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THE LURE OF THE PEN
A Book for Would-Be Authors
by
FLORA KLICKMANN
Editor of
"The Girl's Own Paper and Woman's Magazine"
Who Has Written "The Flower-Patch among the Hills,"
"Between the Larchwoods and the Weir,"
and Other Works
G. P. Putnam's Sons
New York and London
1920
Copyright, 1920, by
G. P. Putnam's Sons
DEDICATED TO
MR. JAMES BOWDEN
WHO HAS FEW EQUALS, EITHER
AS A PUBLISHER, OR AS A FRIEND
PREFACE TO THE AMERICAN EDITION
In sending out this new book to the American public, I feel I am
addressing a sympathetic audience, since other volumes that have
preceded it have been most cordially received, and have added
considerably to my long list of friends on the Western side of the
Atlantic.
At first glance it may seem as though the difference between the
writings of American and British authors is too marked to allow of a
book on Authorship proving useful to both countries--but in reality the
difference is only superficial, and is largely confined to methods of
newspaper journalism, or connected with mannerisms and topical
qualities.
Fundamentally, both nations work on the same lines and acknowledge the
same governing laws in Literature. American authors, no less than
British, derive their inspirations from European classics.
And magazine editors and publishers in both countries are only too
grateful for good work from either side.
No one can teach authors how or what to write; but sometimes it is
possible to help the beginners to an understanding of what it is better
not to write. For the rest I hope the book explains itself.
FLORA KLICKMANN
Fleet Street, London.
CONTENTS
PAGE
PART ONE: THE MSS. THAT FAIL
Why they Fail 3
Three Essentials in Training 11
PART TWO: ON KEEPING YOUR EYES OPEN
A Course in Observation 17
The Assessment of Spiritual Values 24
PART THREE: THE HELP THAT BOOKS CAN GIVE
The Bane of "Browsing" 35
Reading for Definite Data 41
Reading for Style 47
The Need for Enlarging the Vocabulary 58
The Charm of Musical Language 68
Analysing an Author's Methods 78
PART FOUR: POINTS A WRITER OUGHT TO NOTE
Practice Precedes Publication 97
The Reader must be Interested 116
Form should be Considered 130
Right Selection is Important 139
When Writing Articles 144
Suggestions for Style 156
The Ubiquitous Fragment 166
Concerning Local Colour 172
Creating Atmosphere 178
The Method of Presenting a Story 188
Fallacies in Fiction 197
Some Rules for Story-Writing 217
About the Climax 225
The Use of "Curtains" 229
On Making Verse 234
The Function of the Blue Pencil 252
PART FIVE: AUTHOR, PUBLISHER, AND PUBLIC
When Offering Goods for Sale 261
The Responsibility 286
INDEX 297
PART ONE
THE MSS. THAT FAIL
In the Business of Making Literature, the only Quality that
presents itself in Abundance is entirely untrained Mediocrity.
The Lure of the Pen
Why They Fail
In the course of a year I read somewhere about nine thousand stories,
articles and poems. These are exclusive of those read by others in my
office.
Of these nine thousand I purchase about six hundred per annum. The
remainder are usually declined for one of three reasons; either,
They are not suited to the policy and the requirements of the publishing
house, or the periodicals, for which I am purchasing. Or,
They tread ground we have already covered. Or,
They have no marketable value.
The larger proportion of the rejected MSS. come under the last heading.
They are of the "homing" order, warranted to return to their starting
point.
The number that I buy does not indicate the number that I require. In
normal times I could use at any rate double the number that I purchase.
I never have an overstock of the right thing. I never have more than I
can publish of certain-to-sell matter. No publisher or editor ever has.
In the business of Making Literature (and throughout these chapters I
use the word literature in its widest sense) genius is rare.
Nearly-genius is almost as rare. The only quality that presents itself
in abundance is entirely untrained mediocrity.
It may be thought that this applies equally to all departments of the
world's work; but it is not so. While genius is scarce wherever one
looks, I know of only one other vocation where the candidates expect
good pay at the very start without any sort of training, any experience,
any specialised knowledge, or any idea of the simplest requirement of
the business from which they hope to draw an income--the other vocation
being domestic service.
For example: Though thousands of paintings and sketches are offered me
in the course of the year, I cannot recall one instance of an artist
announcing that this is his, or her, first attempt at drawing; all the
work submitted, even the feeblest, shows previous practice or training
of some sort, be it ever so elementary. Yet it is no uncommon thing to
receive with a MS. a letter explaining, "This is the first time I have
ever tried to write anything."
Then again, no one expects to be engaged to play a violin solo at a
concert, when she has had no training, merely because she craves a
public appearance and applause. Yet many a girl and woman writes to an
editor: "This is my first attempt at a poem. I do so hope you will
publish it, as I should so like to see myself in print."
