An old rule for those who would be well-dressed says: "When you have
finished, go to the mirror and see what you can take off." The same
rule applies with equal force to the short story: "When you have
written it out, go over it carefully, and see what you can take out."
Besides being the best preparation for the writing of novels,
short-story writing is undoubtedly, at the present time, the best
paying and most satisfactory form of any ephemeral literary work. The
qualities which make it successful are to be attained only by constant
and patient practice. The real work of writing a story may be brief,
but years of preparation must be worked through before a manuscript,
which may be written in an hour or so, can present an artistic result.
The first and most important thing to consider is the central idea.
There are only a few ideas in the world, but their ramifications are
countless, and one need never despair of a theme. Your story may be
one of either failure or success, but it must have the true ring.
Given the man and the circumstances, we should know his action.
The plot must unfold naturally; otherwise it will be a succession of
distinct sensations, rather than a complete and harmonious whole.
There is no better way to produce this effect than to follow Edmund
Russell's rule of colour in dress: "When a contrasting colour is
introduced, there should be at least two subordinate repetitions of
it."
Each character should appear, or be spoken of, at least twice before
his main action. Following this rule makes one of the differences
between artistic and sensational literature.
The heroine of a dime novel always finds a hero to rescue her in the
nick of time, and perhaps she never sees him again. In the artistic
novel, while the heroine may see the rescuer first at the time she
needs him most, he never disappears altogether from the story.
Description is a thing which is much abused. There is no truer
indication of an inexperienced hand than a story beginning with a
description of a landscape which is not necessary to the plot. If the
peculiarities of the scenery must be understood before the idea can be
developed, the briefest possible description is not out of place.
Subjectively, a touch of landscape or weather is allowable, but it
must be purely incidental. Weather is a very common thing and is apt
to be uninteresting.
It is a mistake to tell anything yourself which the people in the
story could inform the reader without your assistance. A conversation
between two people will bring out all the facts necessary as well as
two pages of narration by the author.
There is a way also of telling things from the point of view of the
persons which they concern. Those who have studied Latin will find
the "indirect discourse" of Cicero a useful model.
The people in the story can tell their own peculiarities better than
the author can do it for them. It is not necessary to say that a woman
is a snarling, grumpy person. Bring the old lady in, and let her
snarl, if she is in your story at all.
The choice of words is not lightly to be considered. Never use two
adjectives where one will do, or a weak word where a stronger one is
possible. Fallows' _100,000 Synonyms and Antonyms_ and Roget's
_Thesaurus of Words and Phrases_ will prove invaluable to those who
wish to improve themselves in this respect.
Analysis of sentences which seem to you particularly strong is a good
way to strengthen your vocabulary. Take, for instance, the oft-quoted
expression of George Eliot's: "Inclination snatches argument to make
indulgence seem judicious choice." Substitute "takes" for "snatches"
and read the sentence again. Leave out "seem" and put "appear" in its
place. "Proper" is a synonym for "judicious"; substitute it, and put
"selection" in the place of "choice."
Reading the sentence again we have: "Inclination takes argument to
make indulgence appear proper selection." The strength is wholly gone
although the meaning is unchanged.
Find out what you want to say, and then say it, in the most direct
English at your command. One of the best models of concise expressions
of thought is to be found in the essays of Emerson. He compresses a
whole world into a single sentence, and a system of philosophy into an
epigram.
"Literary impressionism," which is largely the use of onomatopoetic
words, is a valuable factor in the artistic short story. It is
possible to convey the impression of a threatening sky and a stormy
sea without doing more than alluding to the crash of the surf against
the shore. The mind of the reader accustomed to subtle touches will at
once picture the rest.
An element of strength is added also by occasionally referring an
impression to another sense. For instance, the newspaper poet writes:
"The street was white with snow," and makes his line commonplace
doggerel. Tennyson says: "The streets were _dumb_ with snow," and his
line is poetry.
"Blackening the background" is a common fault with story writers. In
many of the Italian operas, everybody who does not appear in the final
scene is killed off in the middle of the last act. This wholesale
slaughter is useless as well as inartistic. The true artist does not,
in order that his central figure may stand out prominently, make his
background a solid wall of gloom. Yet gloom has its proper place, as
well as joy.
In the old tragedies of the Greeks, just before the final catastrophe,
the chorus is supposed to advance to the centre of the theatre and
sing a bacchanal of frensied exultation.
