The Lure of the Pen: A Book for Would-Be Authors
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Title: The Lure of the Pen: A Book for Would-Be Authors
Author: Flora Klickmann
Release date: July 24, 2011 [eBook #36837]
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LURE OF THE PEN: A BOOK FOR WOULD-BE AUTHORS ***
E-text prepared by Juliet Sutherland and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net)
THE LURE OF THE PEN
A Book for Would-Be Authors
by
FLORA KLICKMANN
Editor of
"The Girl's Own Paper and Woman's Magazine"
Who Has Written "The Flower-Patch among the Hills,"
"Between the Larchwoods and the Weir,"
and Other Works
G. P. Putnam's Sons
New York and London
1920
Copyright, 1920, by
G. P. Putnam's Sons
DEDICATED TO
MR. JAMES BOWDEN
WHO HAS FEW EQUALS, EITHER
AS A PUBLISHER, OR AS A FRIEND
PREFACE TO THE AMERICAN EDITION
In sending out this new book to the American public, I feel I am
addressing a sympathetic audience, since other volumes that have
preceded it have been most cordially received, and have added
considerably to my long list of friends on the Western side of the
Atlantic.
At first glance it may seem as though the difference between the
writings of American and British authors is too marked to allow of a
book on Authorship proving useful to both countries--but in reality the
difference is only superficial, and is largely confined to methods of
newspaper journalism, or connected with mannerisms and topical
qualities.
Fundamentally, both nations work on the same lines and acknowledge the
same governing laws in Literature. American authors, no less than
British, derive their inspirations from European classics.
And magazine editors and publishers in both countries are only too
grateful for good work from either side.
No one can teach authors how or what to write; but sometimes it is
possible to help the beginners to an understanding of what it is better
not to write. For the rest I hope the book explains itself.
FLORA KLICKMANN
Fleet Street, London.
CONTENTS
PAGE
PART ONE: THE MSS. THAT FAIL
Why they Fail 3
Three Essentials in Training 11
PART TWO: ON KEEPING YOUR EYES OPEN
A Course in Observation 17
The Assessment of Spiritual Values 24
PART THREE: THE HELP THAT BOOKS CAN GIVE
The Bane of "Browsing" 35
Reading for Definite Data 41
Reading for Style 47
The Need for Enlarging the Vocabulary 58
The Charm of Musical Language 68
Analysing an Author's Methods 78
PART FOUR: POINTS A WRITER OUGHT TO NOTE
Practice Precedes Publication 97
The Reader must be Interested 116
Form should be Considered 130
Right Selection is Important 139
When Writing Articles 144
Suggestions for Style 156
The Ubiquitous Fragment 166
Concerning Local Colour 172
Creating Atmosphere 178
The Method of Presenting a Story 188
Fallacies in Fiction 197
Some Rules for Story-Writing 217
About the Climax 225
The Use of "Curtains" 229
On Making Verse 234
The Function of the Blue Pencil 252
PART FIVE: AUTHOR, PUBLISHER, AND PUBLIC
When Offering Goods for Sale 261
The Responsibility 286
INDEX 297
PART ONE
THE MSS. THAT FAIL
In the Business of Making Literature, the only Quality that
presents itself in Abundance is entirely untrained Mediocrity.
The Lure of the Pen
Why They Fail
In the course of a year I read somewhere about nine thousand stories,
articles and poems. These are exclusive of those read by others in my
office.
Of these nine thousand I purchase about six hundred per annum. The
remainder are usually declined for one of three reasons; either,
They are not suited to the policy and the requirements of the publishing
house, or the periodicals, for which I am purchasing. Or,
They tread ground we have already covered. Or,
They have no marketable value.
The larger proportion of the rejected MSS. come under the last heading.
They are of the "homing" order, warranted to return to their starting
point.
The number that I buy does not indicate the number that I require. In
normal times I could use at any rate double the number that I purchase.
I never have an overstock of the right thing. I never have more than I
can publish of certain-to-sell matter. No publisher or editor ever has.
In the business of Making Literature (and throughout these chapters I
use the word literature in its widest sense) genius is rare.
Nearly-genius is almost as rare. The only quality that presents itself
in abundance is entirely untrained mediocrity.
It may be thought that this applies equally to all departments of the
world's work; but it is not so. While genius is scarce wherever one
looks, I know of only one other vocation where the candidates expect
good pay at the very start without any sort of training, any experience,
any specialised knowledge, or any idea of the simplest requirement of
the business from which they hope to draw an income--the other vocation
being domestic service.
For example: Though thousands of paintings and sketches are offered me
in the course of the year, I cannot recall one instance of an artist
announcing that this is his, or her, first attempt at drawing; all the
work submitted, even the feeblest, shows previous practice or training
of some sort, be it ever so elementary. Yet it is no uncommon thing to
receive with a MS. a letter explaining, "This is the first time I have
ever tried to write anything."
Then again, no one expects to be engaged to play a violin solo at a
concert, when she has had no training, merely because she craves a
public appearance and applause. Yet many a girl and woman writes to an
editor: "This is my first attempt at a poem. I do so hope you will
publish it, as I should so like to see myself in print."
And no one would expect to get a good salary as a dressmaker by
announcing that, though she has not the most elementary knowledge of the
business, she feels convinced that she could make a dress. Yet over and
over again people have asked me to give them a chance, explaining that,
though they were quite inexperienced, they felt they had it in them to
write.
Nevertheless, despite this prevailing idea that we all possess
heaven-sent genius, which is ready to sprout and blossom straight away
with no preparatory work--an idea which gains added weight from the fact
that there are no great schools for the student who desires to enter the
literary profession, as there are for students of art and music--some
training is imperative; and if the would-be writer is to go far, the
training must be rigorous and very comprehensive.
But unlike most other businesses and professions, the novice must train
himself; he can look for very little help from others.
The art student gains information and experience by working with others
in a studio; it gives him some common ground for comparisons; where all
are sketching from the same model, he is able to see work that is
better, and work that is worse, than his own; and probably he is able to
grasp wherein the difference lies.
The music student who is one of several to remain in the room while each
in turn has a pianoforte lesson, hears the remarks of the professor
(possibly a prominent man in his own profession) on each performance,
and can learn a large amount from the criticisms and corrections
bestowed on the others, quite apart from those applying to her own
playing.
But for the would-be author there is no college where the leading
literary lights listen patiently, for an hour or two at a stretch, while
the students read their stories and poems and articles aloud for
criticism and correction. Here and there ardent amateurs form themselves
into small literary coteries for this purpose; but often these either
develop into mutual admiration societies, or fizzle out for lack of a
guiding force.
[Sidenote: Literature is the most Elusive Business in the World]
The difficulty with literature is this: It is the most elusive business
in the world. No one can say precisely what constitutes good literature,
because, no matter how you may classify and tabulate its
characteristics, some new genius is sure to break out in a fresh place;
and no one can lay down a definite course of training that can be relied
on to meet even the average requirements of the average case.
You can set the instrumentalist to work at scales and studies for
technique; the dressmaker can practise stitchery and the application of
scientific measurement; the art student can study the laws governing
perspective, balance of design, the juxtaposition of colour, and a dozen
other topics relative to his art.
And more than this, in most businesses (and I include the professions)
you can demonstrate to the students, in a fairly convincing manner, when
their work is wrong. You can show the girl who is learning dressmaking
the difference between large uneven stitches and small regular ones; the
undesirability of having a skirt two inches longer at one side than it
is at the other. You can indicate to the art student when his subject
is out of drawing, or suggest a preferable choice of colours. And though
these points may only touch the mechanical surface of things, they help
the student along the right road, and are invaluable aids to him in his
studies. True, such advice cannot make good a lack of real genius, yet
it may help to develop nearly-genius, and that is not to be despised.
But with literature, there is so little that is tangible, and so much
that is intangible. Beyond the bare laws that govern the construction of
the language, only a fraction of the knowledge that is necessary can be
stated in concrete terms for the guidance of the student. And because it
is difficult to reduce the art of writing to any set of rules, the
amateur often regards it as the one vocation that is entirely devoid of
any constructive principles; the one vocation wherein each can do
exactly as he pleases, and be a law unto himself, no one being in a
better position than himself to say what is great and what is feeble,
since no one else can quote chapter and verse as authority for making a
pronouncement on the merits--and more particularly the demerits--of his
work.
And yet, nearly all the English-speaking race want to write. The
craving for "self-expression" is one of the characteristics of this
century; and what better medium is there for this than writing? Hence
the lure of the pen.
It is partly because so many beginners do not know where to turn for
criticism, or an opportunity to measure their work with that of others,
that some send their early, crude efforts to editors, hoping to get, at
least, some opinion or word of guidance, even though the MS. be
declined. Yet this is what an editor cannot undertake to do. Think what
an amount of work would be involved if I were to set down my reasons for
declining each of those eight thousand and more MSS. that I turn down
annually! It could not be done, in addition to all the other claims on
one's office time.
[Sidenote: Why the MSS. are Rejected]
But though life would be too short for any editor to write even a brief
criticism on each MS. rejected, certain defects repeat themselves so
often that it is quite possible to specify some outstanding faults--or
rather, qualities which are lacking--that lead to the downfall of one
MS. after another, with the automatic persistency of recurring decimals.
Speaking broadly, I generally find that the MS. which is rejected
because it has no marketable value betrays one or more of the following
deficiencies in its author:--
Lack of any preliminary training.
" " specialised knowledge of the subject dealt with.
" " modernity of thought and diction.
" " the power to reduce thought to language.
" " cohesion and logical sequence of ideas.
" " ability to get the reader's view-point.
" " new and original ideas and themes.
" " the instinct for selection.
" " a sense of proportion.
The majority of such defects can be remedied with study and practice;
and even though the final result may not be a work of genius, it will be
something much more likely to be marketable than the MS. that has
neither knowledge nor training behind it.
Three Essentials in Training
"How am I to set about training for literary work?" is a question that
is put to me most days in the year.
Training comes under three headings: Observation, Reading, and Writing.
The majority of beginners make the mistake of putting writing first; but
before you can commit anything to paper, you must have something in your
head to write down. If you have but little in your brain, your writing
will be worthless.
[Sidenote: We get out of Life what we put into it]
Just as a plant requires special fertilisers if it is to develop fine
blossoms and large fruit, so the mind requires food of exceptional
nourishment if it is to produce something out of the ordinary, something
worth reading.
It is one of the great laws of Nature that, as a general rule, we get
out of life about what we put into it. If a farmer wants bumper crops,
he must apply manure liberally to his land; if a man wants big returns
from his business, he must devote much time and thought and energy to
it. And in the same way, if you want good stuff to come out of your
head, you must first of all put plenty of good stuff in.
But--and this is very important--it is not supposed to come out again in
the same form that it went in! This point beginners often forget. When
sweet peas are fed with sulphate of ammonia, they don't promptly produce
more sulphate of ammonia; they utilise the chemical food to promote much
finer and altogether better flowers. The same principle governs the
application of suitable nourishment to all forms of life--the recipient
retains its own personal characteristics, but transmutes the food into
the power to intensify, enlarge, and develop those personal
characteristics.
In like manner, the food you give your mind must be used to intensify
and enlarge and develop your individuality; and what you write must
reflect your individuality (not to be confused with egoism); it should
not be merely a paraphrase of your reading.
All this is to explain why I put observation and reading before writing.
They are the principal channels through which the mind is fed. And, in
the main, the value of your early literary work will be in direct ratio
to the keenness and accuracy of your observation, and the wisdom shown
in your choice of reading.
You think this sounds like reducing writing to a purely mechanical
process, in which genius does not count?
Not at all. It is merely that the initial stages of training for any
work involve a certain amount of routine and repetition, until we have
acquired facility in expressing our ideas.
In any case, very few of us are suffering from real genius. Ability,
talent, cleverness, are fairly common; but genius is rare. If you
possess genius, you will discover it quite soon, and, what is more
important, other people will likewise discover it. As some one has said,
"Genius, like murder, _will_ out!" You can't hide it.
Meanwhile, it will save time and argument to pretend that you are just
an ordinary being like the rest of us, with everything to learn; you
will progress more rapidly on these lines than if you spend time
contemplating, and admiring, what you think is a Heaven-sent endowment
that requires no shaping.
PART TWO
ON KEEPING YOUR EYES OPEN
One of the drawbacks of an Advanced Civilisation is the
fact that it tends to lessen the power of Observation.
A Course in Observation
Begin your observation course by noting anything and everything likely
to have a bearing on the subject of your writing, and jot down your
observations in the briefest of notes. No matter if it seem a trifling
thing, in the early part of your training it will be well worth your
while to record even the trifles, since this all helps to develop and
focus the faculty for observation.
One of the drawbacks of an advanced civilisation is the fact that it
tends to lessen the power of observation. The average person in this
twentieth century sees next to nothing of the detail of life. We have no
longer the need to cultivate observation for self-protection and
food-finding as in primitive times. Everything is done for us by
pressing a button or putting a penny in the slot, till it is fast
becoming too much of an effort for us even to look (or it was, before
the War); and the ability to look--and to see when we look--is,
consequently, disappearing through disuse.
You will be surprised how much there is in this practice of observation,
once you get started.
[Sidenote: Study Human Characteristics]
For example: If you intend to write a story, you will need to study the
various types of people figuring therein; the distinguishing
characteristics, the method of speaking, and the mental attitude of
each.
