A general tabulation of the above shows that of 111 writers (110 of whom
are tabulated) 51 give no thought to readers at any time and that 5 do
so for selling but not for artistic purposes, a total of 56.
Only 14 state flatly that they bear the reader in mind habitually during
the first writing of the story; 11 do so to some extent, 5 to less
degree, 2 for clearness only, 1 for technical material only. A total of
33.
Those who do not consider the reader when writing but do so at other
times number 22--16 when revising, 6 during preliminary work.
Those who consider the reader at any time--during writing, revision or
preliminary work--number 55.
During the actual writing those who do not consider the reader at all
number 78 against 33 who do to at least some degree.
During revision those who do not consider reader number 62 (56 + 6)
against 49 (33 + 16) who do. Remember that, through my error, to only
approximately half the answers was revision made a specific part of the
question.
During preliminary work there were 72 (56 + 16) who do not against 39
(33 + 16) who do. (It is reasonable to believe that if the preliminary
work had been specifically mentioned in the question there would have
been more replies on this point and, since all those who do mention it
answer affirmatively, that a fair proportion, perhaps a majority, of the
replies would have been affirmative.)
The answers as a whole seem to leave the question largely one of
individual taste or method. A more careful consideration, however, will
discover a common underlying principle for all and, in doing so, go far
toward clarifying our concept of "technique."
Literature is an expression: of what you please, but an expression. To
"express" inevitably implies some one to whom you express. As one
answerer puts it, one must always write to "interpret." No interpreting
is done unless it is done to some one.
To interpret or express with no thought of those to whom you interpret
or express, without knowing whether your message reaches them or
considering means of insuring its reaching them, is a completely idiotic
performance.
To say that art is self-expression answers the above by making the
artist himself the person to whom he expresses or interprets. Such a
performance, if established, seems rather unimportant in itself.
Literature, or art, however you may define these terms, should be a
thing of world importance. The self-expression of a lone individual,
reaching no one but himself, would seem a mere ephemeral atom by
comparison. Nor is it credible that most of our writers would continue
to write if they knew no one would ever read what they wrote.
Would any of them? Yes. And if what an artist writes solely for
self-expression, being found good in its creator's eyes, is then passed
on to others, it was none the less written for self-expression alone. If
he has written entirely uninfluenced by the thought or expectation of
popularity, fame, money or any other consideration except the impulse to
create artistically, he has undoubtedly written with no thought of other
readers.
That is, with no conscious thought of other readers. But the fact
remains that he has expressed himself, or interpreted, to some human
understanding. By recognized human symbols, in accordance with commonly
accepted human standards. In this case it happened that the human
understanding to which he interpreted was his own, but that does not
alter the essentials of the act. He himself is a representative of the
human race and he can not interpret or express to himself without
interpreting or expressing to their representative. He is, however
little he may think of himself as such, merely their proxy.
You will have noticed in the answers that many of those who do not
consider the reader state that they make their own judgment the test,
constitute themselves the sole critics, develop another self to serve as
critic. In other words, this "other self" is made the judge of their
success in interpreting to human understanding by recognized methods in
accordance with commonly accepted standards. It is the writer's very
own, yet it reduces to nothing more than his individual knowledge and
application of human understanding in general--and of general human
reactions, standards and valuations. It is altogether individual to
himself, yet, like himself, it can be composed of nothing but the
elements common to the human race in general, however they may be
transmuted by his individuality. A proxy for the race, it is, in fact,
"the reader." However strongly individualized, it is still a
representative, a composite, a standard.
The writer divides into self and other self, into the writer in his
strictly creative capacity and the writer in his critical capacity as
adapter of his creations to the demands of the common human standards of
expression and understanding. The two, of course, are inextricably
combined and never twice combined alike. The writer may be conscious of
their working hand in hand during creation, or may be altogether
oblivious to his critical self until the creative outpouring is
finished. But whether he be conscious or unconscious of the fact, the
two are always present. For the creative self can create out of nothing
except human elements and his critical self is his knowledge of human
elements; the creative self can express to human understanding only
through the critical self's knowledge of human understanding. And the
methods by which the creative self interprets and expresses those
elements to that understanding are not known to it from birth but are
taught to it gradually by the critical self as the latter absorbs them
from life.
His self creates, expresses; his other self tells him how to express, is
the adapter of his creations to the demands of the common human
standards of expression and understanding--is his guide as to technique.
