during most of her life her occupation was that of a teacher. She wrote
always before she taught, and in the intervals of leisure she had,--she
used to say because her head and pen would not keep still. She always
wished for more leisure to write, but was obliged to do something that
insured an immediate return in money,--in fact, she had always to "work
for a living." So, it was her habit to take a book or a portfolio in her
lap, and write when and where she could. She did not write at night,
because, she said, she had learned that she must sleep. She often forced
herself to write, sometimes through an entire day, although the result
was not usually so satisfactory to herself. She used to keep writing,
even if she felt a little ill and tired, because of the imperative
"must," and because she could forget her bad feelings in her subject.
She began to write as a little child,--verses chiefly,--and always
preferred writing to doing anything else. Most of the things she wrote
seemed to her to come of themselves, poems especially.
To the large number of those who prefer the daytime to the artificial
light of the evening or the night must be added Rudolf von Gottschall,
German historian, novelist, and essayist. While at work he is in the
habit--that is at times--of chewing paper. He writes with ease and
great speed. He often composes when disinclined to work, compelled by
his occupation as a critic and journalist. Only when he is writing
poetry he must be in good spirits. He devotes about five hours a day to
literary work, exclusive of letter-writing and the discharge of his
editorial duties.
Before committing her manuscripts to the press, the novelist, Marian
Tenger (a pseudonym which stands for the name of a lady of the highest
German aristocracy), reads them over repeatedly, and makes many
alterations. It seems incredible to her that any author, who is attached
to his profession, should write fair copy at once, making no skeleton of
his work whatever. She invents dialogues most easily when she is
perambulating the room. When disinclined to write, she refrains from
touching a pen. Sometimes weeks elapse before she resumes her usual
occupation--writing; but when she does so, it is with delight. She never
writes for more than five hours daily.
Oliver Wendell Holmes prefers the morning from nine o'clock until noon
for work. He used to write evenings, but of late he has not done so. He
sometimes plans his work beforehand, but is apt to deviate more or less
from the outline he has laid down. He uses no stimulants at his work,
unless his cup of coffee is so considered. He spends sometimes two or
three, sometimes four or five, hours a day at his writing-table. He very
often forces himself to write when he has an uncompleted task before
him. He must have a pen in his hand when he is composing in prose or
verse--it seems a kind of conductor, without which his thoughts will not
flow continuously in proper order.
Julius Wolffe, the German poet, belongs to those who never work at
night. He writes from early in the morning until the late hours of the
afternoon. He makes an outline, which, however, is almost equivalent to
fair copy, since very few additions and alterations are ever made. While
at work he moderately smokes cigars. When he is absorbed in cogitation
on a subject in hand, he often walks up and down his room. He writes
with great facility, for he never treats of topics that are not
congenial to him. He is a very industrious man; every day finds him at
his writing-desk, where he spends from eight to nine hours out of the
twenty-four.
The work of Edmund Gosse being multiform and very pressing, he has no
choice between the daytime and the night, and must use both. The central
hours of the day being given up to his official business for the
government, which consists of translation from the various European
languages, only the morning and the evening remain for literary work.
His books have mainly been written between eight and eleven P. M., and
corrected for the press between nine and ten A. M. He finds the
afternoon almost a useless time. In his estimation, the physical
clockwork of the twenty-four hours seems to run down about four P.
M.,--at least, such is his experience. He makes no written skeleton or
first draft. His first draft is what goes to the printers, and commonly
with very few alterations. He rounds off his sentences in his head
before committing them to paper. He uses no stimulant at work. He drinks
wine twice a day, but after dinner he neither eats nor drinks. He has
found this habit essential to his health and power of work. The only
exception he makes is that, as he is closing for the night,--a little
before eleven o'clock,--he takes several cups of very strong tea, which
he has proved by experience to be by far the best sedative for his
nerves. If he goes to bed immediately after this strong tea, at the
close of a hard day's work, he generally sleeps soundly almost as soon
as his head is on the pillow. Coffee keeps him awake, and so does
alcohol. He has tried doing without wine, but has always returned to it
with benefit. He has entirely given up tobacco, which never suited him.
He can work anywhere, if he is not distracted. He has no difficulty in
writing in unfamiliar places--the waiting-room of a railway station or a
rock on the seashore suits him as well (except for the absence of books
of reference) as the desk in his study. He cannot do literary or any
other brain-work for more than three hours on a stretch, and believes
that a man who will work three hours of every working-day will
ultimately appear to have achieved a stupendous result in bulk, if this
is an advantage. But, then, he must be rapid while he is at work, and
must not fritter away his resources on starts in vain directions. Gosse
is utterly unable to write to order,--that is to say, on every occasion.