And no one would expect to get a good salary as a dressmaker by
announcing that, though she has not the most elementary knowledge of the
business, she feels convinced that she could make a dress. Yet over and
over again people have asked me to give them a chance, explaining that,
though they were quite inexperienced, they felt they had it in them to
write.
Nevertheless, despite this prevailing idea that we all possess
heaven-sent genius, which is ready to sprout and blossom straight away
with no preparatory work--an idea which gains added weight from the fact
that there are no great schools for the student who desires to enter the
literary profession, as there are for students of art and music--some
training is imperative; and if the would-be writer is to go far, the
training must be rigorous and very comprehensive.
But unlike most other businesses and professions, the novice must train
himself; he can look for very little help from others.
The art student gains information and experience by working with others
in a studio; it gives him some common ground for comparisons; where all
are sketching from the same model, he is able to see work that is
better, and work that is worse, than his own; and probably he is able to
grasp wherein the difference lies.
The music student who is one of several to remain in the room while each
in turn has a pianoforte lesson, hears the remarks of the professor
(possibly a prominent man in his own profession) on each performance,
and can learn a large amount from the criticisms and corrections
bestowed on the others, quite apart from those applying to her own
playing.
But for the would-be author there is no college where the leading
literary lights listen patiently, for an hour or two at a stretch, while
the students read their stories and poems and articles aloud for
criticism and correction. Here and there ardent amateurs form themselves
into small literary coteries for this purpose; but often these either
develop into mutual admiration societies, or fizzle out for lack of a
guiding force.
[Sidenote: Literature is the most Elusive Business in the World]
The difficulty with literature is this: It is the most elusive business
in the world. No one can say precisely what constitutes good literature,
because, no matter how you may classify and tabulate its
characteristics, some new genius is sure to break out in a fresh place;
and no one can lay down a definite course of training that can be relied
on to meet even the average requirements of the average case.
You can set the instrumentalist to work at scales and studies for
technique; the dressmaker can practise stitchery and the application of
scientific measurement; the art student can study the laws governing
perspective, balance of design, the juxtaposition of colour, and a dozen
other topics relative to his art.
And more than this, in most businesses (and I include the professions)
you can demonstrate to the students, in a fairly convincing manner, when
their work is wrong. You can show the girl who is learning dressmaking
the difference between large uneven stitches and small regular ones; the
undesirability of having a skirt two inches longer at one side than it
is at the other. You can indicate to the art student when his subject
is out of drawing, or suggest a preferable choice of colours. And though
these points may only touch the mechanical surface of things, they help
the student along the right road, and are invaluable aids to him in his
studies. True, such advice cannot make good a lack of real genius, yet
it may help to develop nearly-genius, and that is not to be despised.
But with literature, there is so little that is tangible, and so much
that is intangible. Beyond the bare laws that govern the construction of
the language, only a fraction of the knowledge that is necessary can be
stated in concrete terms for the guidance of the student. And because it
is difficult to reduce the art of writing to any set of rules, the
amateur often regards it as the one vocation that is entirely devoid of
any constructive principles; the one vocation wherein each can do
exactly as he pleases, and be a law unto himself, no one being in a
better position than himself to say what is great and what is feeble,
since no one else can quote chapter and verse as authority for making a
pronouncement on the merits--and more particularly the demerits--of his
work.
And yet, nearly all the English-speaking race want to write. The
craving for "self-expression" is one of the characteristics of this
century; and what better medium is there for this than writing? Hence
the lure of the pen.
It is partly because so many beginners do not know where to turn for
criticism, or an opportunity to measure their work with that of others,
that some send their early, crude efforts to editors, hoping to get, at
least, some opinion or word of guidance, even though the MS. be
declined. Yet this is what an editor cannot undertake to do. Think what
an amount of work would be involved if I were to set down my reasons for
declining each of those eight thousand and more MSS. that I turn down
annually! It could not be done, in addition to all the other claims on
one's office time.
[Sidenote: Why the MSS. are Rejected]
But though life would be too short for any editor to write even a brief
criticism on each MS. rejected, certain defects repeat themselves so
often that it is quite possible to specify some outstanding faults--or
rather, qualities which are lacking--that lead to the downfall of one
MS. after another, with the automatic persistency of recurring decimals.
Speaking broadly, I generally find that the MS. which is rejected
because it has no marketable value betrays one or more of the following
deficiencies in its author:--
Lack of any preliminary training.
" " specialised knowledge of the subject dealt with.
" " modernity of thought and diction.
" " the power to reduce thought to language.
" " cohesion and logical sequence of ideas.
" " ability to get the reader's view-point.
" " new and original ideas and themes.
" " the instinct for selection.
" " a sense of proportion.
The majority of such defects can be remedied with study and practice;
and even though the final result may not be a work of genius, it will be
something much more likely to be marketable than the MS. that has
neither knowledge nor training behind it.
