girl, who had taken her B.A., came to me with an urgent request that I
would help her to a start in journalism. If only I would give her the
smallest opening, she was sure she would get on; she was willing to try
her hand at anything, if only--etc.
At the moment we were proposing to publish an article on the nearly
extinct London "Cabby." I had already arranged with some typical cabmen
to be at a certain cab-shelter on a given day, to be interviewed. As
this girl was so keen to try her hand at writing up a given subject, I
asked her if she would care to tackle the "Cabmen" article, explaining
that we wanted a simple straightforward account of their work and
experiences, the various drawbacks of the profession, any curiosities in
the way of passengers they had come across, and similar particulars
calculated to arouse public interest in the men.
She was charmed with the idea, and grateful for the chance to get a
start. And she said she quite understood the simple, chatty style of
article I wanted.
A week later the article arrived. And oh, how that girl had slaved over
it, too; it seemed to me she had tried to include in it everything she
knew! It started with an eight-line Greek quotation. It gave historical
details of the city of London; there were references to Roman
charioteers and the Olympic games, extracts from Chaucer and other
authors equally respectable. Indeed, there seemed to be something of
everything in the article--excepting information about the cabmen. What
little she had written about them, poor men, was swamped by the display
of her own knowledge.
Yet it was difficult to make her understand that there was something
incongruous in the association of broken-down old cabmen with a Greek
extract; that the one topic created a false atmosphere for the other;
while equally it was unsuitable to introduce Greek into a general
magazine, seeing that the larger proportion of the grown-ups among the
reading public had forgotten all the Greek they ever knew.
Unpractised journalists are apt to overload their articles with data
that has no immediate connection with the subject in hand, even though
it may be distantly related. Such inclusions often weaken the whole, as
they confuse rather than enlighten the reader.
One other caution is necessary. Avoid quoting from other people's
writings. With some amateurs this amounts to a most irritating mania.
Now and then, an apt quotation may serve to enforce a point, but the
beginner should be sparing in their use.
Remember that people, as a rule, do not care to pay for what they have
already read elsewhere! Also, a publisher only reckons to purchase
original matter (apart from books that are avowedly compilations).
In any case, you are not gaining practice in original writing if you are
merely copying out what some one else has written.
The Reader Must Be Interested
The first essential in any publication is that it shall interest people,
especially the people who, it is hoped, will buy it. Every book does not
appeal to the same type of reader; but every book should appeal to
_some_ type of reader, and it should interest that type of reader, or it
will prove a failure.
This does not necessarily mean that it must keep the reader wrought up
to a high pitch of excitement, or squirming with laughter, or bathed in
tears--though a judicious mixture of these things may contribute much to
the success of your work. It means that what you propose to tell people
must be something they will want to hear; and when you start to tell it
to them, you must tell it in such a way that they will be keen for you
to continue.
Beginners often think the main point is their own interest in what they
write. It is certainly desirable that we ourselves should be interested
in what we write, otherwise the chances are it will not be worth
reading; but it is still more important that what we write should
interest other people. I have known a book to sell well, though the
author was thoroughly bored when writing it; but I have never known a
book to sell well if the public were thoroughly bored when trying to
read it!
[Sidenote: If your Writings do not Grip, they will not Sell]
And this necessity for interesting the reader applies to every class of
writing. It is useless to write a scientific treatise in such a dull way
that the student is not sufficiently attracted to read the second
chapter; it is useless to write a religious article in such a
stereotyped, conventional manner that nobody gets beyond the second
paragraph, and everybody is quite willing to take the rest as read; it
is useless to write such vague insipid verse that the reader does not
even take the trouble to find out what it is all about; and it is
useless to write feeble fiction that lands the reader nowhere in
particular, at the end of several chapters.
If you cannot grip, and then hold, the reader's attention, your writings
will not be read.
And if they are not read, they will not sell.
You may think this last remark a backward way of putting it, and that a
book must sell before it can be read. But several people read it before
a copy is actually sold, and often a good deal depends on the verdict of
these people. It is read by the publisher, or his editor (sometimes
several of them); if they decide that it does not interest them, and
that it is not likely to interest the public--where are you?
Even if you determine, after your MS. has been declined by a few dozen
publishers, to pay for its publication yourself, and in this way get it
into print, there are the reviewers to be thought of; should they be of
the same opinion as the publishers who declined it, and find it so
lacking in interest that they never trouble to finish it, and ignore it
entirely in their review columns--that, again, is unfortunate for you!
Among other people who may read it, there are the publisher's
travellers. If it fails to interest them they can hardly grow so
enthusiastic over it, when displaying it to the bookseller, as they do
over another book that kept them sitting up all night to finish it!