The amateur invariably states the colour of a girl's eyes and hair, and
the tint of her complexion, with some sentences about her social
standing and her clothes, and then considers her fully equipped for her
part in the piece. Whereas, in reality, these items are of no importance
so far as a story goes. We really do not mind whether Dinah, in _Adam
Bede_, had violet eyes or grey-green; it is the soul of the woman that
counts. Neither do we trouble whether Portia wore a well-tailored coat
and skirt, or a simple muslin frock lavishly trimmed with Valenciennes;
it is her ready wit, her resourcefulness, and her deep-lying affection
that interest us.
Next in importance to the human beings are the circumstances involved.
Does your heroine decide to leave her millionaire-father's palatial home
and hide her identity in slum-work and a room in a tenement?
You will have to do a fair amount of first-hand observation to get the
details and general "atmosphere" appertaining to a millionaire's
residence and mode of living, and contrast these with the conditions
that represent life in the squalid quarters of a city.
[Sidenote: Environment and Circumstances offer Wide Scope]
Perhaps you will tell me that it is impossible for you to make these
observations, as you do not know your way about any real slum, or you
are not on visiting terms with and any millionaire. That raises another
important question that I hope to deal with later, when we come to the
subject of story-writing. Here I can only say, Don't attempt to write
upon topics you are unable to study at near range.
After all, there are unlimited subjects that are close to everybody's
hand. You may be including a dog in your story. Is he to be a _real_
dog, or that dear, faithful old creature, who has been leading an active
life (in fiction) for a century or more, rescuing the heir when he
tumbles in a pond; apprising the sleeping family upstairs of the fact
that the clothes-horse by the kitchen fire has caught alight; tracking
the burglar to his lair; re-uniting fallen-out lovers by sitting up
beseechingly on his hind legs, and in a hundred other ways making
himself generally useful?
I am fond of dogs, and I never grudge them literary honours; but I
sometimes wish we could get a change of descriptive matter where they
are concerned. What are _you_ proposing to say about the dog? "He ran
joyfully to meet his master, wagging his tail the while"? Something like
that? I shouldn't wonder. That is the beginning and the end of so many
amateur descriptions of a dog; and, judging by the number of times I
have read these words, his poor tail must be nearly wagged off by now.
Instead of being content with this, start making careful observations,
and you will soon have something else to write about. Notice how a dog
talks--with his ears; he can tell you almost anything, once you learn to
read his ears. And when you have noted all the points you can in this
direction, and mastered this part of his language, see what you can
learn from his walk; you can estimate a dog's temper and feelings, his
sorrow, his joy, and the state of his health, by noticing the variations
in his walk. Why, any one dog can provide you with a book full of
observations.
You may say, however, that as your story is to be a short one, you could
never use up a book full of observations if you had them.
[Sidenote: You need a Score of Facts in your Head for each one you put
on Paper]
Very likely; but always remember that you need to have a score of facts
in your head for every one you put down on paper. You must be thoroughly
saturated with a subject before you can write even a brief description
in a telling and convincing manner. Therefore, never be afraid of making
too many notes in your observation-book.
Many of these entries you will never refer to again; the very act of
writing them down will so impress them on your memory that they become a
matter-of-course to you. This in itself is valuable training; it is one
of the processes by which a person may become "well-informed"--an
essential qualification for a good writer.
While over-elaboration of detail in your writing is seldom desirable,
apart from a text-book or a treatise, knowledge of detail is imperative
if that writing is to conjure up situations in the reader's mind and
make them seem vividly real. In describing scenery, for instance, you do
not need to give the name of every bit of vegetation in sight, till your
MS. looks like a botanical dictionary; but it is useful to know those
names, you may require some of them; and until your work is actually
shaping, you cannot tell exactly what you will use and what omit.
[Sidenote: Keen Observation will save you from Pitfalls]
The habit of keen observation will save you from a legion of pitfalls.
The more you train your eyes to see, and your mind to retain what you
have seen, the less chance there is of your putting down inaccuracies.
I have been reading a MS. wherein the heroine--a beautiful girl with a
face like a haunting memory (whatever that may look like)--spent a whole
afternoon lying full-length on the grass, the first sunny day in
February, revelling in the scent of violets near by, and watching the
swallows skimming above her. If the writer had no opportunity to observe
the comings and goings of swallows, she might at least have turned up an
encyclopaedia, when she would have found that swallows do not arrive in
England till well on into April.
Then, after 249 more pages, the beautiful girl finally died of a broken
heart--obviously absurd! In real life she would have died on the very
next page of rheumatic fever and double pneumonia, after lying on the
wet grass all that time!
Frequently, when I point out similar errors to the novice, I get some
such reply as this, "Of course, that reference to swallows was only a
slip of the pen"; or, "After all, it is merely a minor point whether she
lay on the grass or walked along the road; it doesn't really affect the
story as a whole."
True, such discrepancies may be only minor details; but, on the other
hand, they may not. I have noticed, however, that the writer who is
inaccurate on small points is equally liable to inaccuracy where the
main features of the story are concerned; and the writer who does not
know enough about his subject to get his details right seldom knows
enough about it to get any of it right.
The Assessment of Spiritual Values
There is one aspect of life that can only be learnt by observation; a
phase of your training where books and lectures can be of but little
assistance to you. Important as it is that you should note the material
things relating to your subject, it is still more important that you
should train yourself to note the psychological bearings and the
spiritual values of life, since these are often of far more vital
consequence to a story than the plot.
By "spiritual values" I do not necessarily mean anything of a directly
religious quality. I use the term to signify the revelation of mind and
heart and soul of the various characters that a writer presents, as
distinct from a catalogue of externals; the reading of motives, and the
recognition of the forces that are within us, as distinguished from the
chronicling of superficial items.
[Sidenote: The Unseen that Counts]
So often in the world of men and women around us it is the unseen that
counts. Just below the surface life is teeming with motives and aims
and ideals and personality; with problems that involve mixed feelings,
and produce paradox and misjudgment, and apparently irreconcilable
qualities. These may show scarcely a ripple on the outside, and yet be
the real factors that are shaping lives, and influencing the world for
better or for worse, and, incidentally, affecting the whole trend of a
story.
To gauge these abstract qualities and their consequences accurately is
the biggest task of the writer; and according to the amount of such
insight that he brings to bear on his subject, will be the durability of
his work, since this alone is the part that lives. Fashions and
furniture, scenery and architecture, maps and dynasties, laws and
customs, even language and the meaning of words, all change; and the
older grows the world, the more rapid are the changes. The only things
that remain unaltered are the laws of Nature and the longings of the
soul. Hence the only writings that last beyond the changing fashions of
the moment are those that centralise on these fundamental things, giving
secondary place to ephemeral details.
If you want your work to live, it is useless to make the main interest
centre in something that will be out-of-date and passed beyond human
memory within a very little while.
This insight as to the subtleties of life is the quality that gives
vitality to your writing. Without it your characters will be no more
alive than a wax figure in a draper's window, no matter how handsomely
you may clothe them in descriptive matter. Have you ever read a story
wherein the heroine seemed about as real and alive as a saw-dust-stuffed
doll, and the hero had as much "go" in him as a wooden horse? I have,
alas! thousands of them! And the reason for the lifelessness was the
lack in the author of all sense of "spiritual values."
A knowledge of the inner workings of the mind and heart and soul can
only be acquired by close and constant observation. You may remember in
_Julius Caesar_, where Caesar tells Antonio that if he were liable to
fear, the man he should avoid would be Cassius; he describes him thus:
"He is a great observer, and he looks quite through the deeds of men."
It is just this power that the writer needs--the ability to look past
the actions themselves to the motives that prompted them.
It is so easy to record the obvious. What we need to look for is the
truth that is not obvious. For instance, at first sight it may seem
quite easy for us to decide why a person did a certain thing. A woman
makes an irritable remark. Why did she make that irritable remark? Bad
temper! we promptly reply. But perhaps it wasn't bad temper; it may have
been due to ill-health--a bad tooth can generate as much irritability in
half an hour as the worse temper going. Or it may have been caused by
insomnia; or by nerves strained to the breaking-point with trouble and
anxiety. Or the speaker may have been vexed with herself for some action
of her own, and her vexation found vent in this way.
If you were writing a story, the cause of her irritability might be an
important link in the chain of events. And in scores of other
directions, the cause of an action might be infinitely more important in
the working out of your plot than the action itself.
Moreover, if you want your work to appeal to a wide and varied audience,
you must take as your main theme something that is understood by all
conditions of people; something that makes a universal appeal. That is
why the greatest writers make the human heart the pivot of their
stories, as a rule. Readers are primarily interested in the doings of,
and the happenings to, certain people; and very particularly the motives
that led up to the doings and happenings, and the reasons why certain
things were said and done, and the psychological results of the sayings
and doings.
[Sidenote: The Main Theme should make a Universal Appeal]
In the main, it is not of paramount importance to you, when you are
engrossed in a story, whether the scene is laid in Japan among decaying
Buddhist temples, or in a Devonshire village. It is the personality of
the characters, their sorrows and joys, their struggles and love
affairs, and the solution of their human problems that make the
chief claim on your interest. Certainly, the scenery and "local
colour" and inanimate surroundings may influence you favourably or
otherwise--backgrounds and the general "setting" of a story are
valuable, more valuable than the amateur realises; nevertheless, they
are not the main features, and should never be made the main features in
fiction.
Once you grasp the importance of the "spiritual values," in life itself
no less than in writing, you will understand why it is that some books
survive centuries of change and social upheaval, and appeal to all sorts
and conditions of temperaments. When we study Shakespeare at school, we
invariably wonder in our secret heart (even though we daren't voice
such heresy!) what on earth people can see in him. To our immature
intelligence he can be dulness itself, while his style seems
long-winded, and many of his plots appear most feeble affairs beside our
favourite books of adventure. We are not sufficiently developed and
experienced in our school days to be able to understand and appreciate
his greatness, which lies in his amazing knowledge of the human heart
and his grasp of "spiritual values."
[Sidenote: Life is ever offering New Discoveries]
One of the fascinating things about life is the way it is for ever
offering us new discoveries. We never need get to the end of anything.
There are always heights beyond heights, depths below depths, further
recesses to penetrate, fresh things to find out. And nowhere is this
more clearly demonstrated than when we come to the study of human nature
itself. The writer who strives to depict men and women as they really
are is always coming on new surprises; he never arrives at the end of
his observations. And he soon realises how infinitely more important are
the subtle workings of the heart and mind than all the material things
that crowd the outside surface of life.
[Sidenote: To write convincingly one needs Sympathy]
To be able to write convincingly about people, we must know them; to
know them we must live among them, and sympathise with them--for there
is no other way to know and understand the human heart. It is very easy
to ridicule people's weakness, and make cheap sarcasm over their
failings; but it is useless to make your observations with a cynic's
smile. The cynic really gets nowhere; he merely robs life of much of its
beauty, giving nothing in its place.
To write about people so that we grip the hearts of all who read, it is
necessary to look beyond the superficial weaknesses, and below the
temporary failings, to that part of humanity that still bears the image
of the Divine Creator. And you need sympathy to accomplish this.
Would-be authors often tell me that they are sick of their everyday
routine--office work, teaching, nursing, home duties, or whatever it may
be--and long to throw it all up so that they may devote all their time
to writing.
[Sidenote: To know People, we must Live and Work among them]
But you cannot devote all of your time to writing! The beginner never
understands this. A great deal of an author's time is taken up with the
study of people, and a general quest for material for his books.
While you are in the early stages of your writing, it is absolutely
necessary for you that you should be doing some sort of other work in
company with your fellow-creatures, and experiencing the ordinary
routine of life, else how can you possibly get your writing properly
balanced and true to life?
If you try to isolate yourself from the everyday happenings of normal
existence, avoiding the tiresome duties and the irksome routine, merely
keeping your eyes on your MS., or on yourself, or on only the things
that appeal to you, how can you ever expect your work to be in right
perspective? Under such conditions what you write would be bound to give
an incomplete, incorrect view of life, one-sided, and out of all proper
proportion, and--the result could be nothing but a dire failure.
Stay where you are, and make your corner of the universe your special
study.
[Sidenote: How much do you Know of those who are Nearest to You?]
Perhaps you think you know everything that is to be known about people
around you. But do you, I wonder? Do they know everything about
you--your ideals and inner struggles, and aims and aspirations?
I doubt it.
Experience shows that very often the people we know least of all are
those with whom we come into daily contact. We take them for granted. We
do not even trouble to try to understand them. That they should have
doubts and difficulties, heart-aches and hopes and high aspirations,
even as we have, sometimes comes as a surprise to us.
Begin your observations just where you are now. See if you can find the
glint of gold that is always somewhere below the surface in every human
being, if we can but strike the right place. Try to sort out the reasons
and the motives that are thick in the air around you. See if you can
discern another side to a person's character than the one you have
always accepted as a matter of course.
And write down your discoveries and your observations. You will need
them later on.
Here, then, is the first step in training yourself for authorship. It is
only one step, I admit; but you will find it can be made to cover a good
deal of ground.
PART THREE
THE HELP THAT BOOKS CAN GIVE
Steady, quiet, consecutive reading is necessary if we are
to do steady quiet, consecutive thinking; and, without such
thinking, it is impossible for writers to produce anything
worth while.
The Bane of "Browsing"
While a wide range of reading, and a general all-round knowledge of
standard literature are essential, if you hope to become a writer, there
are three directions in which you can specialise with great
advantage--reading for definite data, reading for style, and reading for
the study of technique, _i.e._ to find out how the author does it.
With such matters as reading for recreation we have nothing to do here.
Training for authorship means work, regular work, stiff mental work.
Some amateurs seem to think that a course of desultory dipping into
books is a guarantee of literary efficiency, or an indication of
literary ability.
