It is pleasant to know that the family Robertson is "seeing things"
and enjoying them. I hate travel, but find it delightful when done by
you, instead of me. Believe me, I have had great pleasure in following
you by your trail of words, as in the sport known as the "paper
chase."
And now about the little story. Your refusal to let your father amend
it is no doubt dreadfully insubordinate, but I brave his wrath by
approval. It is _your_ work that I want to see, not anybody's else.
I've a profound respect for your father's talent: as a literateur, he
is the best physician that I know; but he must not be coaching my
pupil, or he and I (as Mark Twain said of Mrs. Astor) "will have a
falling out."
The story is not a story. It is not narrative, and nothing occurs. It
is a record of mental mutations--of spiritual vicissitudes--states of
mind. That is the most difficult thing that you could have attempted.
It can be done acceptably by genius and the skill that comes of
practice, as can anything. You are not quite equal to it--yet. You
have done it better than I could have done it at your age, but not
altogether well; as doubtless you did not expect to do it. It would be
better to confine yourself at present to simple narrative. Write of
something done, not of something thought and felt, except
incidentally. I'm sure it is in you to do great work, but in this
writing trade, as in other matters, excellence is to be attained no
otherwise than by beginning at the beginning--the simple at first,
then the complex and difficult. You can not go up a mountain by a leap
at the peak.
I'm retaining your little sketch till your return, for you can do
nothing with it--nor can I. If it had been written--preferably
typewritten--with wide lines and margins I could do something _to_ it.
Maybe when I get the time I shall; at present I am swamped with
"proofs" and two volumes behind the printers. If I knew that I should
_see_ you and talk it over I should rewrite it and (original in hand)
point out the reasons for each alteration--you would see them quickly
enough when shown. Maybe you will all come this way.
You are _very_ deficient in spelling. I hope that is not incurable,
though some persons--clever ones, too--never do learn to spell
correctly. You will have to learn it from your reading--noting
carefully all but the most familiar words.
You have "pet" words--nearly all of us have. One of yours is
"flickering." Addiction to certain words is an "upsetting sin" most
difficult to overcome. Try to overcome it by cutting them out where
they seem most felicitous.
By the way, your "hero," as you describe him, would not have been
accessible to all those spiritual impressions--it is _you_ to whom
they come. And that confirms my judgment of your imagination.
Imagination is nine parts of the writing trade. With enough of _that_
all things are possible; but it is the other things that require the
hard work, the incessant study, the tireless seeking, the indomitable
will. It is no "pic-nic," this business of writing, believe me.
Success comes by favor of the gods, yes; but O the days and nights
that you must pass before their altars, prostrate and imploring! They
are exacting--the gods; years and years of service you must give in
the temple. If you are prepared to do this go on to your reward. If
not, you can not too quickly throw away the pen and--well, marry, for
example.
"Drink deep or taste not the Pierian spring."
_My_ vote is that you persevere.
With cordial regards to all good Robertsons--I think there are no
others--I am most sincerely your friend,