Three Essentials in Training
"How am I to set about training for literary work?" is a question that
is put to me most days in the year.
Training comes under three headings: Observation, Reading, and Writing.
The majority of beginners make the mistake of putting writing first; but
before you can commit anything to paper, you must have something in your
head to write down. If you have but little in your brain, your writing
will be worthless.
[Sidenote: We get out of Life what we put into it]
Just as a plant requires special fertilisers if it is to develop fine
blossoms and large fruit, so the mind requires food of exceptional
nourishment if it is to produce something out of the ordinary, something
worth reading.
It is one of the great laws of Nature that, as a general rule, we get
out of life about what we put into it. If a farmer wants bumper crops,
he must apply manure liberally to his land; if a man wants big returns
from his business, he must devote much time and thought and energy to
it. And in the same way, if you want good stuff to come out of your
head, you must first of all put plenty of good stuff in.
But--and this is very important--it is not supposed to come out again in
the same form that it went in! This point beginners often forget. When
sweet peas are fed with sulphate of ammonia, they don't promptly produce
more sulphate of ammonia; they utilise the chemical food to promote much
finer and altogether better flowers. The same principle governs the
application of suitable nourishment to all forms of life--the recipient
retains its own personal characteristics, but transmutes the food into
the power to intensify, enlarge, and develop those personal
characteristics.
In like manner, the food you give your mind must be used to intensify
and enlarge and develop your individuality; and what you write must
reflect your individuality (not to be confused with egoism); it should
not be merely a paraphrase of your reading.
All this is to explain why I put observation and reading before writing.
They are the principal channels through which the mind is fed. And, in
the main, the value of your early literary work will be in direct ratio
to the keenness and accuracy of your observation, and the wisdom shown
in your choice of reading.
You think this sounds like reducing writing to a purely mechanical
process, in which genius does not count?
Not at all. It is merely that the initial stages of training for any
work involve a certain amount of routine and repetition, until we have
acquired facility in expressing our ideas.
In any case, very few of us are suffering from real genius. Ability,
talent, cleverness, are fairly common; but genius is rare. If you
possess genius, you will discover it quite soon, and, what is more
important, other people will likewise discover it. As some one has said,
"Genius, like murder, _will_ out!" You can't hide it.
Meanwhile, it will save time and argument to pretend that you are just
an ordinary being like the rest of us, with everything to learn; you
will progress more rapidly on these lines than if you spend time
contemplating, and admiring, what you think is a Heaven-sent endowment
that requires no shaping.
PART TWO
ON KEEPING YOUR EYES OPEN
One of the drawbacks of an Advanced Civilisation is the
fact that it tends to lessen the power of Observation.
A Course in Observation
Begin your observation course by noting anything and everything likely
to have a bearing on the subject of your writing, and jot down your
observations in the briefest of notes. No matter if it seem a trifling
thing, in the early part of your training it will be well worth your
while to record even the trifles, since this all helps to develop and
focus the faculty for observation.
One of the drawbacks of an advanced civilisation is the fact that it
tends to lessen the power of observation. The average person in this
twentieth century sees next to nothing of the detail of life. We have no
longer the need to cultivate observation for self-protection and
food-finding as in primitive times. Everything is done for us by
pressing a button or putting a penny in the slot, till it is fast
becoming too much of an effort for us even to look (or it was, before
the War); and the ability to look--and to see when we look--is,
consequently, disappearing through disuse.
You will be surprised how much there is in this practice of observation,
once you get started.
[Sidenote: Study Human Characteristics]
For example: If you intend to write a story, you will need to study the
various types of people figuring therein; the distinguishing
characteristics, the method of speaking, and the mental attitude of
each.
The amateur invariably states the colour of a girl's eyes and hair, and
the tint of her complexion, with some sentences about her social
standing and her clothes, and then considers her fully equipped for her
part in the piece. Whereas, in reality, these items are of no importance
so far as a story goes. We really do not mind whether Dinah, in _Adam
Bede_, had violet eyes or grey-green; it is the soul of the woman that
counts. Neither do we trouble whether Portia wore a well-tailored coat
and skirt, or a simple muslin frock lavishly trimmed with Valenciennes;
it is her ready wit, her resourcefulness, and her deep-lying affection
that interest us.
Next in importance to the human beings are the circumstances involved.
Does your heroine decide to leave her millionaire-father's palatial home
and hide her identity in slum-work and a room in a tenement?
You will have to do a fair amount of first-hand observation to get the
details and general "atmosphere" appertaining to a millionaire's
residence and mode of living, and contrast these with the conditions
that represent life in the squalid quarters of a city.
[Sidenote: Environment and Circumstances offer Wide Scope]
Perhaps you will tell me that it is impossible for you to make these
observations, as you do not know your way about any real slum, or you
are not on visiting terms with and any millionaire. That raises another
important question that I hope to deal with later, when we come to the
subject of story-writing. Here I can only say, Don't attempt to write
upon topics you are unable to study at near range.