"I am never so happy as when I am curled up in an armchair surrounded by
books"; or "I do so love to browse among books," girls will tell me,
when they are asking if I can find them a post in my office, or on the
staff of one of my magazines.
It is so difficult for the uninitiated to understand that the business
of writing and making books is one that entails as much close,
monotonous work as any other business; and the mere fact that any one
spends a certain amount of time in reading a bit here and a bit there,
picking up a book for a half-hour's entertainment and throwing it down
the minute it ceases to stimulate the curiosity, is no more preparation
for literary work than an occasional tinkling at a piano, trying a few
bars here and there of chance compositions, would be any preparation for
giving a pianoforte recital or composing a sonata.
[Sidenote: Nature's Revenge for the Misuse of the Brain]
I have nothing to say against dipping into books as a
recreation--refreshing one's memory among old friends, or looking for
happy discoveries in new-comers--I have passed hosts of pleasant
half-hours in this way myself when my brain was too tired to work, and I
wanted relaxation. But such reading is not work; neither is it training
in any sort of sense--it is merely a pastime; and, as such, must only be
taken in moderation. It should be the exception, not a habit.
If you allow yourself to get into this way of haphazard reading, in time
you lose the ability to do any consecutive reading, and, as a natural
consequence, it would be utterly impossible for you to do any
consecutive thinking,--an essential for connected writing.
The reason for this is quite clear, if you think it over. When you
persistently skim a legion of books, or dip into them casually, and live
mentally on a diet of snippets--a form of reading that has been the
vogue of late years--you are giving yourself mental indigestion that is
wonderfully akin to the indigestion that would follow a food diet on
similar lines. If your meals always consisted of snacks taken at all
sorts of odd times--fried fish followed by rich chocolates, with a
nibble at a mince tart, a few spoonfuls of preserved ginger, a trifle of
roast duck, some macaroni cheese, a little salmon and cucumber, some
grouse, oyster patties, and ice-cream on top of that--your stomach
wouldn't know what to do with it all, and---- I need say no more about
it!
In the same way, when you read first one thing and then another, piling
poems on love scenes, then adding a motley, disconnected selection of
scraps of information (of doubtful use in most cases) with sensational
episodes and pessimistic outpourings, irrespective of any sort of
sequence or logical connection, your mind doesn't know what to do with
the conglomeration; for no sooner has your thinking machine set one
series of thoughts in motion, than it has to switch off that current
and start on something else. Eventually the brain gives up the struggle;
the thoughts cease to work; you lose the power to remember--much less to
assimilate--what you read.
In the end, you can't read! Nature is bound to take this course in sheer
self-defence; the only alternative would be lunacy!
[Sidenote: Why so many want Books that Shriek]
You can see all this exemplified, pitifully, in the present day. With
the great rush of cheap books (and still cheaper education) that flooded
the country at the beginning of this century, the masses simply gorged
themselves with indiscriminate reading-matter--of a sort, (and so did
many who ought to have known better). Gradually they lost the taste for
straight-forward simple stories of human life as it really is; things
had to be blood-curdling and highly sensational. The type of
reading-matter that had formerly been associated solely with the "dime
novel" and depraved youths of the criminal class, found its way into all
sorts and conditions of bindings, and all sorts and conditions of homes.
People's minds were getting so blunted that they simply could not follow
anything unless it was punctuated with lurid lights; they could not
grasp anything unless it was crude and bizarre and monstrous; they
could not hear anything of the Still Small Voice that is the essence of
all beauty in literature, art or nature. Everything had to be in shouts
and shrieks to arrest their attention.
Finally, the masses lost the power to read at all, and we are now living
in an age when everything must be presented in the most obvious
medium--pictures. Few people can concentrate on reading even the day's
news--it has to be given in pictures. The picture-palace and the
music-hall _revue_ (which is another form of spectacular entertainment)
stand for the mental stimulus that is the utmost a large bulk of the
population are equal to to-day.
We delude ourselves by saying that we live in such a busy age, we have
not _time_ to read. But it is not our lack of time so much as our lack
of brain power that is the trouble; and that brain power has been
dissipated, primarily, by over-indulgence in desultory reading that was
valueless.
All this is to explain why a course of indiscriminate "browsing" is no
recommendation for the one who wishes to take up literary work. Steady,
quiet, consecutive reading is necessary if we are to do steady, quiet,
consecutive thinking; and, without such thinking, it is impossible to
write anything worth whiles.
Let your reading extend over a wide range, certainly--the wider the
better, so long as you can cover the ground thoroughly--for an author
should be well-read. But take care that you do _read_; don't mistake
"nibbling" for reading. Far better know but one poem of Browning
thoroughly and understandingly, than have on your shelves a complete set
of his works into which you dip at random, when the mood seizes you,
with no clear idea as to what any of it is about.
Reading for Definite Data
Turning from reading in general to the specialised reading I have
suggested--the first heading explains itself. Many subjects that you
write upon will require a certain amount of preliminary reading--some a
great deal--in order that you may accumulate facts, or get the details
of climate and scenery correct, or the mode of life prevalent at a
specified time.
Such a book as Mrs. Florence Barclay's novel, _The White Ladies of
Worcester_--with the scene laid in the twelfth century--must have
necessitated a great deal of research among the historical and church
records of that era, and the reading of books bearing on that period, in
order to get all the details accurate, and to conjure up as convincingly
as the author has done, an all-pervading feeling of the spirit of those
times.
All stories dealing with a bygone period require much preliminary
reading, in order that one may become imbued with the spirit of that
particular age, as well as familiarised with its manners and customs and
mode of speech.
Most amateurs seem to think that a plentiful sprinkling of expletives
about the pages, with the introduction of a few historic names and
events, are sufficient to produce the required old-world atmosphere. I
could not possibly count the number of MSS. I have read where the rival
suitor for the hand of "Mistress Joan" says "Gadsook" in every other
sentence, while the estimable young man who, like her father, is loyal
to the king, is hidden away in the secret-panel room.
But tricks such as these do not give the story an authentic atmosphere.
You can only get this by systematic study of the literature relating to
the period.
And others, besides novelists, find it advantageous to study historical
records. I remember when Mr. William Canton (the author of those
charming studies of child life, _W. V._, _Her Book_, and _The Invisible
Playmate_) was engaged on the big history of the British and Foreign
Bible Society, and was writing the account of the Society's Bible work
in Italy, not only did he read all their official reports, and the
correspondence bearing on the subject, but, in order to get the work in
its right perspective as regards the events of the times, he re-read
Italian history for the period he was dealing with. Thus he enabled
himself to gauge much more comprehensively the significance of the Bible
Society's work in that country when viewed in relation to national
happenings, public thought, and the attitude of mind of the Italian
people.
[Sidenote: Preliminary Reading helps you to judge the Worth of your
Information]
The writer of articles or books on general subjects (as distinct from
fiction) must obviously do a good deal of research. And such reading for
definite information has one value that is not always recognised by the
amateur--it may let him know whether it is worth while to write the
article at all!
Suppose, for example, that you have decided to write an article on "The
Evolution of the Chimney-Pot." It is a foregone conclusion that you
think you have a certain amount of exclusive information in your own
head about chimney-pots, else there would be no call for you to write on
this subject, since the public does not want articles containing nothing
more than what has been published already.
You have collected some facts and information about chimney-pots,
however, that you think are interesting and quite new. So far, good.
Nevertheless, you will be wise to ascertain what has already been
written on the subject; it may throw fresh light on your own gleanings.
First, you will probably look up the subject in a good
encyclopaedia--failing one of your own, consult one at a public library.
If there is anything at all under this heading, it is just possible
there may be cross-references that will be useful, and allusions to
other works on the subject, which it would be well for you to get hold
of if you can. Then you will also remember that Ruskin has written "A
Chapter on Chimneys" in his _Poetry of Architecture_, with some
delightful illustrations. And in the course of your explorations, some
one may be able to direct you to other works on the subject, one book so
often leads on to another. In this way you find you are absorbing quite
a large amount of interesting information.
Yet presently you may make the very important discovery that what you
were intending to say has already been said by others, and possibly said
in a better and more authoritative manner than you could pretend to at
present!
On the other hand, you may still consider that you have exclusive
information; in that case do your best with it, and you will find your
reading has given you a quickened interest and wider grasp of your
subject. But if, in absolute honesty to yourself, you know you have
nothing new to contribute to the information that has already been
published, then do not attempt to offer your article for publication.
Write it up, by all means, as a journalistic exercise for your own
improvement; it will be helpful if you try how far you can seize, and
sum up concisely, the important points that you came across in your
various readings on the subject. _But don't attempt to pass off writing
of this description as original matter._ Such methods never get you far.
Even though the Editor may not have studied chimney-pots in detail, and
does not recognise that your "copy" is practically a _rechauffe_ of
other people's writings, some of the readers will know that it contains
nothing original, and will lose no time in telling him so. There is one
cheery thing about the public, no matter how busy it may be with its own
personal affairs, and preoccupied with a war, or labour troubles, a
Presidential election, or little trifles like that, it most faithfully
keeps an Editor informed if anything printed in his pages does not meet
with its entire approval!
And when an Editor finds he has been taken in with stale material, he
naturally marks that contributor for future remembrance.
It is well to bear in mind that one of the most valuable assets in a
writer's outfit is a reputation for absolute reliability. Smart
practice, trickery, clever dodges, may get a hearing once, even
twice--but they have no future whatever.
Let it become a recognised thing that whatever you offer for publication
is new matter resulting from your own personal knowledge and
investigation, and matter that is sure to interest a section of the
general public; that you have verified every detail, and have
ascertained, to the best of your ability, that the subject has not been
dealt with in this particular way before;--then you are sure of a place
somewhere in a mild atmosphere, if not actually in the sun!
Also, common sense should tell you that you are checking the development
of your own ability, when you let yourself down (no less than the
publisher) by trying to pass off other people's brain-work as your own.
It doesn't pay either way.
Reading for Style
Reading for the improvement of style will involve various types of
literature. In order to know what you should read, you need to know in
which particular direction you are weakest. In the main, however, I find
that all amateurs require to cultivate--
1. A simple, clear, direct mode of expression.
2. Modern language and idiom--in the best sense.
3. A wide vocabulary.
4. An ear for musical, rhythmic sentences.
And equally they need to avoid--
1. Other people's mannerisms.
2. Long paragraphs and involved sentences.
3. Pedantry and a display of personal learning.
4. Hackneyed phrases.
5. Modern slang.
You may not be able to detect any corresponding weaknesses in your own
writings; but, if you have had no special training in literary work, I
can safely assure you they are there--some of them, possibly all of
them! In any case, no particular harm will result if you assume that
your writing will stand a little improvement under each of these
headings, and start to work accordingly.
[Sidenote: The Beginner Seldom uses Simple, Modern English]
In the first chapter I mentioned a lack of modernity in style as a
frequent defect in the MSS. declined by publishers; unless you handled
stories and articles all day long as an editor does you would never
credit how widespread is the failing.
It is a curious fact that only a very small proportion of people can
write as they actually speak; those who do so usually belong to the
poorest of the uneducated classes, or they are experienced literary
craftsmen.
The large majority of people are so self-conscious when they take pen in
hand to write a story or an article, that they cannot be natural. They
do not realise that they should write as ordinary human beings; they
invariably feel they should write as famous authors; and they promptly
drop the language they use as ordinary human beings in every-day life,
and adopt an artificial, stilted style which they seem to think the
correct thing for an author.
And this artificial phraseology is invariably archaic or Early
Victorian, because the books people see labelled "good literature" or
"the classics" are chiefly by dead-and-gone writers, who wrote in a
style that sometimes sounds old-fashioned in these days, even though
their English was excellent.
[Sidenote: Every Generation shows Special Characteristics of Speech]
Our mode of speech and of writing in this twentieth century is not
precisely that of Shakespeare or Milton, even though the fundamentals
are the same. We live in a nervous, hurrying age, and our language is
more nervous, more terse than it was even twenty years ago. We "speed
up" our sentences, just as we "speed up" our stories and our articles.
We have not time for lengthy introductions that arrive nowhere, and for
ornate perorations that are superfluous. "Labour-saving" and
"conservation of energy" are prominent watchwords of this present age,
and are being applied to our language no less than to our work.
In order to get through all we must get through in a day (or, at any
rate, all that we imagine we must get through!) it has become an
unwritten law that the same thing must not be done twice over; more than
this, we try to find the shortest cut to everywhere. As one result, we
do not use two words where one will suffice; only the undisciplined,
untrained mind employs a string of adjectives where one will convey the
same idea, or repeats practically the same thing several times in
succession.
Of course, all this curtailment can be--and often is--carried to excess,
till only a few essential words are left in a sentence, and these are
clipped of half their syllables; we find much of this in the newspapers
and the periodicals of an inferior class. And it could be pushed so far,
till at length we got to communicate with one another by nothing more
than a series of grunts and snaps and snarls!
[Sidenote: Modernity of Style is Desirable]
But I am not dealing with the forms of speech used by the illiterate or
the half-educated; I am referring to the language used by the most
intelligent of the educated classes, and I want the amateur to remember
that this is not necessarily the language of Shakespeare, even though
the same words be employed. There is a subtle difference in the
placement of words, in the turn of phrases, in the strength and even the
meaning of words, in the shaping of sentences, and that difference is
what, for want of a better word, I term "modernity," and it is a
quality that the amateur requires to cultivate.