More than this, a keen, intelligent bookseller reads many of the books
on his counter, in order that he may know what to recommend his
customers when they ask him for a book of a definite type. Indeed, he is
often supplied with "advance copies" by the publisher. If he finds a
volume engrossing, you may rely on his introducing it to his customers;
and if the purchasers of the earliest copies are captivated by it, they
will certainly talk about it and urge their acquaintances to read it,
and send it to their friends on dates when gifts are due.
Thus you see a book really must be read before it has a chance of any
sale.
Beginners often think the all-important thing is to get their MS. set up
in type; that once it is published the public will buy it and read it as
a matter of course. But the public won't, unless it interests them. And
no matter how much money an author may be able to expend on the
production of a book, it will bring him little satisfaction if that book
does not sell, and he sees the major portion of the edition eventually
cleared out as a "remainder," or dumped in stacks on his door-step, when
the publisher can give it shelf-room no longer.
[Sidenote: The Personal Outlook must be Taken into Account]
To interest people you must write on subjects of which they know
something, or subjects which in some way make an appeal to them. You
seldom succeed in interesting them if you write of things quite outside
their usual range of thought or ideals or aspirations. To ensure some
attention from your audience, it is imperative that this matter of
personal outlook be taken into account.
A subject may be of enthralling interest to you, but if it is not in any
way likely to interest your readers from a personal standpoint--if it
has no connection with their spiritual or material life, if it makes no
appeal to them on the score of beauty, if they cannot by any stretch of
imagination see themselves in a leading part--then it is risky to make
that the subject of an early article or book. When you are
well-established, and recognised as a capable writer, you can take your
chance with any exotic subject you please; but I do not advise it at the
beginning of your career.
This does not mean that out-of-the-way subjects should never be chosen.
Obviously life would be deadly monotonous if we were always trotting
round the same circle. Novelty is most desirable; monotony is fatal to
success. But it must be novelty that is linked in some way with the
reader's life.
Let us suppose you are absorbed in the study of a certain new germ--a
germ that is responsible for much mortality among tadpoles. Not only
have you discovered the existence of this germ but you have taken its
name and address, inspected its birth certificate, secured its
photograph, insisted on knowing its age and where the family go to
school, ascertained its average food ration, noted its climatic
preferences, and many other useful facts. All this would be very
interesting to persons who are rearing frogs; but as such people are few
in number, it would scarcely attract the bulk of the reading public,
hence you could not expect a book on the subject to have a large sale;
nor would an article be likely to find a resting place in a magazine or
newspaper that aimed to attract the general public. The subject would
have no interest for the majority of people, because once we have left
our unscientific youth behind, tadpoles are generally as remote from our
life as the North Pole.
But, suppose you suddenly discover that these same germs are
communicated by tadpoles to water-cress, and therefore directly
responsible for hay fever or whooping-cough (or something equally
conclusive); you will find the general public all attention in an
instant, since water-cress and whooping-cough make a personal claim on
most of us. And in that case your writings would find a market at once.
[Sidenote: A Novel must have "Grit" Somewhere in its Composition]
The same ruling applies to fiction. Study any successful novelist, and
you will see how his knowledge of the things that appeal to men and
women guided him in the choice of a subject, and his manner of
presenting it.
Some beginners think a peculiar plot, or a bizarre background, or an
eccentric subject is more likely to command attention than familiar
topics; but that depends entirely on what there is in it likely to
appeal to the reader and rivet his attention. Mere eccentricity or
peculiarity will not in itself ensure the reader's permanent interest;
behind the externals there must be something with more "grit" in it.
While newness of idea is much to be desired, and a breaking-away from
hackneyed scenes and types should be aimed for, there must be a strong
underlying link to connect the unusual idea with the reader's sympathies
and mental attitude. You may lay the scene of your story in the Stone
Age, or make your hero and heroine some never-heard-of-before dwellers
in the moon; but unless you can interweave some fundamental human trait,
or some soul longing that will make such a story understandable to
ordinary humanity, it will not interest average readers, since they know
very little about the tastes and manners and customs of the folks who
lived in the Stone Age; neither are they likely to be at all convinced,
nor particularly excited, because you tell them certain circumstances
about beings, said to be in the moon, who could never possibly come
their way.
[Sidenote: Mere Eccentricity will not hold the Public]
Even though a few people may at first be attracted by some eccentricity
on your part (and, after all, if we only shriek loud enough, some one is
certain to turn round and look at us), there is no lasting quality in
such methods of catching attention.
A troupe of pierrots at the seaside may get themselves up in a garb
bizarre enough to give points to the cubists; but unless they also
provide a fair programme, they will not retain an audience. After the
first glance at their peculiarities, the public will stroll farther
along the parade to the much plainer-looking company, if that company
provide a better entertainment.
There must be "body" in the goods you offer the public, apart from
qualities that are only superficial, such as a weird or unusual setting.