After all, there are unlimited subjects that are close to everybody's
hand. You may be including a dog in your story. Is he to be a _real_
dog, or that dear, faithful old creature, who has been leading an active
life (in fiction) for a century or more, rescuing the heir when he
tumbles in a pond; apprising the sleeping family upstairs of the fact
that the clothes-horse by the kitchen fire has caught alight; tracking
the burglar to his lair; re-uniting fallen-out lovers by sitting up
beseechingly on his hind legs, and in a hundred other ways making
himself generally useful?
I am fond of dogs, and I never grudge them literary honours; but I
sometimes wish we could get a change of descriptive matter where they
are concerned. What are _you_ proposing to say about the dog? "He ran
joyfully to meet his master, wagging his tail the while"? Something like
that? I shouldn't wonder. That is the beginning and the end of so many
amateur descriptions of a dog; and, judging by the number of times I
have read these words, his poor tail must be nearly wagged off by now.
Instead of being content with this, start making careful observations,
and you will soon have something else to write about. Notice how a dog
talks--with his ears; he can tell you almost anything, once you learn to
read his ears. And when you have noted all the points you can in this
direction, and mastered this part of his language, see what you can
learn from his walk; you can estimate a dog's temper and feelings, his
sorrow, his joy, and the state of his health, by noticing the variations
in his walk. Why, any one dog can provide you with a book full of
observations.
You may say, however, that as your story is to be a short one, you could
never use up a book full of observations if you had them.
[Sidenote: You need a Score of Facts in your Head for each one you put
on Paper]
Very likely; but always remember that you need to have a score of facts
in your head for every one you put down on paper. You must be thoroughly
saturated with a subject before you can write even a brief description
in a telling and convincing manner. Therefore, never be afraid of making
too many notes in your observation-book.
Many of these entries you will never refer to again; the very act of
writing them down will so impress them on your memory that they become a
matter-of-course to you. This in itself is valuable training; it is one
of the processes by which a person may become "well-informed"--an
essential qualification for a good writer.
While over-elaboration of detail in your writing is seldom desirable,
apart from a text-book or a treatise, knowledge of detail is imperative
if that writing is to conjure up situations in the reader's mind and
make them seem vividly real. In describing scenery, for instance, you do
not need to give the name of every bit of vegetation in sight, till your
MS. looks like a botanical dictionary; but it is useful to know those
names, you may require some of them; and until your work is actually
shaping, you cannot tell exactly what you will use and what omit.
[Sidenote: Keen Observation will save you from Pitfalls]
The habit of keen observation will save you from a legion of pitfalls.
The more you train your eyes to see, and your mind to retain what you
have seen, the less chance there is of your putting down inaccuracies.
I have been reading a MS. wherein the heroine--a beautiful girl with a
face like a haunting memory (whatever that may look like)--spent a whole
afternoon lying full-length on the grass, the first sunny day in
February, revelling in the scent of violets near by, and watching the
swallows skimming above her. If the writer had no opportunity to observe
the comings and goings of swallows, she might at least have turned up an
encyclopaedia, when she would have found that swallows do not arrive in
England till well on into April.
Then, after 249 more pages, the beautiful girl finally died of a broken
heart--obviously absurd! In real life she would have died on the very
next page of rheumatic fever and double pneumonia, after lying on the
wet grass all that time!
Frequently, when I point out similar errors to the novice, I get some
such reply as this, "Of course, that reference to swallows was only a
slip of the pen"; or, "After all, it is merely a minor point whether she
lay on the grass or walked along the road; it doesn't really affect the
story as a whole."
True, such discrepancies may be only minor details; but, on the other
hand, they may not. I have noticed, however, that the writer who is
inaccurate on small points is equally liable to inaccuracy where the
main features of the story are concerned; and the writer who does not
know enough about his subject to get his details right seldom knows
enough about it to get any of it right.
The Assessment of Spiritual Values
There is one aspect of life that can only be learnt by observation; a
phase of your training where books and lectures can be of but little
assistance to you. Important as it is that you should note the material
things relating to your subject, it is still more important that you
should train yourself to note the psychological bearings and the
spiritual values of life, since these are often of far more vital
consequence to a story than the plot.
By "spiritual values" I do not necessarily mean anything of a directly
religious quality. I use the term to signify the revelation of mind and
heart and soul of the various characters that a writer presents, as
distinct from a catalogue of externals; the reading of motives, and the
recognition of the forces that are within us, as distinguished from the
chronicling of superficial items.
[Sidenote: The Unseen that Counts]
So often in the world of men and women around us it is the unseen that
counts. Just below the surface life is teeming with motives and aims
and ideals and personality; with problems that involve mixed feelings,
and produce paradox and misjudgment, and apparently irreconcilable
qualities. These may show scarcely a ripple on the outside, and yet be
the real factors that are shaping lives, and influencing the world for
better or for worse, and, incidentally, affecting the whole trend of a
story.
