storybooks almost entirely about
children which are far less advisable reading for them than others
of which the characters are not children at all. This distinction is
constantly overlooked and forgotten, and yet it is surely based on
common sense? The very last thing a wise mother would allow would be
the children’s presence at any necessary consultation with doctor or
teacher about their health, physical or mental. And the interest of
many of the charming and delightful stories _about_ children, which in
our days have almost come to constitute a new department in literature,
depends very greatly on the depicting and description of childish
peculiarities and idiosyncrasies which it would not be wholesome for
their compeers to discuss or realise. The questions too of judicious or
injudicious management of little people on the part of their elders,
of over-care or more culpable neglect, of misunderstanding of their
complex and often strangely reserved and perplexing characters, must
come much to the fore in this class of fiction. And though it would not
be right, because it would not be sincere, to make of our stories for
children a fool’s paradise, where all the big people are perfect, and
only the boys and girls in fault, still the _obtruding_ or emphasising
parental mistakes and failings should surely be avoided when writing
_for_ the tender little ones, whose lovely belief in “mother” is the
very breath and sunshine of their lives—and the greatest possible
incentive to mother herself to be in some faint degree worthy of this
exquisite trust.
[Sidenote: Unsuitable subjects]
Nor is this faith a false one. It is God-given, as a shelter and
support to the infant character till the day comes when the man or
woman must stand alone and see things with full-grown vision. And
when that day comes, and the gradual discovery is realised that
neither father nor mother, best of teachers or dearest of friends,
is infallible, something else comes too; a still deeper faith, which
draws the bonds of the old childish love and trust yet closer, by the
addition of that of understanding _sympathy_.
[Sidenote: Style]
As to questions of “style” in writing for children, general rules hold
good, with the addition of a few special ones. Your language should of
course be the very best you can use. Good English, terse and clear,
with perhaps a little more repetition, a little more _making sure you
are understood_ than is allowable in ordinary fiction. Keep to the rule
of never using a long word where a short one will express your meaning
as well; but do not be too slavishly afraid of using a long word—a
word even which, _but for the context_, your young readers would fail
to take in the meaning of. In such a case you can often skilfully lead
up to the meaning, and children must learn new words. It does them no
harm now and then to have to exercise their minds as to what the long
or strange word can mean, and at worst they can always apply to some
older friend for an explanation, and the effort will impress the new
acquisition on their memory.
[Sidenote: Training in style]
To help you to the acquirement of a good style in this branch of
writing, as in others, I would like to repeat the advice I have often
given privately. Drill yourself well by _translating_. It is capital
training. You know what you have to say, and there is not for the
moment the strain of inventing upon you. The facts and ideas are
there ready cut and dry; your business is to clothe them fittingly
and gracefully, and to this you can give your whole attention. Young
writers are usually so full of what they want to say, that they give
too little care to how they say it—ideas come tumbling over each other
till the way is blocked, and precision and elegance are thrown to the
winds. Translation is voted dull work by some—they want to see their
own creations in form—but do believe me, unless you are willing to
go through some dull work, some drudgery, the chances are small that
you will succeed. It may seem to you that some writers you know have
reached the position they occupy by sheer genius; but, not to repeat
the well-known definition of what genius really is, if you could
retrace the whole steps trodden by these apparently exceptional beings,
you would find, I think, that the “taking pains” has been there.
They have been perhaps peculiarly well-drilled, accustomed to much
brooding over the very best authors, but their present perfection of
style has not come all of itself, you may be sure, however dazzling the
brilliance that undoubted genius throws over the materials supplied by
long and careful cultivation.
It is a simple but valuable test of your writing to read it aloud when
finished, even if you have no audience but yourself! In writing for
children the criticism, which you may be pretty sure will not be too
flattering, of a group of intelligent boys and girls is _in_valuable.
[Sidenote: Method of composition]
And now as to the subject-matter itself. What is the best way of
composing a story for children? “Should we think it all out first, and
sketch it out, and jot down the heads, and the chapters, and—and—?” a
hundred more “ands.” “Should one wait till something strikes one, or
should one draw from one’s own experience, or—or—?” “or’s” to match the
“and’s.”