He can generally write, but there are occasions when for weeks together
he is conscious of an invincible disinclination, and this he never
opposes. Consequently, he is by temperament unfitted for journalism, in
which he has, he thinks, happily, never been obliged to take any part.
As for Mr. Gosse's verse, it gets itself written at odd times, wholly
without rule or precedent, and, of course, cannot be submitted to rule;
But his experience is that the habit of regular application is
beneficial to the production of prose.
Felix Dahn, whose fertile fancy conjures up romances of life in ancient
Rome, always writes by the light of day. He writes with great facility
and rapidity; and devotes nine hours a day to literary work. His
manuscript goes to the printer as it is originally composed, and he
seldom alters a line after it is once committed to paper.
Albert Traeger, a celebrated German poet, writes in the
afternoon,--after three o'clock, by preference. When composing prose, he
writes fair copy at once; for poems, however, he makes an outline, which
is hardly ever altered, since he completes every line in his head before
he writes it down. While at work he constantly smokes very strong
cigars, and is in the habit of sipping black coffee from time to time.
The poet is a ready writer, but never pens a single sentence unless he
feels disposed to work. Sometimes months pass before he takes up the
neglected pen again.
That excellent writer of short stories, Sarah Orne Jewett, composes in
the afternoon. She does not make a formal outline of her work, but has a
rough plan of it in her own head, depending most upon a knowledge of the
chief characters. She writes for about four hours a day, and often finds
the first ten or fifteen minutes' work an effort, but after that she can
almost always go on easily.
Thomas Hardy prefers the night for working, but finds the use of daytime
advisable, as a rule. He follows no plan as to outline, and uses no
stimulant excepting tea. His habit is to remove boots or slippers as a
preliminary to work. He has no definite hours for writing, and only
occasionally works against his will.
W. H. Riehl, who, besides being a professor at the University of Munich,
is a famous novelist, always writes by daylight. He carefully outlines
his work beforehand, and repeatedly revises it before it is printed.
When engaged in the labor of composition, he smokes one cigar--no more.
He invents easily, but is very painstaking when writing down his
thoughts, mercilessly erasing whatever does not suit him. He takes a pen
to hand whenever he has a leisure moment, sometimes in the morning,
sometimes in the afternoon, as circumstances permit.
The renowned divine, Karl Gersk, who is the author of by far the best
German religious poems, as a rule makes an outline before composing
poetry, but writes down prose at once. When his attention is taken up by
an interesting topic, he is in the habit of curling, absent-mindedly,
one of his occipital locks about the left index finger. He rarely writes
for more than six hours a day, and then only when he feels especially
disposed to work.
The author of "St. Olave" always writes in the daytime; namely, from
nine A. M. to one P. M.; and does not make any outline first, but only
two copies, which are improved afterward, the first copy being written
in pencil, and the second in ink. The second manuscript is revised and
corrected. Day by day, this knight of the pen writes during the stated
time, unless prevented by illness or unexpected engagements, and does
not wait for "feeling disposed," but goes steadily on.
R. E. Francillon prefers working at night, when both ideas and words
come most fluently. He always works at night, and sometimes all night,
when he works against time. He has not then to conquer an unwillingness
to work which besets him at other hours. Next to the night-time, he
prefers the afternoon, to which circumstances practically confine him.
This refers to imaginative work. With regard to journalistic and
critical work and study, it is just the reverse, and he prefers the
morning. He never makes a skeleton of his work. He has tried the
skeleton method, but found it useless, and broke away from it soon after
starting. He finds that incident suggests incident, and characters
develop themselves. Of course, he starts with a motive (in the technical
sense), and a general drift and color, and the salient points of leading
characters. He uses no stimulant when at work, except tobacco in the
form of cigarettes, which he smokes all the time, whatever he is doing,
even when writing a letter. Pen and cigarette are inseparable; but he
smokes very little when not working, and next to nothing when taking a
holiday. His hours of work depend very much on necessity. He is engaged
on a newspaper from nine A. M. till one P. M. The afternoon and evening
are devoted to fiction or whatever other work he has on hand.
Practically he is at his desk all day, an industry which is rendered
possible by frequent change of work. He constantly forces himself to
work, dead against inclination; and, though it may seem strange, it
constantly happens that the less the original inclination, the better
the result, and _vice versa_. Francillon has no faith whatever in
writing upon inclination, and maintains that even if little comes of
working when disinclined, the little is something and prevents the want
of inclination lasting, besides preventing one from yielding easily. He
is perfectly indifferent to outside noise, and, indeed, to almost
everything that most people find a trial to the nerves--except
conversation in the same room. He has worked with music playing in the
same room, and has not even noticed it.
Hubert H. Bancroft, the historian of the Pacific coast, works day and
evening, with little interruption, except as he takes a walk or rides
for exercise occasionally in the afternoon. He determines that a certain
amount of work shall be accomplished within so many hours, days, and
weeks, and so is always stimulated and successfully accomplishes the
allotted task. He frequently writes when not disposed to work.