To gauge these abstract qualities and their consequences accurately is
the biggest task of the writer; and according to the amount of such
insight that he brings to bear on his subject, will be the durability of
his work, since this alone is the part that lives. Fashions and
furniture, scenery and architecture, maps and dynasties, laws and
customs, even language and the meaning of words, all change; and the
older grows the world, the more rapid are the changes. The only things
that remain unaltered are the laws of Nature and the longings of the
soul. Hence the only writings that last beyond the changing fashions of
the moment are those that centralise on these fundamental things, giving
secondary place to ephemeral details.
If you want your work to live, it is useless to make the main interest
centre in something that will be out-of-date and passed beyond human
memory within a very little while.
This insight as to the subtleties of life is the quality that gives
vitality to your writing. Without it your characters will be no more
alive than a wax figure in a draper's window, no matter how handsomely
you may clothe them in descriptive matter. Have you ever read a story
wherein the heroine seemed about as real and alive as a saw-dust-stuffed
doll, and the hero had as much "go" in him as a wooden horse? I have,
alas! thousands of them! And the reason for the lifelessness was the
lack in the author of all sense of "spiritual values."
A knowledge of the inner workings of the mind and heart and soul can
only be acquired by close and constant observation. You may remember in
_Julius Caesar_, where Caesar tells Antonio that if he were liable to
fear, the man he should avoid would be Cassius; he describes him thus:
"He is a great observer, and he looks quite through the deeds of men."
It is just this power that the writer needs--the ability to look past
the actions themselves to the motives that prompted them.
It is so easy to record the obvious. What we need to look for is the
truth that is not obvious. For instance, at first sight it may seem
quite easy for us to decide why a person did a certain thing. A woman
makes an irritable remark. Why did she make that irritable remark? Bad
temper! we promptly reply. But perhaps it wasn't bad temper; it may have
been due to ill-health--a bad tooth can generate as much irritability in
half an hour as the worse temper going. Or it may have been caused by
insomnia; or by nerves strained to the breaking-point with trouble and
anxiety. Or the speaker may have been vexed with herself for some action
of her own, and her vexation found vent in this way.
If you were writing a story, the cause of her irritability might be an
important link in the chain of events. And in scores of other
directions, the cause of an action might be infinitely more important in
the working out of your plot than the action itself.
Moreover, if you want your work to appeal to a wide and varied audience,
you must take as your main theme something that is understood by all
conditions of people; something that makes a universal appeal. That is
why the greatest writers make the human heart the pivot of their
stories, as a rule. Readers are primarily interested in the doings of,
and the happenings to, certain people; and very particularly the motives
that led up to the doings and happenings, and the reasons why certain
things were said and done, and the psychological results of the sayings
and doings.
[Sidenote: The Main Theme should make a Universal Appeal]
In the main, it is not of paramount importance to you, when you are
engrossed in a story, whether the scene is laid in Japan among decaying
Buddhist temples, or in a Devonshire village. It is the personality of
the characters, their sorrows and joys, their struggles and love
affairs, and the solution of their human problems that make the
chief claim on your interest. Certainly, the scenery and "local
colour" and inanimate surroundings may influence you favourably or
otherwise--backgrounds and the general "setting" of a story are
valuable, more valuable than the amateur realises; nevertheless, they
are not the main features, and should never be made the main features in
fiction.
Once you grasp the importance of the "spiritual values," in life itself
no less than in writing, you will understand why it is that some books
survive centuries of change and social upheaval, and appeal to all sorts
and conditions of temperaments. When we study Shakespeare at school, we
invariably wonder in our secret heart (even though we daren't voice
such heresy!) what on earth people can see in him. To our immature
intelligence he can be dulness itself, while his style seems
long-winded, and many of his plots appear most feeble affairs beside our
favourite books of adventure. We are not sufficiently developed and
experienced in our school days to be able to understand and appreciate
his greatness, which lies in his amazing knowledge of the human heart
and his grasp of "spiritual values."
[Sidenote: Life is ever offering New Discoveries]
One of the fascinating things about life is the way it is for ever
offering us new discoveries. We never need get to the end of anything.
There are always heights beyond heights, depths below depths, further
recesses to penetrate, fresh things to find out. And nowhere is this
more clearly demonstrated than when we come to the study of human nature
itself. The writer who strives to depict men and women as they really
are is always coming on new surprises; he never arrives at the end of
his observations. And he soon realises how infinitely more important are
the subtle workings of the heart and mind than all the material things
that crowd the outside surface of life.