In some cases an author's strong appeal to human interest has even
borne him aloft over actual defects.
[Sidenote: Why Fame has sometimes Overlooked Defects]
The verses of Ann and Jane Taylor could never be called poetry; yet most
of the incidents recorded touch a sympathetic chord in every child's
life, and each "moral" emphasises exactly the claims of justice that are
recognised with surprising clearness by even the youngest; hence the
poems have a personal interest for any normal, healthy-minded child.
And, in consequence, they have lived for over a hundred years.
In certain of his books Ruskin wrote much about pictures--pictures that
could only interest a small proportion of the general public, because so
few are able to go and see the pictures in the Continental churches and
galleries. Moreover, some of his art criticism is considered worthless
by many artists. Yet Ruskin has been, and still is, universally read.
Why?
Because, in addition to his erroneous estimate of certain artists, and
his prejudices against others, and his remarks about unfamiliar pictures
many of his readers have never seen, he continually touched on matters
in which we all have a very personal interest--our duty to God, our
relations to our fellow-men, the inner workings of our mind, the
problems of the soul, the beauties and messages of Nature, and scores of
other topics that are of the keenest interest to every thoughtful
person. Ruskin himself complained that people did not read him for what
he had to say, but for the way in which he said it. Yet he was not quite
correct in this. People read him for something besides his style; they
often read him for the side issues, the comments by the way, the little
vignettes and pen-pictures of scenery, the great truths embodied in a
few sentences--matters that strike home to us all, even when the main
purport of a book may appeal only to a few.
Having recognised the need for interesting the reader, decide next the
means by which you hope to do this.
[Sidenote: Decide the Means by which you will Endeavour to Interest]
It may be a merry jingle nonsense rhymes that you intend shall please by
their very absurdity; or it may be the voicing of some tragedy haunting
many human lives that you rely on to touch the human heart; or the
description of some scene of beauty that you feel will be the main
attraction of your writing; or perhaps it is the unselfishness of the
hero, the strong courage of the heroine, or the ingenuity of the
villain that is to be its outstanding feature.
Whatever it may be--keep it well in view, and always work up to it. The
trouble with so many amateurs is their tendency to forget, before they
are half-way through their MS., the ideas with which they started!
[Sidenote: Settle on Your Audience]
The class of reader whom you hope to attract is another point to be
taken into consideration. The literature that appeals to the factory
girl is not the type calculated to enthuse the business man; the book
that delights the Nature lover might be voted "insufferably dull" by the
woman who likes to fancy herself indispensable to smart society.
While we do not, as a rule, write only for one small section of society,
there are certain divisions, nevertheless, that must be recognised; and
the beginner who is not sufficiently versed in his craft to be able to
work in broad sweeps on a big canvas that can be seen and understood by
all, is wise to observe definite limitations, and work within a
clearly-marked area.
You must decide whether a story is for the schoolgirl or her mother;
whether you are writing for those who crave sensation, or for those who
like quiet, thoughtful, restrained reading; whether your article is for
the student who already knows something about the matter, or for the
general reader whom you wish to interest in your theme.
Having settled who are to be your readers--do not let them slip your
memory while you address several other conflicting audiences from time
to time. Writers of books for children are especial sinners in this
respect, frequently introducing passages that are quite outside the
child's purview, and obviously better suited to adults.
[Sidenote: Be sure of your Object]
Your object in writing should be definitely settled before you start on
your MS. Is it to instruct, or to help, or to entertain? Is it to
provide excitement, or to act as a soothing restorative to tired nerves
and brain? Is it to expose some social wrong, or to enlist sympathy for
suffering and misfortune? Is it to make people smile, or to make them
weep? Is it to induce a light-hearted and care-free frame of mind, or to
make the reader think? Is it to pander to a vicious taste, or to foster
clean ideals?
Inexperienced writers often seem to think there is no need for any
defined purpose in their work, unless they are issuing an appeal for
charity, or writing an article that is to combat some special evil. Yet
everything we write should have a purpose. Unfortunately, we have
dropped into a habit of ticketing a work "a book with a purpose" when it
deals particularly with religious or social propaganda; whereas every
book should be a book with a purpose, or it will not be worth the paper
it is written upon. You must have some reason for what you write, or
some object which you keep in view, if you are to make any impression on
the reader.
Many of you who are beginners will probably explain that your object in
writing is solely to entertain (and a very good object it is). In that
case, see to it that your writing _is_ entertaining. Don't let it be
flat and colourless and tepid for pages at a stretch.
But you must remember that every book should be entertaining. This is as
much a primary necessity as that every book should be grammatical. It is
another way of saying that every book must interest people. Yet how few
amateurs stop to consider whether what they write is really
entertaining?