This lack of modernity is noticeable in amateurs of all types. It is a
marked feature in the writings of teachers and those who have had a
university education, or purely academic training; and equally it is
conspicuous in the MSS. of the one who leads a very quiet, retired
existence, or has a restricted view of life.
At first sight it may seem strange to the 'varsity girl, who considers
herself the last word in modernity, that I classify her early literary
attempts with those of a middle-aged invalid, let us say, who knows very
little of the world at large.
But those who concentrate exclusively on one idea, or have their outlook
narrowed to one particular groove--whether that groove be church-work,
or housekeeping, or hockey, or reading for a degree--drop into an
antiquated mode of expression, as a rule, the moment they start to write
anything apart from a letter to an intimate. The role of author looms
large before them. The mind instantly suggests the style of those
authors they have been in the habit of reading--and more particularly
those they would like other people to think they were in the habit of
reading--the books that are accepted classics, and, consequently, must
be beyond all question.
It matters not whether amateurs are shaping themselves according to
Cowper and Miss Edgeworth, or striving to live up to the Elizabethan
giants, they arrive at an old-fashioned style for which there is no more
call in the world of to-day than there is for a crinoline or a Roman
toga. And this, despite the greatness of their models.
Here are a few sentences taken at random from the pile of MSS. waiting
attention here in my office:--
[Sidenote: Instances of Antiquated Expressions]
"Let us ponder awhile at the shrine of Nature." This is from an article
on "A Country Walk," written by a High School teacher. Now, would she
have said that, personally, either to a friend or to a class, if they
were going out for a country walk? Of course not! You see at once how
antiquated and stilted it is when you subject it to the test of natural,
present-day requirements.
In another MS. I read, "King Sol was seeking his couch in the west." Why
not have said, "The sun was setting"?
"He was her senior by some two summers," writes a would-be novelist, in
describing hero and heroine. Why "some" two summers, I wonder? And
would it not be more straightforward to say, "He was two years older
than she"?
"They were of respectable parentage, though poor and hard-working
withal." Needless to say this occurs in a story of rustic life. Why is
it that the amateur so often describes the cottager in this "poor but
pious" strain?
"We saw ahead of us her home--to wit, a rose-grown, yellow-washed
cottage." And a very pretty home it was, no doubt; but why spoil it by
the introduction of "to wit"?
"He was indeed a meet lover for such an up-to-date girl." The word
"meet" is not merely antiquated and unsuited to a story of present-day
life; it seems particularly out of place when used in close connection
with so modern a term as "up-to-date." The two expressions are centuries
apart, and both should not have been included in the same sentence.
One MS. says, "I would fain tell you of the devious ways in which the
poor girl strove to earn an honest livelihood and keep penury at bay;
but, alas! dear reader, space does not avail." On the whole, one is
thankful that it didn't avail, all things considered!
In a letter accompanying another MS. the author explains, "You won't
find any slang in _my_ writing. I revel in the rich sonority of the
English language." That is all right; but some people confuse "rich
sonority" with artificiality. A word may be richness itself if rightly
applied, but if used in a wrong connection, or employed in an affected
or unnatural manner, it will lose all its richness and become merely
old-fashioned, or else absurd.
I have not the space to spare for further instances, but I notice one
phrase that is curiously popular with the beginner, who frequently lets
you know the name of some character in these words, "Mary Jones, for
such was her name----" etc. I cannot understand what is the charm of
that expression, "for such was her name"; but it is one of the amateurs'
many stand-bys.
Common sense will tell you that the surest way to gain a good modern
style is to read good modern stuff.
[Sidenote: And now for a Remedy]
Begin with a special study of the Editorials in the best type of
newspapers. This is reading that I strongly advocate for the amateur in
order to counteract archaic tendencies; though I wish emphatically to
point out that by the "Leading Articles" I do not mean the average
"Woman's Gossip," or whatever other name is given to the column of
inanities that is devoted to feminine topics; for in some newspapers
this is about as futile and feeble, and as badly written as it is
possible for a newspaper column to be.
Unfortunately, the average person does not read the best part of the
newspaper. He, and more particularly she, reads the headlines, skims the
news, and runs the eye over anything that specially appeals, looks down
the Births, Marriages and Deaths, and not much more. But this will not
improve anyone's English.
Take a paper like the _Spectator_. Here you have modern journalistic
writing at its best. Read the Leading Articles carefully each week. Read
also the paragraphs summarising the news on the opening pages.
Read aloud, if you can; this will help to impress phrases and sentences
on your mind. Observe how clear and concise and straightforward is the
style. Of course, the articles will vary; they are not all written by
the same pen; but those that follow immediately after the news
paragraphs are always worth the student's attention. You will notice
that the writer has something definite to say, and he says it plainly,
in a way that is instantly understood. The words used will be to the
point; there will be a good choice of language, yet never an
unnecessary piling on of words. You may, or may not, agree with
everything that is said; but that is not of paramount importance at the
moment, as in this case you are reading in order to acquire a clear,
easy style of writing rather than to gain special information.
Nevertheless, you will be enlarging your mental outlook considerably.
In the same way, study the Editorials in any of the daily or weekly
papers of high standing and reputation, avoiding the papers of the
"sensational snippet" order. You will soon get to recognise whether the
style is good or poor.
The _British Weekly_ (London) is celebrated for its literary quality. It
will be a gain if you read regularly the article on the front page, and
"The Correspondence of Claudius Clear," which is a feature every week.
This is to start you on a course of reading that will give modernity to
your style, and help to rid you of the antiquated expressions and
mannerisms that are so noticeable in amateur work.
Mere "newspaper reading" may seem to you a disappointing beginning to
the programme. "The newspaper is read by everybody every day," you may
tell me, "and what has it done for their style?"
But I am not advocating that type of "newspaper reading." This isn't a
question of reading some murder case, or imbibing the exhilarating
information that some one met Mrs. Blank on Fifth Avenue the other day,
and she looked sweet in a pale blue hat.
Leave all that part of the paper severely alone. Study the Editorials as
you would study a book, since the writings of first-class journalists
are excellent models for the amateur, a fact that is curiously
overlooked by the student. Read a fixed amount each day, instead of
relying on a haphazard picking up of a paper and a careless glance over
its contents. Then, as a useful exercise, take the subject-matter of a
paragraph, or an article, and see how _you_ would have treated it; try
if you can improve on it (after all, most things in this world can be
improved upon if the right person does the improving). You will be
surprised to find how interesting a study this will become in a very
little while.
Do not misunderstand me: I am not advocating newspaper reading _in
place_ of classical works, but as a necessary and valuable addition to a
writer's literary studies.
The Need for Enlarging the Vocabulary
Equal in importance to the cultivation of a modern style in writing, is
the necessity for having a wide selection of words at your command, and
a keen sense of their value. Some people think the chief thing in
writing is to have ideas in one's head. Ideas are essential, but they
are not everything. Your brain may be crammed full of the most wonderful
ideas, but they will be useless if they get no farther than your brain.
It is one thing to see things yourself, and quite another to be able to
make an absent person see them.
It is one thing to receive impressions in your own mind from your
surroundings, or as the product of imagination, and quite another to
record those impressions in black and white.
Tens of thousands of people are conscious of vivid mental pictures, for
one who is able to reproduce them in such a form that they become vivid
pictures to others. And one reason for the inability of the majority to
express their thoughts in writing is the paucity of their vocabulary,
and their lack of the power to put words together in a convincing and
accurate manner.
Girls often write to me, "I think such wonderful things in my brain; I'm
sure I could write a book, if only people would give me a little
encouragement," or, "if only I had time."
But if they had all the encouragement and all the time in the world,
they could not transfer those wonderful thoughts from their brain to
paper unless they had practice, the right words at their command, and
the experience that comes from hard regular working at the subject.
What people do not realise is this: wonderful thoughts are surging
through thousands of brains. They are fairly common _inside_ people's
heads; the difficulty is in getting them out of the head--as most of us
soon find out when we start to write! I shall refer to this later on.
If you wish to write down your thoughts--no matter whether they are
concerned with the emotions, or religion, or nature, or cookery--you
must employ words; and the more subtle, or elevated, or complex the
subject-matter of your thoughts, the greater need will there be for a
wide choice of words, in order to express exactly the various grades
and shades of meaning that will be involved.
If your vocabulary be small--_i.e._ if you only know the average words
used by the average person--there is every chance that your writings
will be flat and colourless, and no more interesting, or exciting, or
instructive, or entertaining than the ordinary conversation of the
average person.
Hence the necessity for enlarging your vocabulary, so that you have the
utmost variety to choose from in the way of suitable words, expressive
words, and beautiful words, (this last the modern amateur is apt to
overlook).
[Sidenote: The Average Person's Vocabulary is Meagre]
The smallness of the vocabulary used by the average person to-day is
partly due to the mass of feeble reading-matter with which the country
was flooded in the years immediately preceding the War.
In addition to this, life had become very easy for the majority of folk
in recent times; money was supposed to be life's sole requisite. Work of
all kinds was "put out" as much as possible; we shirked physical labour;
lessons were made as easy as they could be; games were played for us by
professionals while we looked on; effort of every sort was distasteful
to us. It has been said, that as a nation we were becoming flabby and
inert, and were fast drifting into an exceedingly lazy, commonplace
mental attitude. We boasted that we couldn't think (even though with
many this was merely a pose); we seemed quite proud of ourselves when we
proclaimed our indifference to all serious reading, and our inability to
understand anything.
That pre-War period, given over to money-worship, not only curtailed our
choice of words by its all-pervading tendency to mind-laziness, but it
had its vulgarising effect upon our language, just as it had upon our
dress, our mode of living, and our amusements.
[Sidenote: The dull Monotony of English Slang]
Not only did we cease to take the trouble to speak correctly, but we
almost ceased to be lucid! We made one word--slang or otherwise--do duty
in scores of places where its introduction was either senseless or
idiotic, rather than exert our minds to find the correct word for each
occasion. Many people appeared to think that the use of slang was not
only "smart," but quite clever; whereas nothing more surely indicates a
poor order of intelligence.
My chief objection to a constant use of slang is not because it is
outside the pale of classical English, but because it is so ineffective
and feeble.
As a rule, slang words and phrases are, in the main, pointless and weak,
for the simple reason that we use one word for every occasion when it
happens to be the craze; and before long it comes to means nothing at
all, even if it chanced to mean anything at the start--which it seldom
does.
Our grandmothers objected to their own set using slang on the ground
that it was "unladylike." The modern girl smiles at the term. "Who
desires to be 'ladylike'?" inquires the advanced young person of to-day.
Yet our grandmothers were right fundamentally; with their generation,
the word "lady" implied a woman of education, intelligence, and
refinement. The user of slang is the person who lacks these
qualifications; she has neither the wit nor the knowledge to employ a
better and more expressive selection of words.
[Sidenote: Slang indicates Ignorance]
Slang indicates, not advanced ideas, but ignorance--any parrot can
repeat an expression, it takes a clever person always to use the right
word.
Many people who constantly employ any word that happens to be current,
do not really know what they are saying, neither do they attach any
weight to their words; they merely repeat some inanity, because they
have not the brains to say anything more intelligent, or they are too
indolent to use what brains they have.
Notice how a set of big schoolgirls will, at one time, use the word
"putrid," let us say, and apply it to everything, from a broken
shoe-lace to examinations. And women will call everything "dinkie," or
"ducky," or something equally enlightening and artistic, working the
word all day long until it is ousted by another senseless expression.
What power of comparison has a girl, such as one I met recently, who, in
the course of ten minutes described a hat as "awf'ly niffy," a man as
"awf'ly sweet," a mountain as "awf'ly rippin'," and another girl as an
"awful cat"?
What does it all amount to, this perversion of legitimate words or
introduction of meaningless ones? Nothing--actually nothing. That is the
pity of it. If these "ornaments of conversation" enabled one to grasp a
point better, to see things more clearly, or to arrive at a conclusion
more rapidly, I, for one, would gladly welcome them, as I welcome
anything that will save time and labour. But, unfortunately, they only
tend to dwarf the intelligence and to lessen the value of our speech.
I have enlarged on the undesirability of slang, because many amateurs
think it will give brilliance, or smartness, or up-to-date-ness to their
work. But it doesn't. It obscures rather than brightens; it tends to
monotony instead of smartness. The beginner will be wise to avoid it,
unless it is required legitimately in recording the conversation of a
slangy person.
[Sidenote: Some Books that will Enlarge your Vocabulary]
To enlarge your selection of words, you must read books of the
essay type rather than fiction, as these usually give the widest
range of English. Two authors stand out above all others in this
connection--Ruskin and R.L. Stevenson. Both men had an extraordinary
instinct for the right word on all occasions--the word that expressed
exactly the idea each wished to convey.
Read some of Stevenson's essays slowly and carefully. Don't gobble them!
You want to impress the words, and the connection in which they are
used, on your mind. It is an effort to most of us to read slowly in
these hustling times; yet nothing but deliberate, careful reading will
serve to teach the correct use of words and their approximate values.
And I need not remind you to look up in a dictionary the meaning of any
word that is new to you.
Ruskin's _Sesame and Lilies_ you will have read many times, I hope; if
not, get it as soon as ever you can. His _Poetry of Architecture_ will
make a useful study; also _Queen of the Air_ and _Praeterita_ (his own
biography). His larger works, while containing innumerable passages of
great beauty, are so often overweighted with technical details and
principles of art (some quite out-of-date now) that they become tedious
at times. Yet there is so much in all of his writings to enlarge your
working-list of words, that you will benefit by reading any of his
books.