[Sidenote: To write convincingly one needs Sympathy]
To be able to write convincingly about people, we must know them; to
know them we must live among them, and sympathise with them--for there
is no other way to know and understand the human heart. It is very easy
to ridicule people's weakness, and make cheap sarcasm over their
failings; but it is useless to make your observations with a cynic's
smile. The cynic really gets nowhere; he merely robs life of much of its
beauty, giving nothing in its place.
To write about people so that we grip the hearts of all who read, it is
necessary to look beyond the superficial weaknesses, and below the
temporary failings, to that part of humanity that still bears the image
of the Divine Creator. And you need sympathy to accomplish this.
Would-be authors often tell me that they are sick of their everyday
routine--office work, teaching, nursing, home duties, or whatever it may
be--and long to throw it all up so that they may devote all their time
to writing.
[Sidenote: To know People, we must Live and Work among them]
But you cannot devote all of your time to writing! The beginner never
understands this. A great deal of an author's time is taken up with the
study of people, and a general quest for material for his books.
While you are in the early stages of your writing, it is absolutely
necessary for you that you should be doing some sort of other work in
company with your fellow-creatures, and experiencing the ordinary
routine of life, else how can you possibly get your writing properly
balanced and true to life?
If you try to isolate yourself from the everyday happenings of normal
existence, avoiding the tiresome duties and the irksome routine, merely
keeping your eyes on your MS., or on yourself, or on only the things
that appeal to you, how can you ever expect your work to be in right
perspective? Under such conditions what you write would be bound to give
an incomplete, incorrect view of life, one-sided, and out of all proper
proportion, and--the result could be nothing but a dire failure.
Stay where you are, and make your corner of the universe your special
study.
[Sidenote: How much do you Know of those who are Nearest to You?]
Perhaps you think you know everything that is to be known about people
around you. But do you, I wonder? Do they know everything about
you--your ideals and inner struggles, and aims and aspirations?
I doubt it.
Experience shows that very often the people we know least of all are
those with whom we come into daily contact. We take them for granted. We
do not even trouble to try to understand them. That they should have
doubts and difficulties, heart-aches and hopes and high aspirations,
even as we have, sometimes comes as a surprise to us.
Begin your observations just where you are now. See if you can find the
glint of gold that is always somewhere below the surface in every human
being, if we can but strike the right place. Try to sort out the reasons
and the motives that are thick in the air around you. See if you can
discern another side to a person's character than the one you have
always accepted as a matter of course.
And write down your discoveries and your observations. You will need
them later on.
Here, then, is the first step in training yourself for authorship. It is
only one step, I admit; but you will find it can be made to cover a good
deal of ground.
PART THREE
THE HELP THAT BOOKS CAN GIVE
Steady, quiet, consecutive reading is necessary if we are
to do steady quiet, consecutive thinking; and, without such
thinking, it is impossible for writers to produce anything
worth while.
The Bane of "Browsing"
While a wide range of reading, and a general all-round knowledge of
standard literature are essential, if you hope to become a writer, there
are three directions in which you can specialise with great
advantage--reading for definite data, reading for style, and reading for
the study of technique, _i.e._ to find out how the author does it.
With such matters as reading for recreation we have nothing to do here.
Training for authorship means work, regular work, stiff mental work.
Some amateurs seem to think that a course of desultory dipping into
books is a guarantee of literary efficiency, or an indication of
literary ability.
"I am never so happy as when I am curled up in an armchair surrounded by
books"; or "I do so love to browse among books," girls will tell me,
when they are asking if I can find them a post in my office, or on the
staff of one of my magazines.
It is so difficult for the uninitiated to understand that the business
of writing and making books is one that entails as much close,
monotonous work as any other business; and the mere fact that any one
spends a certain amount of time in reading a bit here and a bit there,
picking up a book for a half-hour's entertainment and throwing it down
the minute it ceases to stimulate the curiosity, is no more preparation
for literary work than an occasional tinkling at a piano, trying a few
bars here and there of chance compositions, would be any preparation for
giving a pianoforte recital or composing a sonata.
[Sidenote: Nature's Revenge for the Misuse of the Brain]
I have nothing to say against dipping into books as a
recreation--refreshing one's memory among old friends, or looking for
happy discoveries in new-comers--I have passed hosts of pleasant
half-hours in this way myself when my brain was too tired to work, and I
wanted relaxation. But such reading is not work; neither is it training
in any sort of sense--it is merely a pastime; and, as such, must only be
taken in moderation. It should be the exception, not a habit.
If you allow yourself to get into this way of haphazard reading, in time
you lose the ability to do any consecutive reading, and, as a natural
consequence, it would be utterly impossible for you to do any
consecutive thinking,--an essential for connected writing.