His _technique_ is his knowledge, or applied knowledge, of all that
perfects expression, and his technique is altogether in charge of his
other self, the proxy for readers in general. _Technique is wholly based
on consideration of readers._
The other self, to serve as critic, guide and test, must be master of
all principles, rules, formulas and methods that facilitate and perfect
expression so far as the writer knows them--must be master of all the
technique at his command. The other self can function without the
creative self's being aware that it is functioning, but only if
technique has been so thoroughly absorbed and assimilated that the other
self can apply it automatically, working in perfect unison with the
creative self or, if you like, having become identified with the
creative self or taught its knowledge thoroughly to the creative self.
To just the degree that his technique is not thoroughly assimilated, to
that degree will the creative self be conscious of it--and, probably,
distracted and slowed up by it.
It is impossible that all technique should be thus thoroughly
assimilated and unconscious. A writer might as well claim to have
assimilated all human knowledge of art, of human nature and, for that
matter, of nearly everything else. He can not be entirely unconscious of
even all the technique at his command, unless he has ceased to develop
and fallen into using only what technique has become automatic through
long usage. If he is really an artist he will know that, no matter how
great his artistry, there is always more technique for him to learn and
there will always be in his store of technique bits newly added and not
yet unconscious.
And technique is wholly based on consideration of readers. A writer can
learn from other writers, but they in turn must, however little they may
have realized the process, have built their technique, through their
"other selves," their proxies for readers in general, from their
knowledge of readers and of how to convey their ideas to them.
Dividing writers roughly into two classes, one class considers the
reader more than he considers his art, playing for the reader's
attention and favor directly, consciously, baldly. Still roughly
speaking, that class may attain great popularity, but it is not likely
to create literature. Its attention is on its tools rather than on its
creating.
The other class holds first to art. It insists upon making its tools so
much a part of the artist that he is not conscious of them. It shuts its
eyes to other matters, concentrates on creating and produces most of
what we call literature.
But this latter class must, of course, have its tools. To have them it
must get them from somewhere, make them of something. The amazing thing
is that, for the most part, it doesn't really know where it gets them,
doesn't really know from what they are made nor the fundamental
principles in accordance with which they are constructed. The proof of
this lies in the answers to this question concerning the reader and to
the questions concerning the imagination and technique.
The genius knows, whether or not he knows that he knows. But there are
few geniuses. The average first-class writer does not know.
It is impossible to compute the degree to which their art suffers in
consequence. It may be a great deal. It may, in some cases, be very
little, for after all, being human beings, they must have some kind of
subconscious understanding of the general fundamental nature and purpose
of their tools. But certainly their art does suffer, in degree varying
with the individual, as a result of their lack of definite, clear-cut,
conscious understanding of both their tools and their process. For they
are working blindly to this extent. If a writer adopts a piece of
another man's technique or finds one for himself and if it proves to
suit his case, there may be no loss in that transaction itself, but he
has added nothing to his ability to select a next piece of technique
with understanding discrimination.
Whatever the degree of damage to the experienced writer, the harm is
tremendous in the case of the beginner or comparative beginner. He looks
at the work of others and finds many tools; he turns to books, teachers
and courses for specific instructions and has tools handed to him,
generally by the clothes-basketful. Each is for a specific purpose and
neither the tools nor the purposes are correlated in accordance with any
fundamental principle. No one can tell the specific purpose of any tool
of technique with sufficient fullness and discrimination to cover its
use in all cases, and the poor beginner is given no fundamental
understanding whereby he can make intelligent application as the varying
cases arise in his work. The results, registered in the unceasing flow
of manuscripts across the editorial desks of magazines and book houses,
are pathetic. What would be the results in law or medicine or teaching
if they were practised without conscious and very definite knowledge of
the fundamental principles upon which their rules are based?
The present chief obstacle to successful teaching of the art of writing
is lack of correlation of the rules of technique to fundamental basic
principles. The rules of technique have no other purpose than to
facilitate and perfect expression. There can be no test of the success
of expression except the person to whom one expresses--the reader.
Technique will remain a rather vague and chaotic matter, with a
corresponding difficulty in learning it, until the reader-test is
applied to its rules to prove their soundness and to refer them back to
the fundamental principles which alone can give the writer an
understanding that will enable him really to assimilate his technique
and to apply and modify a rule to fit each one of the myriad cases that
will arise.
The answers to the next question and to some later questions of the
questionnaire will give further insight into the nature and practical
use of technique.