[Sidenote: One last _don’t_]
Don’t send a MS. to a very busy Editor, with the remark that you know
it is unsuitable, but you would be so much obliged if he would read
it carefully, and give you his candid opinion as to whether you have
got the literary faculty or not. Editors are usually kind-hearted, and
don’t like to refuse requests of this sort. But do the people who worry
them with ill-written, bulky and all but illegible MSS., realise what a
large demand they are making upon valuable time, and by what right they
demand a professional opinion from, in many cases, a total stranger?
The same people would be much shocked if they were told that they
expected advice from their doctor or lawyer for nothing, and yet the
Author or Editor who has amassed his knowledge through years of patient
toil, must give it away to any one who has the impertinence to ask for
it. I feel strongly on this point, for in very truth it is, as a rule,
casting pearls before swine, as those who could be really helped with
advantage are generally far too modest to ask for such assistance.
[Sidenote: The short story]
I should recommend all those fiction-writers who are anxious to obtain
magazine work, to turn their attention to the short complete story,
and to avoid for many a day all attempts at _Serial_ fiction. A Short
Story, if good, is likely to find a market somewhere—but then it
must be good—by this I mean terse and full of plot, without a single
unnecessary word, and with the whole range of subject clearly mapped
out in the author’s mind before a word is written. The short story can
be a character sketch, although this is very often intensely stupid,
and has a by-way of clever air about it, which quickly vanishes as
you approach it, or it can be a good exciting incident with plenty of
movement.
[Sidenote: The “pretty-pretty” school]
For Heaven’s sake don’t let your friends say of your short story, “How
pretty!” The “goody-goody” school has had its day, and is laughed
out of fashion, but the “pretty-pretty” still flourishes in full
vigour, though in its own way it is quite as objectionable. Avoid mere
prettiness as you do all those things which lead to destruction. The
merely pretty writer gets weaker and weaker the older he grows, until
at last he is sheer inanity. It is a good plan to be in a certain
sense a specialist, and to take up a line which has not already been
done to death. Whatever you are, _be true_; write about things you know
of; don’t sit in your drawing-room and invent an impossible scene in a
London garret. If you want to talk of hunger and cold and the depths of
sordid privation, go at least and see them, if you cannot feel them.
_Don’t write high-flown sentiments._ It would be far more interesting
to the world if you told quite simply what you really know. Tell of the
life that you have lived—let others see it from your point of view.
Each one who has the power to write has also a lesson to deliver.
However small that lesson may be tell it with simplicity. If it rings
true, you have done your part well.
It is a good plan to avoid _morbid_ writing. This is a failing often to
be seen in the works of the very young. Be as cheerful as you can; we
want all the sunshine we can get.
[Sidenote: Fiction as a profession]
If you want to take up fiction as a profession, write a little bit
every day, whether you are in the mood or not. Put your story into a
frame—by this I mean make up your mind in advance what length it shall
be, and stick to that length, whether you feel inclined to go farther
or not. This is very good practice.
[Sidenote: Methods of work]
Try, if possible, to see the end of your story before you begin to
write it. This is a good plan, for it keeps the motive clear and
unwavering. It is also the surest way of exciting a strong interest.
Avoid long descriptive bits, more particularly descriptions of scenery.
You need to be a Richard Jeffries to do your scenery descriptions so
that other people shall see them, shall feel the breezes blowing, and
hear the singing of the birds. To write in this style is a special
gift, given to very few.
[Sidenote: Character drawing]
I have always found in writing my own stories, that there came a
certain point when the characters ceased to be machines, and began to
live. They were flesh and blood, creations as real as those I lived
with. I hated some of them, and loved others. All those characters that
remained merely puppets I eliminated from the story; they were useless
to its progress, they took from its effect. When your characters become
alive to you, as they will to all those who have even the slightest
touch of inspiration in writing, you will find a strange thing happen.
They will begin to dominate you, not you them. They will grow in spite
of you, and take a certain direction and fulfil their destinies just
as surely as if they really lived. You may wish to make a villain of
a certain character, but in spite of you he may turn out a saint or
_vice-versâ_. This is a mystery which I cannot pretend to account for,
but I think all fiction writers have felt it more or less. And what
is more, the better and stronger the story grows, the more will the
characters dominate their author, and turn him whither they will.
[Sidenote: Daily practice]
Inspiration is the grandest of all gifts for the fiction writer, but
he must not suppose that it comes daily, and if he never writes except
when he thinks it has visited him, he will seldom or never write
at all. Again I repeat that daily practice in writing is the best
of all training. It is wonderful how this daily practice overcomes
difficulties, one by one. How supple the mind becomes, how easy is
the flow of language, how completely the writer masters the difficult
problem of concentration of thought.
But I could go on talking indefinitely and, after all, although a
few broad rules are necessary and useful, each man must be his own
teacher—each life must inculcate its own lessons, and bring forth its
own fruit.
[Sidenote: “The end crowns all”]
If to ability is added courage, and to courage perseverance, you will
succeed; and I hope to shake hands with you in spirit over the good
work you have accomplished.
[Illustration: Decoration]
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_London & Edinburgh_.