Among present-day writers I particularly recommend Sir A. Quiller-Couch,
Dr. Charles W. Eliot; Dr. A.C. Benson, Dr. Edmund Gosse, Coulson
Kernahan, and Augustine Birrell, whose volumes of essays will not only
enlarge your vocabulary, but will prove particularly instructive in
suggesting the right placing of words, and in giving you a correct
feeling for their value.
Of course this does not exhaust the list of authors with commendable
vocabularies; but it gives you something to start on.
[Sidenote: It is the Value of a Word, not Its Unusuality, that Counts]
Notice that the writers I have suggested do not necessarily use
extraordinary words, or uncommon words, or very long-syllabled words,
or ponderous and learned words. One great charm of their writings lies
in the fact that they invariably use the word that is exactly right, the
word that conveys better than any other word the thought or sensation
they wished to convey. Sometimes it is an unusual word; sometimes it is
a familiar word used in an unfamiliar connection; but in most cases you
feel that the word used could not have been bettered--it sums up
precisely, and conveys to your mind instantly, the thought that was in
the author's mind.
Many amateurs fall into the error of thinking that an uncommon word, or
a long word, or a word with an imposing sound, gives style to their
writings, and they despise the simple words, considering them
common-place. I heard an old clergyman in a small country church explain
to the congregation, in the course of a sermon, that the words "mixed
multitude" meant "an heterogeneous conglomeration"; but I think his
rustic audience understood the simple Bible words better than they did
his explanatory notes.
I remember seeing an examination paper, wherein a student had
paraphrased the line--
"The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea,"
as, "The bellowing cattle are meandering tardily over the neglected,
untilled meadow land."
This is an instance of the wrong word being used in nearly every case;
and as a complete sentence it would have been difficult to construct
anything, on the same lines, that conveyed less the feeling Gray wished
to convey when he wrote the poem!
Good writing is not dependent upon long or ornate or unusual words; it
is the outcome of a constant use of the right word--the word that best
conveys the author's idea.
If there be a choice between a complex word and a simple word, use the
simple one.
Remember that the object of writing is not the covering of so much blank
paper, nor the stringing together of syllables; it is the transference
from the author's brain to other people's brains of certain thoughts and
situations and sensations. And the best writing is that which conveys,
by the simplest and most direct means, the clearest reproduction of the
author's ideas.
The Charm of Musical Language
There is a very special and distinct charm about literature that is
musical to the ear--words that are euphonious, phrases that are
rhythmic, sentences that rise and fall with definite cadence.
Unfortunately, the twentieth century, so far, has been primarily
concerned with the making of noise rather than music. Even before the
War, we lived in a welter of hideous jarring sound, to which every
single department of life has added its quota. Outdoors the vehicles
honk and rattle and roar; in business life the clack and whirr of
machinery drowns all else; in the home doors are banged, voices are
raised to a raucous pitch, children are permitted to shout and clatter
about at all times and seasons--indeed, it is the exception rather than
the rule, nowadays, to find a quiet-mannered, well-ordered household.
When Strauss put together his sound monstrosities, which he misnamed
music, he was only echoing the general noise-chaos that had taken
possession of the universe, permeating art and literature no less than
everyday life. The nightmares of the cubists and futurists were merely
undisciplined blatancy and harshness rendered in colour instead of in
sound, and were further demonstrations of the crudity to which a nation
is bound to revert when it wilfully discards the finer things of the
soul in a mad pursuit of money.
[Sidenote: Sound--Refined and Otherwise]
The sounds produced by a people are invariably a direct indication of
the degree of their refinement; the greater the blare and clamour
attendant upon their doings, and the more harsh and uncultivated their
speaking voices, the less their innate refinement.
Bearing all this in mind, it is easy to understand why so much of our
modern literature became tainted with the same sound-harshness that had
smitten life as a whole. Some writers would not take the trouble to be
musical; some maintained that there was no necessity to be melodious;
some regarded beauty of sound as synonymous with weakness; others--and
these were in the majority--had lost all sense of word-music and the
captivating quality of rhythm. And yet few things make a greater or a
more general appeal to the reader.
[Sidenote: The Dangers of the "Rough-hewn" Method]
There is no doubt but what the idea that rough, unpolished work stood
for strength, while carefully-finished work implied weakness, was due to
the fact that several of our great thinkers adopted the "rough-hewn"
method. Such men as Carlyle and Browning were sometimes irritatingly
discordant and unshapely in style--occasionally giving the idea, as a
first impression, that their words were shovelled together irrespective
of sound or sense.
Said the lesser lights, "This seems a very easy way to do it! And they
are undoubtedly great men. Why shouldn't we do likewise? It must save a
deal of trouble!"
But there is one difficulty that we lesser lights are always up against:
whereas genius, in its own line, can do anything it likes, in any way it
likes, and the result will be of value to the world, those of us who are
not in the front rank of greatness cannot work regardless of all laws
and traditions; or, if we do, our work is not worth much. It was not
that Carlyle and Browning were permitted to write regardless of laws and
traditions because they were great; certainly not. They were great
because they could write regardless of laws and traditions, and yet
write what was of value to the world. So few of us can do that.
Parenthetically, I am not saying that Browning was never musical; the
lyrics in _Paracelsus_, for instance, are beautiful; but often he went
to the other extreme.
It no more follows that beautiful language is weak, than that uncouth
language is strong. The rough and often clumsy phraseology sometimes
used by the two men I have named was their weakness; and the fact that
the world was willing to accept the way they often said things, for the
sake of what they had to say, is an immense tribute to the worth of
their ideas.
[Sidenote: To use Pleasing Language is Good Policy]
There are invariably two ways of saying the same thing, and, all else
being equal, it is more advantageous to say what we have to say in a
pleasant rather than an unpleasant manner. We know the wisdom of this in
everyday life; equally it is the best policy in writing.
I could name books that are moderately thin in subject-matter and yet
have had a large sale, and this, primarily, because of the charm of
their style and the music of their language.
While there should be ideas behind all that is written, if those ideas
are presented in language that captivates the ear, the book has a double
chance, since it will appeal through two channels instead of only
one--the ear as well as the mind.
It must never be forgotten that the object of our reading is
sometimes--very often, indeed--recreation and recuperation. We are not
always seeking information; the mind is not always equal to profound or
involved thought; but it is always susceptible to beauty and harmony (or
it should be, if we keep it in a healthy condition, and do not damage it
with injurious mental food). And whether we are seeking information or
recreation, there is a great fascination in reading matter that has
rhythm, melody, and balance in its sentences.
I consider that the power to write on these lines is very largely a
matter of training. Though, obviously, some ears are more keenly alive
than others to the comparative values of sound, and some are born with a
certain instinct for good expression, there is no doubt but what
practice will do much to induce a graceful, melodious style of writing,
and study will help us to detect these qualities in the works of others.
[Sidenote: Write Verse if you want to Write Good Prose]
With regard to training: I strongly advise those who aim for a good
prose style to practise writing verse. When you start, you will probably
find that your early attempts are nothing more than a series of lines
with jingling rhymes at stated intervals.
Nevertheless, even such productions as these are of definite use in your
training. You have had to find words that rhymed. You have had to
compress your ideas within a set limit; this in itself is a check on the
long-winded wandering tendencies of the amateur. You have had to
consider the respective weight of syllables--which is worth an accent,
and which is not, and so on. In short, you have had to give some
discriminating thought to what you were writing, and how you were
writing it, and that is what the beginner so seldom does. He more often
sits down and goes on and on and on--words, words, words--with no
feeling for their respective values, or the proportion of the sentences
and incidents as a whole.
Viscount Morley, in his _Recollections_, writes: "At Cheltenham College,
I tried my hand at a prize poem on Cassandra; it did not come near the
prize, and I was left with the master's singular consolation, for an
aspiring poet, that my verse showed many of the elements of a sound
prose style."
But the master's consolation was not so singular after all. It is quite
possible for one to write verse that may be excellent training for
prose writing, and yet that is not poetry in the most exclusive sense of
the word.
[Sidenote: Read Poetry Aloud to Cultivate a Sense of Musical Language]
In addition to writing verse, I urge all students who wish to cultivate
a sense of music in their writing to read good poetry, and, whenever
possible, to read it aloud.
When reading aloud, the ear helps as well as the eye; whereas, when
reading silently, the eye is apt to run on faster than the ear is
able--mentally--to take in the sounds; and you are bound to miss some of
the finer shades of movement and melody. When you say the words aloud,
the sound and the beat of the syllables are more likely to be impressed
upon your mind.
You cannot do better than Tennyson to begin with--one of the most
musical of our poets. Read "The Lotos-Eaters," the lyrics in "The
Princess," "The Lady of Shallott," "Come into the Garden, Maud." In "The
Idylls," and "In Memoriam," are many exquisite passages. Read
"Guinevere," and "The Passing of Arthur," for example, noting the lines
that are conspicuous for their charm of wording, or balance, or sound.
Turning to other writers: I select a few instances at random, and am
only naming well-known poems that are within the reach of most
students:--
Christina Rossetti: The chant of the mourners, at the end of "The
Prince's Progress," beginning "Too late for love," is worth reading many
times.
Jean Ingelow has, in a marked degree, a musical quality in her verse
which compensates in some measure for its slightness. Her habit of
repeating a word often gives a lilt and a cadence to her lines that is
very pleasing, as for instance in "Echo and the Ferry," and "Songs of
Seven." As an example by another poet, this repetition of a word is used
with delightful effect in "Sherwood," by Alfred Noyes.
Other poems you might read are: "The Forsaken Merman," Matthew Arnold;
"The Cloud," Shelley; "Kubla Khan," Coleridge; "The Burial of Moses,"
Mrs. Alexander; and "The Recessional," Kipling. "The Forest of Wild
Thyme," Alfred Noyes, contains much in the way of music.
After you have studied these--and they will give you a good
start--search for yourself. To make your own discoveries in literature
is a valuable part of your training.
[Sidenote: Anthologies are Valuable Text-Books]
The student will find it very helpful to have at hand one or two small
volumes of selected poems by various authors. Such anthologies often
give, in a compact form, some of the choicest of the writers' verses;
and this saves the novice's time in wading through some work that may be
indifferent in search of the best. Moreover, a little volume can be
slipped into the pocket, and will provide reading for odd moments.
Do not content yourself with a mere reading of the poems. Try to decide
wherein lies the charm (or the reverse) of each. Explain, if you can,
why, for instance, the following, by Swinburne:--
"Yea, surely the sea like a harper laid hand on the shore as a lyre,"
appeals to one more than Longfellow's lines:--
"The night is calm and cloudless,
And still as still can be,
And the stars come forth to listen
To the music of the sea."
Compare poems by various writers dealing with somewhat similar themes;
note wherein the difference lies both in thought and workmanship. Mrs.
Browning's "Sonnets from the Portuguese" could be studied side by side
with Christina Rossetti's "Monna Innominata"; Longfellow's "The Herons
of Elmwood" with Bryant's "Lines to a Waterfowl"; Christina Rossetti's
"The Prince's Progress" with Tennyson's "The Day Dream."
Such exercises will enlarge your ideas as well as your vocabulary; they
will help to give you facility in expressing yourself, and also that
genuine polish which is the result of close familiarity with good
writing.
Analysing an Author's Methods
It is not possible to suggest any definite course of reading for the
study of technique (or methods of authorship). The ground is too wide to
be covered by any prescribed set of books.
In order to understand, even a little bit, "how the author does it," you
need to study each book separately, as you read it--deciding, if you
can, what was the author's central idea in writing it; disentangling the
essential framework of the story from the less important accessories;
analysing the plot; assigning to the various characters their degree of
importance; accounting for the introduction of minor episodes; noting
how the author has obtained a fair proportion of light and shade, and
secured sufficient contrast to ensure a well-balanced story; and how all
the main happenings combine to carry one forward, slowly it may be, but
surely, to the climax the author has in view.
These are a few of the points you should observe. Now look at them in
detail, and at the same time apply them to your own work.
[Sidenote: One Central Idea Should Underlie every Story]
Every author of any standing has one central idea at the back of his
mind when he sets out to write a novel; this is the pivot on which the
plot turns--it may be called the keynote of the book, Sometimes the
author's "idea" is obvious or avowed, as in the case of much of
Dickens's works, and _Uncle Tom's Cabin_. Sometimes it is so deftly
concealed that you may not realise a book is giving expression to any
one special idea, so absorbing is the general interest.
One great advantage of this keynote is the way it gives cohesion to a
story as a whole, a motive for the plot, a bed-rock reason for the
story's existence.
The central idea which is invariably behind a well-written story must
not be confused with the "moral" that adorned all the praiseworthy books
of our grandmothers' day. The idea may be a very demoralising one, and
anything but a wholesome pill administered in a little jam, as was the
"moral" of by-gone story-books. But the point I want you to notice is
this: every author who is an experienced worker starts out with a
definite object in mind--good or bad, or merely dull, as the case may
be; he does not sit down and write haphazard incidents with nothing more
in view than the stringing together of conversations and happenings
that arrive nowhere, and illustrate nothing in particular, and reach no
climax other than a wedding.
[Sidenote: A Wedding need not be the Chief Aim of a Novel]
Possibly it will come as a surprise to many amateurs when I tell them
that the inevitable uniting of the lovers (or their disuniting, as the
case may be) in the last chapter, is not necessarily the chief object of
an experienced writer; often it is merely incidental.
The average beginner--more especially the feminine beginner--has but one
aim when she embarks on fiction, viz., the marrying of her hero and
heroine. That the wedding bells ringing on the last page may be an
episode of secondary importance, so far as a book is concerned, seldom
occurs to her. The result is the monotonous character of thousands of
the MSS. offered for publication; and the weary reams of paper that are
covered with pointless, backboneless fiction, that amounts, all told, to
nothing more than the engagement (or the estrangement) of two
colourless, nondescript individuals!