My dear young friends, I am afraid I cannot tell you. Everybody, it
seems to me, has his or her own way, and as I said at the beginning of
this little paper, I think it must be best so.
But if you care to listen I will tell you _my_ own way—or ways, though
by no means with any idea that you would do well to follow my example.
[Sidenote: A good rule]
To me it seems, as a rule, that in writing stories for either old or
young, the great thing is to make the acquaintance of your characters,
and get to know them as well and intimately as you possibly can. Some
of course take much more knowing than others; some are quickly read
through; some are interesting because they are meant apparently _not_
to be thoroughly known, and in this light you truthfully depict them,
though this last class is hardly the type of character to be introduced
into a story for children. I dare say you will think me very childish
myself, when I tell you that I generally begin by finding names for all
my personages. I marshal them before me and call the roll, to which
each answers in turn, and then I feel I have my “troupe” complete,
and I proceed to take them more in detail. I live with them as much
as I can, often for weeks, before I have done more than write down
their names. I listen to what they talk about to each other and in
their own homes, not with the intention of writing it down, but by
way of, as I said, getting to know them well. And by degrees I feel
them becoming very real. I can say to myself sometimes, when sitting
idly doing nothing in particular, “Now whom shall I go to see for a
little—the So-and-so’s, or little somebody?”—whatever the names may
be that I have given; and so day by day I seem to be more in their
lives, more able to tell how, in certain circumstances, my characters
would comport themselves. And by degrees these circumstances stretch
themselves out and take vague shape, which like the at first far-off
and dimly perceived heights above one in climbing a mountain, grow
distinct and defined as one approaches them more nearly. I seldom care
to look very far ahead, though at the same time a certain grasp of
the whole situation is, and has been, I think, there from the first.
It never seems to me that my characters come into existence, like
phantoms, merely for the time I want them. Rather do I feel that I am
selecting certain incidents out of real lives. And this, especially in
writing of children, seems to me to give substantiality and actuality
to the little actors in the drama. I always feel as if _somewhere_ the
children I have learnt to love are living, growing into men and women
like my own real sons and daughters. I always feel as if there were
ever so much more to hear about them and to tell about them if I liked
to tell, and my readers to hear.
[Sidenote: Unexpected suggestions]
This general rule, however, of first getting to know your characters
is not without exceptions. There are instances in which the most
trivial incident or impression suggests a whole story—a glance at a
picture, the words of a song, a picturesque name, the wind in an old
chimney—anything or nothing will sometimes “start” the whole, and then
the characters you need have to be sought for and thought about, and in
some sense chosen for their parts. And these often entirely unexpected
suggestions of a story are very valuable, and should decidedly, when
they occur, be “made a note of.”
Remembrances of one’s own childhood, not merely of surroundings and
events, but of one’s own inner childish life, one’s ways of looking at
things, one’s queer perplexities and little suspected intensities of
feeling, it is well to recall and dwell much upon. Not altogether or
principally for the sake of recording them directly, for a literal
autobiography of oneself even up to the age of twelve would be much
fitter reading for a child-loving adult than for children themselves
(the “best” and most amusing anecdotes about children are seldom such
as it would be wise to relate to their compeers); but because these
memories revive and quicken the sympathy, which as time goes on, and we
grow away from our childselves, cannot but to some extent be lost; such
reminiscences put us “in touch” again with child-world. And constant,
daily, unconstrained intercourse with children, even if the innocently
egotistical inquiry, “Are you going to make a story about _us_?” may
be honestly answered in the negative, is indirectly a great help and
source of “inspiration.”
But if you have any serious intention of making stories for children
a part of your life-work, beware of “_waiting_ for inspiration,” as
it is called. You must go at it steadily, nay, even plod at it, if
you want to do good and consistent work, always remembering that your
audience will be _of the most critical_, though all the better worth
satisfying on that account. And rarely, if ever, does work carefully
and lovingly done meet with a sweeter reward than comes to the writer
of children’s books when fresh young voices exclaim how interested they
have been in perhaps the very story which had often filled its author
with discouragement. For this “flattering unction” we may lay to our
souls—neither Nellie nor Tom—assuredly not _Tom_—will say so if he and
she do not really mean it!