The reason for this is quite clear, if you think it over. When you
persistently skim a legion of books, or dip into them casually, and live
mentally on a diet of snippets--a form of reading that has been the
vogue of late years--you are giving yourself mental indigestion that is
wonderfully akin to the indigestion that would follow a food diet on
similar lines. If your meals always consisted of snacks taken at all
sorts of odd times--fried fish followed by rich chocolates, with a
nibble at a mince tart, a few spoonfuls of preserved ginger, a trifle of
roast duck, some macaroni cheese, a little salmon and cucumber, some
grouse, oyster patties, and ice-cream on top of that--your stomach
wouldn't know what to do with it all, and---- I need say no more about
it!
In the same way, when you read first one thing and then another, piling
poems on love scenes, then adding a motley, disconnected selection of
scraps of information (of doubtful use in most cases) with sensational
episodes and pessimistic outpourings, irrespective of any sort of
sequence or logical connection, your mind doesn't know what to do with
the conglomeration; for no sooner has your thinking machine set one
series of thoughts in motion, than it has to switch off that current
and start on something else. Eventually the brain gives up the struggle;
the thoughts cease to work; you lose the power to remember--much less to
assimilate--what you read.
In the end, you can't read! Nature is bound to take this course in sheer
self-defence; the only alternative would be lunacy!
[Sidenote: Why so many want Books that Shriek]
You can see all this exemplified, pitifully, in the present day. With
the great rush of cheap books (and still cheaper education) that flooded
the country at the beginning of this century, the masses simply gorged
themselves with indiscriminate reading-matter--of a sort, (and so did
many who ought to have known better). Gradually they lost the taste for
straight-forward simple stories of human life as it really is; things
had to be blood-curdling and highly sensational. The type of
reading-matter that had formerly been associated solely with the "dime
novel" and depraved youths of the criminal class, found its way into all
sorts and conditions of bindings, and all sorts and conditions of homes.
People's minds were getting so blunted that they simply could not follow
anything unless it was punctuated with lurid lights; they could not
grasp anything unless it was crude and bizarre and monstrous; they
could not hear anything of the Still Small Voice that is the essence of
all beauty in literature, art or nature. Everything had to be in shouts
and shrieks to arrest their attention.
Finally, the masses lost the power to read at all, and we are now living
in an age when everything must be presented in the most obvious
medium--pictures. Few people can concentrate on reading even the day's
news--it has to be given in pictures. The picture-palace and the
music-hall _revue_ (which is another form of spectacular entertainment)
stand for the mental stimulus that is the utmost a large bulk of the
population are equal to to-day.
We delude ourselves by saying that we live in such a busy age, we have
not _time_ to read. But it is not our lack of time so much as our lack
of brain power that is the trouble; and that brain power has been
dissipated, primarily, by over-indulgence in desultory reading that was
valueless.
All this is to explain why a course of indiscriminate "browsing" is no
recommendation for the one who wishes to take up literary work. Steady,
quiet, consecutive reading is necessary if we are to do steady, quiet,
consecutive thinking; and, without such thinking, it is impossible to
write anything worth whiles.
Let your reading extend over a wide range, certainly--the wider the
better, so long as you can cover the ground thoroughly--for an author
should be well-read. But take care that you do _read_; don't mistake
"nibbling" for reading. Far better know but one poem of Browning
thoroughly and understandingly, than have on your shelves a complete set
of his works into which you dip at random, when the mood seizes you,
with no clear idea as to what any of it is about.
Reading for Definite Data
Turning from reading in general to the specialised reading I have
suggested--the first heading explains itself. Many subjects that you
write upon will require a certain amount of preliminary reading--some a
great deal--in order that you may accumulate facts, or get the details
of climate and scenery correct, or the mode of life prevalent at a
specified time.
Such a book as Mrs. Florence Barclay's novel, _The White Ladies of
Worcester_--with the scene laid in the twelfth century--must have
necessitated a great deal of research among the historical and church
records of that era, and the reading of books bearing on that period, in
order to get all the details accurate, and to conjure up as convincingly
as the author has done, an all-pervading feeling of the spirit of those
times.
All stories dealing with a bygone period require much preliminary
reading, in order that one may become imbued with the spirit of that
particular age, as well as familiarised with its manners and customs and
mode of speech.
Most amateurs seem to think that a plentiful sprinkling of expletives
about the pages, with the introduction of a few historic names and
events, are sufficient to produce the required old-world atmosphere. I
could not possibly count the number of MSS. I have read where the rival
suitor for the hand of "Mistress Joan" says "Gadsook" in every other
sentence, while the estimable young man who, like her father, is loyal
to the king, is hidden away in the secret-panel room.
But tricks such as these do not give the story an authentic atmosphere.
You can only get this by systematic study of the literature relating to
the period.
And others, besides novelists, find it advantageous to study historical
records. I remember when Mr. William Canton (the author of those
charming studies of child life, _W. V._, _Her Book_, and _The Invisible
Playmate_) was engaged on the big history of the British and Foreign
Bible Society, and was writing the account of the Society's Bible work
in Italy, not only did he read all their official reports, and the
correspondence bearing on the subject, but, in order to get the work in
its right perspective as regards the events of the times, he re-read
Italian history for the period he was dealing with. Thus he enabled
himself to gauge much more comprehensively the significance of the Bible
Society's work in that country when viewed in relation to national
happenings, public thought, and the attitude of mind of the Italian
people.