In the _Antigone_ of Sophocles, just before the death of Antigone and
her lover, the chorus sings an ode which makes one wonder at its
extravagant expression. When the catastrophe occurs, the mystery is
explained. Sophocles meant the sacrifice of Antigone to come home with
its full force; and well he attained his end by use of an artistic
method which few of our writers are subtle enough to recognise and
claim for their own purposes.
"High-sounding sentences," which an inexperienced writer is apt to put
into the mouths of his people, only make them appear ridiculous. The
schoolgirl in the story is too apt to say: "The day has been most
unpleasant," whereas the real schoolgirl throws her books down with a
bang, and declares that she has "had a perfectly horrid time!"
Her grammar may be incorrect, but her method of expression is true to
life, and there the business of the writer ends.
Put yourself in your hero's place and see what you would do under
similar circumstances. If you were in love with a young woman, you
wouldn't get down on your knees, and swear by all that was holy that
you would die if she didn't marry you, at the same time tearing your
hair out by handfuls, and then endeavour to give her a concise
biography of yourself.
You would put your arm around her, the first minute you had her to
yourself, if you felt reasonably sure that she cared for you, and tell
her what she meant to you--perhaps so low that even the author of the
story couldn't hear what you said, and would have to describe what
he saw afterward in order to let his reader guess what had really
happened.
It is a lamentable fact that the description of a person's features
gives absolutely no idea of his appearance. It is better to give a
touch or two, and let the imagination do the rest. "Hair like raven's
wing," and the "midnight eyes," and many similar things, may be very
well spared. The personal charms of the lover may be brought out
through the mediations of the lovee, much better than by pages of
description.
The law of compensation must always have its place in the artistic
story. Those who do wrong must suffer wrong--those who work must be
rewarded, if not in the tangible things they seek, at least in the
conscious strength that comes from struggling. And "poetic justice,"
which metes out to those who do the things that they have done, is
relentless and eternal, in art, as well as in life.
"Style" is purely an individual matter, and, if it is anything at all,
it is the expression of one's self. Zola has said that, "art is nature
seen through the medium of a temperament," and the same is true of
literature. Bunner's stories are as thoroughly Bunner as the man who
wrote them, and _The Badge of Courage_ is nothing unless it be the
moody, sensitive, half-morbid Stephen Crane.
Observation of things nearest at hand and the sympathetic
understanding of people are the first requisites. Do not place the
scene of a story in Europe if you have never been there, and do not
assume to comprehend the inner life of a Congressman if you have never
seen one. Do not write of mining camps if you have never seen a
mountain, or of society if you have never worn evening dress.
James Whitcomb Riley has made himself loved and honoured by writing of
the simple things of home, and Louisa Alcott's name is a household
word because she wrote of the little women whom she knew. Eugene Field
has written of the children that he loved and understood, and won
a truer fame than if he had undertaken _The Master_ of Zangwill.
Kipling's life in India has given us _Plain Tales from the Hills_ and
_The Jungle Book_, which Mary E. Wilkins could not have written in
spite of the genius which made her New England stories the most
effective of their kind. Joel Chandler Harris could not have written
_The Prisoner of Zenda_, but those of us who have enjoyed the wiles of
that "monstus soon beast, Brer Rabbit," would not have it otherwise.
* * * * *
You cannot write of love unless you have loved, of suffering unless
you have suffered, or of death unless some one who was near to you has
learned the heavenly secret. A little touch of each must teach you the
full meaning of the great thing you mean to write about, or your work
will be lacking. There are few of us to whom the great experiences do
not come sooner or later, and, in the meantime, there are the little
everyday happenings, which are full of sweetness and help, if they are
only seen properly, to last until the great things come to test our
utmost strength, to crush us if we are not strong, and to make us
broader, better men and women if we withstand the blow.
And lastly, remember this, that merit is invariably recognised. If
your stories are worth printing, they will fight their way through
"the abundance of material on hand." The light of the public square
is the unfailing test, and a good story is sure to be published
sooner or later, if a fair amount of literary instinct is exercised in
sending it out. Meteoric success is not desirable. Slow, hard,
conscientious work will surely win its way, and those who are now near
the bottom of the ladder are gradually ascending to make room for the
next generation of story-writers on the rounds below.