[Sidenote: The Ideas behind Books are as Varied as Human Nature]
Sometimes the author aims to show you either the inhabitants and manners
and customs and scenery of some definite locality! or one particular
class of society; or the virtues or failings of an individual type; or
the beauty of an abstract virtue; or the pitiful side of poverty; or
vice decorated with gloss and glamour.
But whatever the idea may be, one of some sort lies behind every novel
of recognised standing.
Begin your study of a book, therefore, by looking for its central idea;
then observe how this permeates the whole, and how the author utilises
his characters and his incidents to demonstrate the idea.
Some writers explain themselves in the title they give to a book. _The
Egoist_ tells you at once what to expect. But whether the motif of a
book be obvious or not at first apparent, it is important so far as the
staying quality of a story is concerned. And it is not until you have
studied standard authors, with this particular matter in mind, that you
realise how much more important it is that a book should have a keynote,
than that the hero should be handsome, or that the heroine should be
dressed in some soft clinging material that suits her surpassing
loveliness to perfection.
[Sidenote: Look for the Framework of the Story]
Having decided what is the central idea behind the book you are studying
(I am not suggesting any particular book; choose any work of recognised
merit by a dead or a modern writer and it will serve), next try to find
the framework of the story--the plot if you like, though the framework
is not always the plot.
Each complete story is composed of an essential skeleton, with a certain
amount of secondary matter added to it to take away from its bareness.
It is well to notice that with the greatest writers the framework is
usually something fairly solid and substantial that will stand the
addition of other matter; and it often deals with some great human truth
that is world-old. It is not much good to have a framework composed of
trivialities.
But suppose the framework be something like this--
Worthy John Jones becomes engaged to good Mary Smith; they quarrel,
and become disengaged. J. J. falls a temporary prey to the sirenical
wiles of Elsienoria Brown; M. S. lends a temporary ear to the
insidious suggestions of Adolphus Robinson. Elsienoria Brown
inadvertently listens to the innocent prattle of a little orphan
child, and forthwith mends her wicked ways and dies of consumption;
Adolphus Robinson is condemned to penal servitude for life after
absconding with the Smith family plate. J. J. and M. S. are finally
restored to each other through the kind offices of the same innocent
orphan child.
It may take you a little thought and time to detach this framework from
the author's wealth of additional incidents or secondary matter.
There may be talk about the lovely old Tudor mansion, Mary's home; the
life history of each of Mary's ancestors, whose portraits hang in the
long gallery; the eccentricities of Mary's grandfather; the Spartan
temperament of Mary's mother, with details about the perfection of her
servants, and the thoroughness of her spring-cleaning activities;
digressions as to non-successful aspirants for Mary's hand prior to the
advent of John; Mary's work among the poor; Mary's love of Nature, and
her exquisite taste in garden planning; Mary's patience with a gouty
father; the sordid history of the late parents of the prattling orphan
child whom Mary recently adopted; Mary's stay in Cairo (after the
quarrel), and her meeting there with Adolphus; details of Cairo natives;
measurements of the pyramids; a nocturne on moonlight over the desert; a
dissertation on flies; prices and descriptions of bazaar curios;
sidelights on hotel visitors, their tongues, their flirtations, and
their fancy-work----
And much more concerning Mary.
Then there will be Elsienoria; her stage career; her intrigues; her
eyes; her interest in bull-terriers and bridge; a descriptive catalogue
of her jewels, and the furnishings of her palatial yacht; and a vignette
of her poor old mother taking in washing in Milwaukee.
In like manner there will be copious data concerning John, and ditto
concerning Adolphus, with all sorts of entanglements to be straightened
out, and a legion of simple happenings that lead to confusions.
It is from a mass of incidents such as these that you will have to
eliminate the framework, the part that cannot be dispensed with without
the rest falling to pieces. Practice in analysing stories will soon make
the framework of each clear to you.
[Sidenote: Assess the Value of each Character in the Story]
The characters should be studied individually, in order to find out why
the author brought them on the scene; what position each occupies in
relation to the whole; who are the most important folk, and who are
brought in merely to render some useful but unimportant service to the
story.
Then note how the author keeps the circumstances that surround each
character directly proportionate to his or her place in the story. The
great deeds are invariably performed by the hero--not by some odd man
who appears only in one chapter and is never heard of again. The most
striking personality is never assigned to some woman who only has a
minor part given her, and who vanishes in the course of a dozen pages,
with no further explanation.
In this way assess the value of each character to the story as a whole.
Next study the matter that seems non-essential to you, and decide, if
you can, why each episode was introduced.
[Sidenote: The Use of Secondary Matter]
At first glance you may think that much of it could be done without, and
would make no difference whatever to the story, beyond shortening it, if
it were omitted altogether.
This is perfectly true of poor work. The unskilled writer will pad out a
MS. with all manner of stuff that has no direct bearing on the plot.
There will be conversations that reveal nothing, that throw no lights on
the characteristics or the motives of anybody, and are obviously
introduced merely to fill up a few pages. There will be incidents that
in no way affect the movement of the story, that add no particular
excitement or interest, and carry you no nearer to the climax than you
were in the previous chapter.
But the good craftsman wastes no space on unnecessary talk, even though
certain scenes and episodes may be of less importance than others. He
knows that secondary matter, such as descriptive passages, dialogues,
interludes and digressions are necessary in order to "dress" the
framework and give it something more than bare bones; they are also
needed to give variety and balance to a book. Some incidents that may
not appear to be vital to the story, are introduced to break what would
otherwise have been a monotonous series of events; or they are put in
for the purpose of giving brightness and a picturesque element as a
contrast to some sorrowful or gloomy occurrence.
[Sidenote: Minor Details can be made to serve Two Purposes]
If the book be written by a master, each character, each conversation,
each incident, each descriptive passage, each soliloquy is introduced
for a specific purpose; nothing is haphazard, nothing is merely a
fill-up.
Moreover, the expert novelist is not content to put his secondary matter
to one minor use only; he frequently makes it contribute something to
the main issues of the story--and in this case it serves a double
purpose.
For instance, take the imaginary story I sketched out just now. Let us
suppose that, half-way through the story, there occurs a stormy chapter,
in which John and Mary quarrel and part in a scene that is red-hot with
temper and emotion. It will be desirable to secure a decided contrast in
the next chapter, to give every one--readers as well as lovers--time to
cool down a little; besides, you do not follow one emotional scene with
another that is equally overwrought, or they weaken each other. The
author would, therefore, aim for something entirely different in the
chapter following the one that ended with John violently slamming the
hall door, and Mary drowning the best drawing-room cushion in tears.
We will assume that the author transports Mary to Cairo for change of
air; and, in order to restore the atmosphere to normal, he decides on an
interlude, entitled "Moonlight Over the Desert"; this will serve as a
soothing contrast to the preceding upset.
But he will not necessarily describe the moonlight himself. If he makes
Mary describe it in a letter to a friend, or to her father who remained
at home, he will be killing two birds with one stone; he will be
administering a pleasant sedative, after the turmoil of the lovers'
quarrel; also he will be showing you how Mary's temperament responds to
the beauties of Nature, and how appreciative she is of all that is good
and pure and lovely. In this way he will be helping you to understand
Mary better, and thus the "Moonlight Over the Desert" chapter will be
contributing definitely to the main trend of the book.
Then, again, the author may wish to bring the reader back to the
everyday happenings in a light and whimsical manner, and he may give you
a scene showing the various ladies who are staying at the same hotel
with Mary in Cairo, retailing their conversation, with the usual
oddities and humours and irresponsibilities that are to be found in the
small-talk of a mixed collection of women at an hotel. In this way he
can introduce brightness and a light touch among more sombre chapters.
But in all probability he will make the conversation serve a second
purpose; Mary may, on this occasion, hear the name of Adolphus Robinson
for the first time, little realising that he is to play an important
part in her life later on; or an American visitor may chance to give
details of her old charwoman in Milwaukee, Elsienoria's mother, little
knowing that Elsienoria is the evil star in Mary's horizon, etc.
These are indications of the way an experienced author can make every
incident in the story dovetail with something else, as well as serve an
"atmospheric" purpose, _i.e._, to change the air from grave to gay, or
from mirth to tragedy. He never writes merely for the sake of covering
paper, or bridging time; whereas the amateur only too often introduces
digressions and irrelevant matter with very little reason or apparent
connection, apart from a desire to cover paper, or, perhaps, because the
episode came into his mind at that moment, and he thought it was
interesting in itself, or that it would help to lengthen the story.
[Sidenote: Never lose Sight of the Climax]
Notice, too, how the clever author keeps his eye on the climax; how
ingeniously he will make everything lead towards that climax; and how he
puts on pace as he gets nearer and nearer the goal, instead of hurrying
on events at a terrific rate at the beginning, then getting suddenly
becalmed part-way through, and making the tragedy painfully
long-drawn-out at the end--as is the method of many amateurs!
[Sidenote: The Main Rules apply to all Stories, irrespective of Length]
You may tell me that all this does not apply to you personally, as you
are not so ambitious as to try your hand at a book; you only write short
stories.
The same rules apply to all stories, whether 3,000 or 100,000 words in
length, the difference being that with a short story greater
condensation is necessary. Instead of devoting a chapter to some
contrasting episode, you would give a paragraph to it; and instead of
having a dozen or so secondary characters, you would be content with
only two or three besides the hero and heroine, and this in itself would
reduce your number of minor episodes and your descriptive matter.
Whatever the length of your story, it is well to remember that there
should be one main idea at the back of all (apart from the wedding);
also a framework, to which is added a certain amount of secondary matter
that is well-balanced and introduced with a definite object in view; the
characters must bear a fixed relation to the whole; and there must be a
climax, concealed from the reader, so far as possible, till the last
moment, but ever-present in the writer's mind as the goal towards which
every incident, indeed every paragraph, in the story trends.
You will find it very useful to study the short stories of Rudyard
Kipling, Sir James Barrie, and Mrs. Flora Annie Steel.
[Sidenote: The Necessity for Careful Planning]
Studying fiction in this way is exceedingly interesting, and wonderfully
instructive. Obviously every author has his own individual methods, and
no two work in exactly the same way. But if you examine these main
features, which are common to most, you begin to realise something of
the careful planning and forethought that go to the making of a story
that is to grip its readers, and live beyond its first publication
flush.
Perhaps you may be inclined to think that the bestowal of such minute
care on the details of a book would tend to make it artificial and
stilted; there are those who argue that the rough, slap-dash style is
the only method by which we can catch the fine frenzy of genius in its
unadulterated form! But all Art calls for attention to detail; anything
that is to last must be the product of painstaking thought. Life itself
is a mass of detail carefully planned by the Master-Mind. If you study
your own life, you will be amazed to find, as you look back upon the
past, how every happening seems to be part of a wonderful mosaic, that
nothing really stands quite alone with no bearing whatever on after
events.
That the slap-dash method is much easier than the careful, thoughtful
working-out of a story, I admit. But it does not wear--why? because
there is really no body in the work; it is all on the surface, and
therefore quickly evaporates. That which costs you next to nothing to
produce, will result in next to nothing.
Of course, you can elaborate your work, and add a multitude of details
all apparently bearing on the story, till the readers (and also the main
features of the story) are lost in a mass of small-talk and unimportant
events. But the secret of all good art is to know what to take and what
to leave; and the genius of a writer is evidenced in the way he knows
just what incidents to put down in order to gain the object he has in
view, and what to omit as redundant, or unnecessary to the direct
working out of his theme.
[Sidenote: The Application]
I am not analysing any novel to give you concrete examples of the points
I have named. My object in writing these chapters is not so much to set
down facts for you to memorise, as to help you to find out things for
yourself.
Our own discoveries are among the few things of life that we manage to
remember.
Having dissected a novel, and made notes on the way it was constructed,
turn to your own work (whether a long or a short story), and see what
you have to show in the way of a main idea, a good framework, a purpose
for each character, a reason for each incident, well-balanced secondary
matter, with a steady _crescendo_ and _accelerando_ leading to a good
climax.
I need not point out the application. It is for you to make your own
stories profit by your study of the methods of the great writers.
PART FOUR
POINTS A WRITER OUGHT TO NOTE
Beautiful and striking thoughts are a common everyday
occurrence; the uncommon occurrence is to find the
person who can reduce those thoughts to writing in
such a manner as to convey, exactly to another mind
the ideas that were in his own.
Practice Precedes Publication
When you sit down pen in hand with the intention of writing
something--WRITE!
This may seem unnecessary advice to lead off with; but it is surprising
how much time one can spend in not writing, when one is supposed to be
engaged in literary work (no one knows this better than I do). It is so
easy to gaze out of the window in pleasant meditation, letting the
thoughts wander about in a half-awake, half-dreaming state of mind.
Girls often sit and think all kinds of romantic things, weaving one
strand of thought with another, letting the mind run on indefinitely
into space and roam about aimlessly among pleasant sensations. Such
girls sometimes think this an indication that they have the ability to
write a novel; whereas it is doubtful whether they could draft a
possible plot for the simplest of stories; their brain is not
sufficiently disciplined to consecutive thought.
Others are possessed of high, noble impulses; or they feel a sudden
overwhelming sense of the beautiful in life; or a desire to attain to
some lofty ideal; and forthwith they conclude this indicates a poetic
gift of unusual calibre. All such experiences are good, they are also
plentiful (fortunately, for the uplifting of human nature); but they do
not imply the ability to write good poetry, even though they prove
exceedingly useful to a poet.