Richard Schmidt Cabanis, the German humorist, has often spent whole
nights at the writing-desk. When composing poetry he makes an outline
beforehand, otherwise not. Before his manuscript goes to press he
carefully revises it and strikes out a great deal. He is very fond of
French red wine, which he imbibes occasionally when writing, but which
he must often forego in obedience to the advice of his physicians. The
only peculiarity of which he is possessed is that he cannot compose
unless he is alone, and he scorns even dumb company during working
hours.
Margaret Eytinge very much prefers the morning for writing, and
generally spends from eight o'clock until eleven or twelve at her desk.
Of course, she often works in the afternoon, and sometimes, though very
rarely, at night. But at those times she only revises and copies. She
makes a slight sketch of her poem or story first--a sketch written so
hastily that it would be impossible for anybody but herself to decipher
it, and she has found trouble in making it out herself at times. Then
she proceeds to clothe this skeleton, an operation which is never
completed satisfactorily until after at least three times trying. She
always makes it a point to produce clean manuscripts. She cannot write
at all with people about her, or in an unfamiliar place, and must be in
her own room, at her own desk, and secure from interruption.
That astute author of innumerable novels, Charlotte M. Yonge, never
works at night. She does not write any outline of her tales. She has
such an outline in her mind, but is guided by the way the characters
shape themselves. She generally composes from about 10.30 A. M. to 1.30
P. M., taking odd times later in the day for proofs and letters. Having
good health, she is seldom indisposed for work; if she is, she takes
something mechanical, such as translating or copying.
Dr. Karl Frenzel, editor of one of the leading Berlin newspapers, has to
struggle hard at first to overcome his unwillingness to compose, but
after he has written for some time any aversion which he may have
experienced disappears. He rarely works at night, never after midnight,
but prefers the evening to the afternoon for literary production. He
sometimes rewrites whole pages of his novels two or three times, but
never makes a plan beforehand. He has the queer habit of making bread
pellets while at work; that is, whenever he is absorbed in thought. He
writes with facility and swiftness, devoting from three to four hours a
day to literary labor.
Dr. Otto Franz Gensichen, German dramatist, poet, and essayist, always
writes in the daytime, almost exclusively in the forenoon, from eight
till twelve o'clock. He makes an exception in the case of lyrical poems,
which, of course, must be written down whenever they occur to the mind.
After his manuscript is done, he polishes it here and there, and then
copies it; for while slowly transcribing he can most easily detect
mistakes. While at work in the morning he smokes a mild cigar, which is,
however, sometimes omitted. When writing, he likes to have as much light
and silence about him as he can possibly attain. While the manuscript
lies on the writing table, and the author is meditating on the subject
in hand, he is in the habit of pacing up and down the room. At first he
repeats the words aloud to test their euphonism and smoothness; he then
commits the spoken words to paper. He can boast of himself that he has
never written a line "_invita Musa_," without being fully inclined to
composition. Sometimes he does not write for months, but when the proper
mood takes possession of him, he is very industrious. Even then,
however, he does most of his work before midday, and, exceptionally,
from five till eight in the afternoon. As he is a bachelor and given up
altogether to authorship, he is governed entirely by his moods.
Paul Burani, the brilliant Parisian journalist and dramatist, is forty
years of age, married and father of one daughter,--Michelette,--owner
of the house he lives in, and, altogether, the perfect type of a
successful literarian. Before writing a play, he makes a very elaborate
outline, which is developed afterward. Ordinarily he rewrites a play
three times, but being both a ready and a rapid writer, the task is
quickly accomplished. When compelled to stop writing in consequence of
fatigue or a lack of interest, he takes up something else, promenades in
his garden, or smokes a cigar. He is indifferent to noise, and can
compose almost anywhere. The great number of books which he has written
has given him the reputation of being one of the most productive authors
of the times, but he does not write for more than five or six hours a
day.
Ludwig Habicht, a German novelist, loves to write by the light of the
sun, and invariably works in the daytime, never at night. When his
manuscript is finished and corrected, he has it copied by a professional
copyist, whereupon it goes to the compositor. Habicht prefers to write
in the open air, and does not use a writing-desk. The duration of his
working hours depends entirely upon his health and moods, but he never
writes for more than four or five hours a day; and sometimes does not
pen a line for months.
Formerly, when the world--that is to say, the German world--used to
know Karl Stelter, the poet, as a merchant, he was in the habit of
spending his leisure hours in the evening in the production of poetry,
and, strange though it may seem, his best poems were made after a hard
day's work. Now, since he has retired from business and is in prosperous
circumstances, he versifies whenever and wherever he wants to, in the
evening as well as in the daytime. He writes his poems with a lead
pencil, and polishes them for weeks before they are published. He works
with great ease, and is a ready improviser; but he never writes against
his inclination.