[Sidenote: Preliminary Reading helps you to judge the Worth of your
Information]
The writer of articles or books on general subjects (as distinct from
fiction) must obviously do a good deal of research. And such reading for
definite information has one value that is not always recognised by the
amateur--it may let him know whether it is worth while to write the
article at all!
Suppose, for example, that you have decided to write an article on "The
Evolution of the Chimney-Pot." It is a foregone conclusion that you
think you have a certain amount of exclusive information in your own
head about chimney-pots, else there would be no call for you to write on
this subject, since the public does not want articles containing nothing
more than what has been published already.
You have collected some facts and information about chimney-pots,
however, that you think are interesting and quite new. So far, good.
Nevertheless, you will be wise to ascertain what has already been
written on the subject; it may throw fresh light on your own gleanings.
First, you will probably look up the subject in a good
encyclopaedia--failing one of your own, consult one at a public library.
If there is anything at all under this heading, it is just possible
there may be cross-references that will be useful, and allusions to
other works on the subject, which it would be well for you to get hold
of if you can. Then you will also remember that Ruskin has written "A
Chapter on Chimneys" in his _Poetry of Architecture_, with some
delightful illustrations. And in the course of your explorations, some
one may be able to direct you to other works on the subject, one book so
often leads on to another. In this way you find you are absorbing quite
a large amount of interesting information.
Yet presently you may make the very important discovery that what you
were intending to say has already been said by others, and possibly said
in a better and more authoritative manner than you could pretend to at
present!
On the other hand, you may still consider that you have exclusive
information; in that case do your best with it, and you will find your
reading has given you a quickened interest and wider grasp of your
subject. But if, in absolute honesty to yourself, you know you have
nothing new to contribute to the information that has already been
published, then do not attempt to offer your article for publication.
Write it up, by all means, as a journalistic exercise for your own
improvement; it will be helpful if you try how far you can seize, and
sum up concisely, the important points that you came across in your
various readings on the subject. _But don't attempt to pass off writing
of this description as original matter._ Such methods never get you far.
Even though the Editor may not have studied chimney-pots in detail, and
does not recognise that your "copy" is practically a _rechauffe_ of
other people's writings, some of the readers will know that it contains
nothing original, and will lose no time in telling him so. There is one
cheery thing about the public, no matter how busy it may be with its own
personal affairs, and preoccupied with a war, or labour troubles, a
Presidential election, or little trifles like that, it most faithfully
keeps an Editor informed if anything printed in his pages does not meet
with its entire approval!
And when an Editor finds he has been taken in with stale material, he
naturally marks that contributor for future remembrance.
It is well to bear in mind that one of the most valuable assets in a
writer's outfit is a reputation for absolute reliability. Smart
practice, trickery, clever dodges, may get a hearing once, even
twice--but they have no future whatever.
Let it become a recognised thing that whatever you offer for publication
is new matter resulting from your own personal knowledge and
investigation, and matter that is sure to interest a section of the
general public; that you have verified every detail, and have
ascertained, to the best of your ability, that the subject has not been
dealt with in this particular way before;--then you are sure of a place
somewhere in a mild atmosphere, if not actually in the sun!
Also, common sense should tell you that you are checking the development
of your own ability, when you let yourself down (no less than the
publisher) by trying to pass off other people's brain-work as your own.
It doesn't pay either way.
Reading for Style
Reading for the improvement of style will involve various types of
literature. In order to know what you should read, you need to know in
which particular direction you are weakest. In the main, however, I find
that all amateurs require to cultivate--
1. A simple, clear, direct mode of expression.
2. Modern language and idiom--in the best sense.
3. A wide vocabulary.
4. An ear for musical, rhythmic sentences.
And equally they need to avoid--
1. Other people's mannerisms.
2. Long paragraphs and involved sentences.
3. Pedantry and a display of personal learning.
4. Hackneyed phrases.
5. Modern slang.
You may not be able to detect any corresponding weaknesses in your own
writings; but, if you have had no special training in literary work, I
can safely assure you they are there--some of them, possibly all of
them! In any case, no particular harm will result if you assume that
your writing will stand a little improvement under each of these
headings, and start to work accordingly.
[Sidenote: The Beginner Seldom uses Simple, Modern English]
In the first chapter I mentioned a lack of modernity in style as a
frequent defect in the MSS. declined by publishers; unless you handled
stories and articles all day long as an editor does you would never
credit how widespread is the failing.
It is a curious fact that only a very small proportion of people can
write as they actually speak; those who do so usually belong to the
poorest of the uneducated classes, or they are experienced literary
craftsmen.