[Sidenote: Beautiful Thoughts do not Guarantee Beautiful Writing]
Most beginners think that the main essential for a writer is a
fair-sized stock of beautiful or striking thoughts; but it is quite as
important to know how to write down those thoughts. As a matter of fact,
beautiful and striking thoughts are of common, everyday occurrence; the
uncommon occurrence is to find the person who can reduce those thoughts
to writing in such a manner as to convey, exactly, to another mind the
ideas that were in his own.
"But how ought I to start with writing?" the novice sometimes asks.
"There seems so much to say, yet it is difficult to know where to
begin."
When a student commences the study of Art he does not begin with the
painting of some big, involved subject, such as "A Scene from Hamlet."
He spends some years working at little bits and making studies. He
practises on a profile, or a hand, or the branches of a tree; he will
sketch and re-sketch a child's head, or one figure; he will work away at
a few rose-petals or an apple--always endeavouring to render small
pieces of work well, rather than large pieces indifferently.
When a great artist starts work on an Academy picture, he does not
commence at one side of the canvas and work right across to the other
side till the picture is finished. He does not necessarily begin his
masterpiece by painting on the canvas at all. As a rule, he makes a
rough-out of his idea (more than one, very often), merely blocking in
the figures, arranging and re-arranging the position of the main items,
then assigning the details to their proper places, till he gets all
properly balanced, and to his liking.
Then he dissects the picture-that-is-to-be, making separate studies of
the figures, sometimes making several drawings of an arm, or a piece of
drapery, or a bit of foreground, expending infinite care and work on
fragments, and making dozens of sketches before a stroke is put on the
canvas itself.
Thus you see both the novice and the master specialise on detail before
they tackle a piece of work as a whole.
Some of the "studies" made by famous artists for their important
pictures are positive gems, and help us to understand something of the
immense amount of thought and preparation that go to the making of any
work of art that is to live.
The student who is training for authorship must work on the same lines.
All too often the amateur starts by putting down the first sentence of a
story or an article, and then writes straight on to the very end,
without any preliminary rough-out or separate study of detail; and the
result is a shapeless mass of words, lacking balance and variety, and
either without any climax, or with two or three too many.
[Sidenote: "It simply Came!"]
When offering a MS. for publication, the writer will often tell me--as
though it were something to be proud of--"I merely sat down, and without
any previous thought, wrote the whole of this story from beginning to
end. It simply came."
One can only reply: "It reads like it!"
I have before me a letter and MS. from a would-be contributor, who
writes: "I just dashed this off as it first came into my head. I do so
love scribbling, and I simply can't help jotting things down when the
fit takes me."
This is very well to a limited extent. There are times when all authors
just dash things off when the fit takes them; but, if they have any
sense (and no one succeeds as a writer if they have not) they do not
regard the dashed-off scribble as the final product, and rush with it to
a publisher. Much ability may be evidenced in a hurried "jot-down" of
this type; and if written by a master hand, it may be useful as an
object lesson, showing how a clever author makes his preliminary
studies; but as a finished piece of work it is of little value, for the
simple reason that it is not finished.
Of course, the greater the writer the less revision will his
dashed-off-scribble need, because experience and practice have taught
him to know almost by instinct what to put down and what to omit.
Nevertheless, he is certain to go over it again, making alterations and
additions, before sending it out to the reading public.
Before you can hope to write anything worth publication (much less worth
payment), you will require considerable practice in actual writing.
Directly a beginner puts on paper a little study in observation, or
collects some facts from various already-published books, or induces
twelve or sixteen lines of equal lengths to rhyme alternately (rhymes
sometimes omitted, however, in which case the lines are styled "blank
verse"), that beginner invariably sends along the MS. to an editor, and
is surprised, or grieved--according to temperament--when it is not
accepted.
Few would-be authors realise that what may be good as a study or an
exercise, is not necessarily of the slightest use to the general public.
And, after all, the final test of our work is its use to the public. If
the public will not take it, it may just as well remain unwritten
(unless we are willing to regard it as practice only), for it is certain
our acquaintances will not listen while we read our "declined" MSS.
aloud to them!
"But why shouldn't the public buy my first attempt?" some one will ask.
[Sidenote: Why "first attempts" have rarely any Market Value]
The public seldom is willing to pay some one else for what it can do
quite as well itself. And most people have made first attempts at
writing. Rare indeed is the person who has not laboured out an essay, or
dreamed a wonderful love story, or put together a few verses. In the
main, all first attempts bear a strong family likeness one to the other,
and though the general public may not stop to analyse its own motives,
the truth is, it will not buy immature work as a rule, because it feels
it can produce writing equally immature.
For this reason (among other things) first attempts have rarely any
market value--unless you have been dead at least fifty years and have
acquired fame in the interval!
Of course there is always the remote chance that a genius may arise,
whose first attempt eclipses everything else on the market; but as I
have said before, we need not worry about that exceptional person, since
some one has estimated that not more than two are born in any
generation. And even these two have to be divided between a number of
arts and sciences; they are not devoted exclusively to literature!
The average writer whose books have made his name famous, had to write
much by way of practice, before any of it found a paying market. And we
humbler folk must not be above doing likewise.
Begin to train yourself in writing by making studies, in words, just as
the art student makes them in line or wash. Make studies of character,
of scenery, of temperament, of dialogue--of anything that comes to your
notice and interests you.
To make a character study of someone you know intimately, or with whom
you are in daily contact, is a useful exercise--but I don't advise you
to read it to them afterwards, that is if you feel you have been quite
frank in your writing, and you value their friendship!
Aim to make each study a little word-picture, embodying some idea, or
reproducing some trait, or conversation, or incident. But do not be in
too great a hurry to embark on a lengthy or involved piece of work.
[Sidenote: The Style of Writing should Vary According to the
Subject-Matter]
Practise various styles of writing--serious, conversational, gay,
didactic, colloquial, etc.; and see that the style corresponds with your
subject-matter.
Watch good authors with this latter point in view. For example, the
style of writing in Kipling's "Barrack Room Ballads" is not the style he
used when writing "The Recessional."
Often several styles of writing are necessary in one story, if we are
introducing contrasts in characters or in scenes. And though we may
think that one style is peculiarly our own, it is most desirable that we
should write just as readily in any style. This gives variety and colour
to our work; also it reduces the risk of our acquiring mannerisms,
which are generally tiresome to other people, though we are blandly
unconscious of them ourselves.
But be sure that you do not appear to force an effect; do not make an
effort to be light-hearted, for instance, or overdo the sombre tone one
would use at a funeral. Sincerity should underlie all your writings;
they should carry the conviction with them that what you say happened,
actually _did_ happen, and was not invented by you merely to heighten
the gaiety or deepen the gloom, as the case may be.
In order to make your style sincere and convincing, you must study life
itself, not take your models from other people's books. If you are to
write in a joyous style that will infect others with your cheeriness,
you must enjoy much of life (if not all of it) yourself, and be able to
enter into other people's enjoyment. If you are to make your readers
feel the grief that surrounded the funeral of which you write in your
story, you must have shared in sorrow and sympathised with others in
theirs.
Once you enter into the very spirit of each happening, you will find
your style will soon shape itself according to the situation. You will
use the right words and expressions just as you would were you facing
the situation in real life, without having to stop to think out what is
best suited to the occasion.
But the beginner has to learn to be natural when writing; that is one of
his hardest tasks, I often think; and he sometimes needs considerable
practice before he acquires the power to write exactly as he thinks and
speaks, and convey precisely what he himself feels. Therefore practise
your pen particularly in this direction if you find it an effort to be
natural on paper.
[Sidenote: The Need for Condensation]
All beginners need to practise condensation; our tendency while we are
inexperienced is to be diffuse, and to over-load our subject with
unimportant explanations or irrelevant side-issues.
It will help you if, after a finished piece of writing has been put
aside for a few days, you go over it with a fresh mind, and delete
everything--single words or whole sentences--that can be omitted without
lessening the force or the picturesque quality of your writing, or
blurring your meaning.
For example:--If the hero's grandfather has no bearing on the
development of the story (and you are not seeking to prove hereditary
tendencies), spare us his biography.
Do not tell the reader, "It is impossible to describe the scene," if you
straightway proceed to describe it.
It is waste of space to write, "It was a dull, gloomy, cheerless
November day"; one takes it for granted that a gloomy November day is
dull, likewise cheerless.
If the colour of the heroine's eyes and the tint of her hair are
immaterial to her career, omit such hackneyed data. Of course these
matters may be important--if the lady is the villainess, for instance. I
have noticed that it seems essential the wicked female should have red
hair and green eyes, while the angel has violet (or grey) eyes, with
long sweeping lashes--in novels, at any rate. I cannot be so certain
about real life, for I have never met an out-and-out villainess in the
flesh; though I have known several really nice girls, who were a joy to
their aged and decrepit parents, and who married the right man into the
bargain--and all this on mere mouse-coloured hair, nondescript eyebrows,
and complexions verging on sallow!
If, after consideration, you are bound to admit that it will make no
difference to the working out of the story, nor to its general interest,
if you omit some such trivial description, or a word or a phrase, take
it out; its deletion will probably improve the MS. In such a matter,
however, it is very difficult for us to judge our own work.
[Sidenote: The Quest of the Right Word]
As a useful exercise in the art of condensation, practise describing
incidents as forcefully as you can, using the fewest possible sentences.
This will also train you to select the word that best describes your
idea. You will soon realise that the one right word (and there is always
one right word for every occasion) carries more conviction with it than
half-a-dozen words when neither is exactly "it."
The able writer is not the one who uses many words, but he who
invariably uses the exact word.
It is safe to say that, as a general rule, the more you increase your
adjectives, and qualifying or explanatory phrases, the more you decrease
the strength and vividness of your writing.
[Sidenote: Making Plots]
The student should practise sketching out plots. This is a very
fascinating occupation, and all seems to go easily here--until you
examine them! Then you may be less elated.
When you have completed the plot to your own satisfaction, look at it
carefully in order to discover if you have, by any chance, used an idea
or a theme that has been used by some one else before you. This is a
painful process, for, as a rule, one's most admired plot crumbles to
nothing under this test! If you are quite honest about it, you will be
obliged to confess--until you have had a fair amount of practice--that
your plots are nothing more than other people's plots re-shuffled.
Do not delude yourself by saying that you will "treat it differently."
Perhaps you will; but you will stand more chance of success if you
determine to get a new plot that has not been used before, and treat
_that_ differently.
The lack of any new idea or originality in the plot is the cause of
thousands of MSS. being turned down each year. Many amateurs seem to
think that the plot is of next to no importance, whereas it is the
foundation upon which you raise the superstructure; if there is no
strength in the foundation, the upper part is likely to be tottery.
[Sidenote: Learning and Cleverness must not be Obtrusive]
Until you start to scheme out plots, you have no idea how much there can
be (but often is not!) in this part of an author's business.
Do not regard your writing as a medium for the exhibition of your own
cleverness. Never try to show off your own learning or to impress the
reader with your own brilliancy.
Early amateur efforts often bristle with quotations, foreign words,
stilted phrases, pedantic remarks, or references to classical
personages. The reason for this is clear; when the amateur writes he
invariably sees himself as the chief object of interest in the
foreground, rather than his subject-matter. Almost unconsciously the
back of his mind is filled with the thought, "What will the public think
of ME when they read this?" Consequently he does all in his power to
impress the public, and his relations and friends (and by no means
forgetting his enemies) with his attainments and unusual knowledge.
We are all of us like this when we start. But as we gain experience--not
merely experience in writing, but that wide experience of the world and
human nature, which is such a valuable asset to the writer--we come to
realise that the public pay very little heed to a writer personally
(until he or she becomes over-poweringly famous); it is the
subject-matter of a book that they trouble about, and the way that
subject-matter is treated. Readers do not care in the least if an author
can read Hafiz in the original (unless he is actually writing about
Persian poetry, of course); but they do care if he has written a bright,
absorbing story that holds their interest from first to last, or a
helpful illuminating article on some topic that appeals to them.
Therefore, why make a special opportunity to drag in Hafiz, or some one
equally irrelevant, when he is but vaguely related to the subject in
hand, or possibly is quite superfluous?
Do not think I mean by this that a knowledge of languages and the
classics is immaterial or unnecessary for the writer. Quite the reverse.
The more knowledge we acquire of everything worth knowing (and standard
literature is the great storehouse of knowledge) the better equipped we
are for work, and the greater our chance of success.
[Sidenote: The Well-Informed Man does not use his Learning for Show
Purposes]
But remember this: the really well-informed man does not use his
learning for show purposes. Knowledge should not be employed for
superficial ornamentation. It must be so woven into the strands of our
everyday life, that it becomes as much a part of us as the food we eat
and the air we breathe. Our reading should not be made to advertise our
intellectual standing.
We do not read Plato and Shakespeare and Dante that we may be able to
quote them, and thus let others know we are familiar with them. We read
them in order to get a wider outlook on life; to see things from more
than one point of view; to look into minds that are bigger than our own;
to learn great facts and problems of life that might not otherwise come
our way, yet are necessary for us to know, if we are to see human nature
in right perspective. In short, we study great authors in order to
arrive at a better understanding of our neighbour; some take us farther
than this, and help us to a better understanding of God and His
Universe. If we are reading the classics with any lesser aim, we are
missing a great deal.