Brander Matthews does his work between breakfast and lunch, as a rule;
and works at night only occasionally. He makes elaborate notes, and then
writes at white heat, revising at his leisure.
Andre Theuriet, the Parisian novelist, makes an outline of his work
first; he delineates each chapter of his novel, indicating the
situations, personages, dialogues, and so on. Thereupon the novel soon
assumes a definite form. Theuriet spends six hours a day at his
writing-desk, but always in the morning. He does not believe in night
work. In the afternoon he revises the work of the previous day. During
working hours the author drinks two cups of tea and smokes one or two
pipes of tobacco. Theuriet retires early in the evening, between ten
and eleven o'clock, and rises in the morning at a quarter before six.
This regular mode of life explains why the novelist is able to write so
much, and is a key to the productiveness which has astonished his
contemporaries.
Paul Lindau, another German novelist, critic, and journalist, dictates a
great deal, sometimes without inclination, and sometimes after hasty
lead-pencil sketches. When he writes himself only one manuscript is
made. He incessantly smokes cigarettes while at work. Only when he has
labored uninterruptedly a long time does he refresh himself with coffee,
tea, wine, and water. As a rule, Lindau writes with ease. He declares
that dictating tires him out more than if he should write himself, but
by dictation he is enabled to do twice as much work as he could
otherwise accomplish. Generally, he writes for from four to five hours a
day, but sometimes he has spent ten or even eleven hours in literary
work.
A. v. Winterfeld, the German humorist, devotes the day only to literary
work. His original manuscript is committed to the press, for he never
copies what he has written. He composes with great ease and swiftness,
and spends four hours a day at the writing-desk.
Hector Malot, the Parisian novelist, makes an outline of his romances
beforehand, faintly indicating all important incidents of his work. He
does not take stimulating drinks, either when at work or when at rest;
with him the work itself acts as a stimulant. He rises at five o'clock
in the morning, and writes till eleven. After breakfast he takes a walk.
At two o'clock in the afternoon he resumes work and keeps at it until
seven o'clock in the evening; but he never composes at night. Nine
months of the year are devoted to literary labor, but the remaining
three months he spends in travel, study, and recreation.
Victorien Sardou, the dramatist, writes his play twice; first on little
scraps of paper, then on foolscap. The first draft, when it is finished,
is a maze of alterations and delineations.
Mezerai, the famous historian, used to study and write by candle-light,
even at noonday in summer, and, as if there had been no sun in the
world, always waited upon his company to the door with a candle in his
hand.
"The method of Buckle, the historian," so says his biographer, "was
chiefly remarkable for careful, systematic industry, and punctilious
accuracy. His memory appeared to be almost faultless, yet he took as
much precaution against failure as if he dared not trust it. He
invariably read with "paper and pencil in his hand, making copious
references for future consideration. How laboriously this system was
acted upon can be appreciated only by those who have seen his
note-books, in which the passages so marked during his reading were
either copied or referred to under proper heads. Volume after volume was
thus filled, everything being written with the same precise neatness
that characterizes his manuscript for the press, and indexed with care,
so that immediate reference might be made to any topic. But, carefully
as these extracts and references were made, there was not a quotation in
one of the copious notes that accompanied his work that was not verified
by collation with the original from which it was taken."
Joaquin Miller says that he has always been so poor, or, rather, has had
so many depending on his work, that he has "never been able to indulge
the luxury of habits," and that he has worked in a sort of
"catch-as-catch-can" way. Having been mostly on the wing since he began
writing, he has done his work in all kinds of ways, and hours, and
houses. However, now, since he has a little home, his life has become
regulated. He rises at daylight, so as to save candles, and never works
at night. After he has made and imbibed his coffee, he digs or pulls
weeds, and cultivates his flowers, or works in some way about the
greens, for an hour or so, and at length, when he feels compelled to
literary work, and can no longer keep from it, he writes whatever he
feels that he must set down; and then he writes only as long as he
feels impelled. Holding, as he does, that all modern authors think too
little and write too much, he never writes as long as he can keep from
it. He looks forward with hope and pleasure to the day when he shall be
able to stop writing entirely. As for stimulants, he never takes them.
Yet he often smokes a cigar about the greens before beginning work. But
he would be ill if he attempted to drink while writing. As for making an
outline of his work, he generally jots down a lot of sketches or
pictures, one each day; then he puts these together, and the play, poem,
or novel is finished. He works for from three to five hours every day,
then goes out till dinner time. He once lived in a rude log cabin, built
on an eminence overlooking the city of Washington, D. C. There his
latch-string was always out. He now lives near Oakland, Calif., not in
one cabin, but in three, each as rude as that of any settler in the
Sierras.