Ask yourself, after your MS. is completed, "If I saw this in print,
should I be so impressed with it that I should write off at once to my
friends and urge them to buy it, and mention it to all my acquaintances
as something well worth their getting and reading?" If not--why not?
If you can criticise your own work dispassionately in this way, it will
help you to detect some of your own weak points. But, unfortunately, so
few of us can look dispassionately upon the children of our own brain!
Form Should Be Considered
Form which plays a very important part in the construction of
literature, means shape and order; it means also definite restrictions.
Though we do not realise it at first, these restrictions are
particularly desirable. Without them, we might go writing on and on,
till no one could follow us in our meanderings, the brain would be
worn-out with the attempt. Yet these same restrictions are what the
novice most resents, or at any rate is inclined to flout.
Nevertheless, you must abide by certain rules if your work is to be
readable and profitable.
[Sidenote: Established Rules save our Wasting Time on Experiments]
You may regard all rules as arbitrary. I know how inclined one is, when
only just beginning to feel one's feet, to kick down every sort or prop
and barrier and sign-post and ledge, in order to run riot, without let
or hindrance, over all the earth. But we cannot do this when we are only
learning to walk, without tumbling down and acquiring bruises; and then
we lose a certain amount of time in picking ourselves up and getting
our bearings again.
While the thought of starting out on brand-new adventure, without any
one's advice or dictation, is very enticing, the wise person is he who
first of all avails himself of the discoveries already made by other
folk (a time-saving policy to say the least of it). Then, when he has
assimilated as much as he can of what others before him have found out,
he can experiment on his own, and start on a voyage of discovery into
truly unknown lands. But it is sheer waste of energy to go pioneering
over land that has already been thoroughly investigated, and mapped out,
by men and women who have gone before us.
And although we may consider the limitations of Form in Art as quite
superfluous in our own particular case, it is well to get thoroughly
acquainted with them, bearing in mind the fact that thousands of writers
for centuries past have been handling the subject, experimenting along
these same lines, often asking the same questions that we are asking.
And all whose opinions were worth anything came to the same conclusion,
viz:--that strict attention to Form is necessary in all creative work,
if that work is to have lasting value.
Therefore you might as well accept this at the outset, at any rate until
you have reached the stage where you can do exactly as you please and
still command the attention of an admiring universe.
[Sidenote: The Three-Part Basis]
All the master-minds seem to agree that a story, whether long or short,
should consist of three main parts. Indeed most of the art-products of
the brain are constructed on a three-part basis. Experience has shown
that this form is the most satisfying to the mind--and remember, one of
the essentials of a work of art is that it shall satisfy the mind with
that sense of fitness and completeness and appropriateness, so very hard
to define exactly in words, and yet so necessary to our enjoyment of
anything.
A painting has foreground, middle distance and background. A musical
composition, if short, has generally a first part in one key, a second
part in the minor or a related key, and a third part that is often an
amplification of the first part with additional matter that brings it to
a satisfactory conclusion. If the composition be lengthy, such as a
sonata or symphony, its First Movement, Slow Movement and Finale are
labeled for all to understand.
The three-volume novel of our grandmothers' day was a recognition of
the desirability of definite division. And although we do not now spread
our stories over so much paper, nor trim them with such wide margins and
three sets of covers, the three parts are still there, and in many cases
the author still marks them plainly for the reader, by dividing his work
into specified sections.
Sometimes we find a 4th Act, and a 5th, in a play, just as we sometimes
have four movements in a sonata; but in most cases the extra act is
really only an episode, not a main division in itself, and usually
belongs to the second part.
[Sidenote: The Divisions of a Story]
Broadly speaking, the divisions of a story may be ticketed--
1. Starting things.
2. Developing things.
3. Accomplishing things.
The first part is devoted to introducing the characters; starting them
to work, according to some pre-arranged scheme in the author's mind;
laying in the background, and generally "getting acquainted."
In the second part, the scheme or plot is developed; complications and
side issues, contrasting episodes and by-play may be introduced. This is
the place for the author to exercise all his ingenuity in seeming to
wander farther and farther from the solution of the problem of the
story, while in reality he is ever drawing the reader towards it.
The third part is concerned with the actual solution of the problem, and
shows how all the previous happenings helped to bring about the climax
with which the story should end.
[Sidenote: Length must be Taken into Consideration]
The three parts may, or may not, be about equal in length; but if one is
longer than the other, it should be the middle part. It is never well to
introduce delays in the first part, nor are they desirable in the last
part.
To be complex or episodical at the start is unwise; the reader likes to
get well under way moderately early, to know who everybody is and what
they are after. When your story is fairly launched, you can lengthen it
with diversions, descriptions, dialogues, and episodes, and, granted
they are interesting and have a direct bearing on the story, the reader
will not complain.