In this foreword, I wish first of all to thank Captain Achmed Abdullah,
Gertrude Atherton, Edwina Stanton Babcock, Barry Benefield, Thomas
Beer, Katharine Holland Brown, Maxwell Struthers Burt, Francis Buzzell,
Donn Byrne of Oriel, Charles Caldwell Dobie, Theodore Dreiser, George
Gilbert, Susan Glaspell, Armistead C. Gordon, Fannie Hurst, Arthur
Johnson, Fanny Kemble Johnson, Burton Kline, Mary Lerner, Sinclair
Lewis, Jeannette Marks, Walter J. Muilenburg, Seumas O’Brien, Vincent
O’Sullivan, Albert DuVerney Pentz, Lawrence Perry, Mary Brecht Pulver,
Harrison Rhodes, Benjamin Rosenblatt, Fleta Campbell Springer, and
Julian Street. Each of these authors very kindly gave data which no one
could have gleaned; and in so doing they have contributed largely to
the usefulness of this study.[1]
[1] I must add to this list a former student, Pearl Doles Bell, who
interviewed Mrs. Irvin Cobb and who read her notes to my summer class
of 1916. (The interview was published, subsequently, in _The_ [New
York] _Sun_, October 1, 1916.) My assistant, Miss Shirley V. Long,
collaborated in the analysis of Miss Hurst’s “Get Ready the Wreaths.”
Only the other day a student demanded, “Why can’t I get an author to
tell me every step in the development of one of his stories?” Although,
as I tried to point out, such a thorough proceeding is neither
desirable nor easily possible,[2] yet the essentially valuable part of
the author’s progress may be most illuminative, and it is obtainable.
As one of these writers has said, the artist is not analytical
beforehand and is not so, of necessity, after completing his work. But
even from those who progress only, as they assert, by inspiration come
clear and helpful statements concerning their starting points and
developing processes. This generosity of successful writers augurs
well for the future of fiction.
[2] Poe seems to be the sole writer who has asserted that he could call
to mind the progressive steps of any of his compositions.
Charles Caldwell Dobie has said:[3] “Any man who has made a success
of his business or profession always seems to consider it his duty
to warn others off the field. The advice of both failure and success
appears to be embodied in one and the same word, ‘Don’t!’ This is a
curious paradox, and I shall not attempt to explain it. Perhaps it is
because the roads to success or to failure are hard to distinguish, the
sign-posts at the parting of the ways almost undecipherable. Yes, I
think it must be this realization of the nearness of defeat that makes
the successful one so anxious to dissuade others from the struggle. And
yet, after all, there is a bit of egotism back of the kindly advice we
offer, rather patronizingly, to our friends.
[3] _The Silhouette_, February, 1917.
“I would be the last person to warn the ambitious from literary
endeavor, providing they would rather write than do anything else
in the world; providing, also, they were equipped with three
qualifications. Determination is the first; a hide at once sensitive
and impervious ranks second; an hour--at least--a day to devote to the
pursuit of their purpose. I say _devote_ advisedly; the true lover is
never niggardly.... If added to these virtues, one has a quiet room and
no telephone, half the battle is won.”[4]
[4] Ellen Glasgow writes behind locked doors; Gertrude Atherton “rings
down an iron curtain” between herself and the world.
And, further, by way of emphasis on work and study, hear Burton Kline:
“As an editor I have a feeling that some of the writers who should be
railroad presidents or bank directors are getting in the way of real
writers that I ought to be discovering. In the long run it is probably
better to have all the writing we can get. The wider the net is spread,
the greater the chance of something precious in the haul. The teaching
of writing, even if it finds only a few real writers, helps to sharpen
the critical taste of the others and whet their appetite for better
writing. And I believe that sharper appetite and more discriminating
taste is beginning to be felt.... In the creation of a literature, an
audience is as necessary as the performers themselves. And the more
critical the audience, the more likely we are to have great performers.
The opportunity invites and develops them....”
Speaking from the critic’s and teacher’s point of view, I not only
believe that one can “learn to write”; I know, because more than once
I have watched growth and tended effort from failure to success. Many
would-be writers drop by the way; the telephone to pleasure is too
insistent, or the creative process is not sufficiently joyful. Some
students, however, need only an encouraging word and sympathetic
criticism. Harriet Welles is an example of this sort. Her stories have
been running in _Scribner’s_ for some months; she worked only a year
in my class at Columbia before producing finished narratives. Others
must labor and exercise patience in order to accomplish a few--perhaps
one or two--worthy specimens of the story-teller’s art. I refer, for
illustration, to another student, Elizabeth Stead Taber, whose “Scar”
attracted favorable comment and drew from Mr. O’Brien high praise
in his volume of 1917. Others write prolifically, turning out story
after story, before attaining the highest publications and prices--but
not of necessity before attaining excellent construction and style.
Marjorie Lewis Prentiss comes to mind as an earnest and careful writer
of this sort, who is improving as steadily as she writes and publishes
regularly. I need not refer to Frederick S. Greene--now in France--who
has become well known through his stories, and who felt that he worked
best under class criticism. He studied as he wrote, and his published
stories, with only two exceptions as I recall, were produced, first,
for the class-room audience. Even those who succeed only once, or who
never succeed, have learned to evaluate the content and the manner of
the printed narrative, and have added to the body of the intelligent
fiction-public.
The _great artist_, let me add, hews his own way. But--! Gutzon Borglum
once said that in his opinion there had lived only three great masters
of art: Phidias, Michel Angelo, and Auguste Rodin. If these are the
great names in sculpture and pictorial art, who are those in the world
of fiction writing?
... I use the form “short-story” to indicate the particular _genre_ or
type, to distinguish it from the story that is merely short. I have
laid down my definition in “A Handbook on Story Writing,”[5] a volume
which the student of this book should have at hand. In the space here
allowed, there can be no discussion of terminology. Mr. O’Brien has
expressed himself as uninterested in technical distinctions, a fact
which argues for the greater range of his choice. He has preferred
the larger values, and therefore no adverse comment is implied in my
classing a story in these collections as a novelette or another as
a story that is merely short.[6] From the standpoint of literature,
an advantage lies in the more extended field. And at best, opinions
differ. I can only set down my own reactions, backed by eight years of
teaching and a life-time interest in fiction.
[5] Dodd Mead & Company, 1917. Third Edition, 1918.
[6] In quoting, I have used “short story” or “short-story” as written
by the various authors. It will be seen that the forms are usually
interchangeable.
To the student, I would emphasize the fact that studying these
“Yearbook” stories, valuable as such study may become, will not make of
you a writer; but from them, this little book, and the wealth of detail
which Mr. O’Brien has accumulated, you can apprehend the elements of
technique and learn, at the same time, what is successful from an
editorial point of view. For every short-story writer must be both an
artist and a man of business. If his work is not published, it _is_
not. Much of it, early in the exercising stages, should die. But at the
last there must be evidence of labor and of genius. Only one evidence
is admissible: the product.
While you are learning, then, do not try to publish. “Do” your
exercises, and practise much; master the principles, and express
yourself. When you have become full-grown, put away childish things,
and forget that you ever heard of technique.