The knowledge we absorb from such reading should work out to something
far greater than a few quotations! It should affect our thoughts and our
life itself (which obviously includes our writing), because it has
helped us to clearer, altogether larger ideas of this world of ours and
the people who are in it.
Such knowledge will make its mark on our writing in every direction,
giving it depth and breadth--_i.e._, we shall see below the surface
instead of only recording the obvious; and take big views instead of
indulging in puerilities and pettiness.
Likewise it should make us more tolerant and sympathetic and
large-minded, knowing that life is not always what it seems.
And it may help us to accuracy--a virtue of priceless worth to the
writer.
Of course, the knowledge acquired from the reading of great books does
not take the place of the knowledge we gain by mixing with living
people; we need the one as much as the other. But it is a wonderful help
in enlarging our power of thinking, and the scope of our thoughts; and
it opens our eyes to much in the world around us that we might otherwise
miss.
So much by way of precept. Now for an example of the type of writing
that is overloaded with learning.
Some years ago, when I was assistant-editor of the _Windsor Magazine_, a
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.
But once you reach the third part, and start to gather up the scattered
characters and far-flung incidents, in order to unite them all into one
convincing conclusion, you must not dally, nor divert the reader's
attention from the main issue.
You will see from the foregoing that it is necessary to fix the length
of your story before you start to work--otherwise you will not get it
properly balanced. I do not mean that you must tie yourself down to an
exact number of words for each part, any more than for the whole; but
you should settle, before you start, an approximate estimate of the
amount of space you will allow to each part, and then see that you keep
somewhere near it.
For instance, the probability is that, unless you keep an eye on
yourself, you will overdo the detail in the first part. So many novices
start writing their story before they have half thought it out in all
its bearings; the result is that all sorts of new ideas come to them,
and fresh developments, and different aspects of the plot; and they add
to their original plan, work in fresh characters, amplify those that are
already there, till all sense of proportion is gone. Or they may have a
special liking for one particular character (invariably it is the one
who, they secretly think, represents their own tastes and aspirations),
and they will overdo this one with detail, and unduly spin out that
portion of the book.
Then again, when we are fresh, and only starting a work, we are more
inclined to stroll leisurely among voluminous particulars, and write
all that comes into our head, than we are when we have written forty
thousand words, and are wishing we could get the rest of it out of our
brain, and down on the paper, with less physical, as well as less
mental, effort!
Therefore, when you eventually revise your MS. as a whole, overhaul the
first section very thoroughly, cutting it down ruthlessly if you find
you have been unduly diffuse.
Nowadays a story that drags at the outset is doomed.
[Sidenote: Form as Applied to Articles]
But fiction is not the only class of writing ruled by Form; articles,
essays, verse are all subject to a certain order of presentation, and
certain restrictions, which no writer can ignore without lessening the
effectiveness of his work--and in the main the threefold basis applies
to all.
When writing an essay or an article, it is useful to make your divisions
as follows--
1. State your theme and your reasons for its choice. (In other words:
make it quite clear to your readers what you are going to write about,
and why you decided to write about it.)
2. Say what you have to say about it.
3. Give the conclusions to be drawn therefrom.
Here, as in the case of fiction, it is desirable to get right into your
subject quickly, never "side-tracking" the readers' mind on to a
subsidiary topic until they have a firm hold of your main theme. Ruskin
was particularly tiresome in the way he would turn off at a tangent, and
start talking about some minor matter, before the reader had grasped
what subject he was proposing to deal with.
After you have turned your theme inside out, in the second part, and
told all the points about it that you think will be new to your reader,
make your third part a climax, in that it works up to a definite
conclusion.
It does not matter what the subject of your article, broadly speaking it
should be built on these lines, since this is the form in which the
human mind seems best able to take in information. You cannot expect
people to follow your descriptions, your arguments, or your objections,
if they do not know what you are talking about; hence the need for a
very clear presentation of your subject at the beginning.
And, in order to leave your reader in a satisfied frame of mind, _i.e._
with a sense of certainty that things were brought to their logical
conclusion--also an essential in a work of art--the third section must
be primarily occupied with the reasons for, or the outcome of, or the
deductions to be drawn from, that which has gone before.
This leaves the middle section of the article for digressions, side
issues, or any other form of amplification.
Once the student recognises how desirable are the laws of Form, how they
give shape and proportion and cohesion to matter that would otherwise be
void and hopeless, he will realise how impossible it is to do good work
without preliminary thought, and careful planning. And he will also
understand how it is that MSS. which are merely "dashed off" without any
preparatory work, those that "just came of their own accord," as the
authors sometimes boast, invariably fail to arouse a spark of enthusiasm
in the soul of an editor.
Right Selection Is Important
The mere fact that the sun never sets on the British Empire does not
necessitate our including the whole of it in one MS. Yet some beginners
seem most industriously anxious to do this.
Amateurs may be divided roughly into two classes: those who tell too
little, and those who tell too much. The majority come under the latter
heading. The literary artist is he who knows exactly what to select from
the mass of material before him (in order to make the reader see what he
himself sees); and what to discard as non-essential.
I am inclined to think that the instinct for selection is largely born,
not made. It is one of the channels through which genius betrays itself.
Very few great artists can explain why they chose one particular set of
items for their canvas, or their book, and ignored others; or why that
particular set conveys a sense of beauty to the observer, when another
set would make no such appeal.
Yet the sense or instinct can be cultivated to some extent, and the
first step is to recognise the necessity for careful selection. Few
beginners give a thought to the matter. They imagine that all they have
to do, when they set out to tell a story, or describe some incident or
scene, is to say all they can about it--the more the better.
"I never spare myself where detail is concerned," a would-be contributor
wrote when offering a magazine article. Unfortunately she did not spare
me either; there were fifty-seven pages of close, nearly illegible
writing, describing the tombs of some long-dead unknowns in an
out-of-the-way Continental church.
To enumerate every single item is not Art; it is cataloguing.
Slight themes require but few details.
[Sidenote: Training Yourself in the Matter of Selection]
Look your subject well over before you write a line; decide what are its
outstanding features, which are its most prominent characteristics, and
what it is absolutely necessary to say about it, in order to give a
clear presentment. At the same time, note what is irrelevant to the main
purport of your writing, and what is comparatively unimportant.
After all, the mind can only take in a certain amount of detail, a
certain number of facts; and as it cannot absorb everything, a limit
has to be placed somewhere. Common sense tells us that since something
must be left out, it is well to omit the colourless, unimportant data
that never will be missed!
In every scene there are always definite points that arrest the
attention and give character to the whole, and many other points that
really do not make very much difference one way or the other. The artist
(whether he be making word-pictures or colour-pictures) selects those
points that give the most character to the scene, those incidents which
convey the most comprehensive idea of the place and the people and their
doings, in the fewest words.
If you are writing a story, it is seldom necessary to describe every
thing appertaining to, and every one connected with, the heroine, for
example--at any rate, not on her first appearance. Her home, her
relations, her dress, can often be dealt with in a few sentences; but
those sentences must contain just the facts that give the key to the
whole situation.
Probably it will not throw any vivid light on the lady if you state that
her drawing-room was upholstered in old rose, and she herself devoted to
chocolate; because the virtuous no less than the wicked, the most
advanced feminist as well as the silliest bundle of vanity, might all
have equal leanings toward old rose and be addicted to chocolate. But if
you state, either that she was reading a first edition of Dante, or
cutting out flannelette undergarments for the sewing meeting, or
powdering her chalky nose in public--the reader will have some sort of
clue as to your heroine's personality. An instinct for selection will
tell you which item will characterise a person most accurately.
In the same way some incidents will directly affect the whole trend of a
story, others leave the main issues untouched. Select the incidents that
matter, and leave those that merely mark time without taking the reader
any further.
[Sidenote: Caricature is not Characterization]
But while it is desirable to record outstanding features, it is not
wise, as a rule, to emphasise mere peculiarities, as this only tends to
stamp one's writing as unnatural, exaggerated, or caricature. Far better
seize on general topical characteristics, only select those that are
prominent, colourful, and vigorous, rather than neutral, insipid traits
or happenings.
People reading Kipling's story, "The Cat that walked by itself,"
invariably exclaim, "That's just like _our_ cat!" Yet in all
probability Kipling's cat was not at all like either of their cats. He
merely chose the typical characteristics common to all cats, and each
person immediately sees his own individual pussy in the picture.
A lack of an instinct for selection is one of the commonest failings in
amateurs, and is responsible for the rejection of an endless stream of
MSS. For this reason it is desirable that the beginner should pay
special heed to the subject, and note to what extent he is making actual
selection, or whether he is merely jotting down all and sundry in
haphazard unconcern.
When Writing Articles
There are two main difficulties in writing an article; one is to get a
good beginning, the other is to get a good ending. If you know your
subject well (and it is useless to write on a subject you do not know
well), it is wonderful how the middle portion takes care of itself in
comparison with the care that has to be bestowed on the entrance and
exit.
I have seen amateurs write and write and re-write their opening
paragraphs (with intervals of perplexed pen-nibbling in between),
crossing out a sentence as soon as they put it down, interpolating fresh
ideas that ran off at a tangent, suddenly jumping back a hundred years
or so in their anxiety to start at the very beginning of the
subject--and finally tearing up their by-now-unreadable MS., and
commencing all over again.
Here are two methods by which you may more easily get under way--and the
great thing is to get under way, and write _something_, then you at
least have a concrete MS. to pull to pieces and re-arrange and hammer
into shape. It is the blank paper, or the page you have crossed out and
then torn up in despair, that is so irritatingly non-productive!
[Sidenote: Settle your Chronological Starting-point--and Stick to it]
Decide, before you write a line, the exact point in the life-story of
your subject at which you will start. Remember that it is impossible to
say _everything_ about it, or give the whole of its history; therefore
settle quickly what can safely be left out concerning its antecedents
and early childhood without detriment to the subject as a whole.
Once you have made up your mind as to the precise chronological starting
point, stick to it (half the initial trouble of getting into your
subject will be over if you do); and do not in the course of a few
paragraphs hark back to some previous happening or era, because you have
suddenly remembered something that might be made to bear on the subject.
The way anxious writers will endeavour to tell every mortal thing that
can be told regarding the most distant prehistoric family connections of
their subject, is on a par with a certain type of chairman at a meeting,
who will persist in dilating on the sayings and doings of his
great-grandfather instead of dealing with the topic in hand.
If I ask the untrained amateur to write me an article on "The Use of
Pigeons in War," the chances are all in favour of his starting with the
Ark, and talking for several paragraphs round the Dove with the olive
branch. By a natural and easy transition, he would presently be quoting,
"Oh for the wings of a dove!" Pliny's doves would have an innings, the
London pigeons of St. Paul's have honourable mention, the ornithological
significance of the botanical term _Aquilegia_ might be touched upon,
with other equally irrelevant or far-fetched allusions to the _Columbae_
as a whole; and all this before any really serviceable information is
forthcoming under the heading specified.
This is no exaggerated picture; it is the type of article frequently
submitted, and is due to a writer's lack of an instinct for selection,
and his determination to leave nothing unsaid. In the end, he of course
leaves a great deal unsaid, because the inevitable limitations of an
article make it impossible to give so much past history and still find
room to say what should be said about the present-day aspect. The space
is gone before the writer has barely got there!
And because of this tendency to expend too much ink at the beginning on
details that are too far removed from the central point of interest to
be worth recording, I will give another hint that may occasionally prove
useful.
[Sidenote: When in Doubt--Begin in the Middle]
When in doubt where to start, begin in the middle; _i.e._ attack the
subject where the interest seems to focus; or launch out without any
preliminary whatever, into the very heart of the matter. It is quite
possible it may prove to be the beginning!
The desirability of shaping an article according to the definite rules
of form was dealt with on page 136. A careful planning of the form
beforehand will help the writer to keep his article properly balanced,
and to avoid over-weighting it unduly with unimportant data at the
outset.
[Sidenote: When you have Finished--Leave off]
With regard to the wind-up of an article, here again the writer has much
in common with the speaker, and happy is he who knows instinctively just
when to leave off. So few do!
Failing an instinctive perception of the right ending, or the desirable
climax, the writer can deliberately plan one and then work up to it. And
it is well to plan it fairly early, in order to make the whole of the
article gravitate toward this finale.
[Sidenote: It is the Final Impression that Counts]
In writing, as in so many other things, it is the final impression that
counts. The reader's attitude of mind, when he comes to the end of the
last page, is a powerful factor in settling your success as a writer. If
you end lamely, with non-effective sentences, or with pointless
indecision--if, in short, the reader does not feel he has got somewhere
or achieved something by reading the article, he will not be remarkably
keen on anything else you may write.
The beginner seldom pauses to inquire: What is my object in writing this
article? If I were to put the question to a number of would-be authors,
and they replied truthfully, they would say, "To see myself in print,"
or, "To make money"; yet I cannot reiterate too often that what we write
must have more in the way of backbone than this. The reason that
thousands of MSS. are returned to the senders every year is because
those senders had no other object in view, apart from money-making or
getting into print.
Decide therefore on a more useful object--useful, that is, from the
reader's point of view. The reader does not care one iota whether you
are going to make money, or whether you now see yourself in print for
the first time. The point _he_ is concerned with is what he himself gets
out of his reading--whether he has been amused and entertained, or has
gained information, or a new light on an old subject, or a spiritual
uplift, or useful facts, or some fresh interest, or a soothing narcotic
for an anxious brain.
And you must have some such object in mind, when you plan the shortest
article, no less than when you scheme out a novel.
In writing the article on "The Use of Pigeons in War" your object might
be the giving of information that would be fresh to the public (and we
never need trouble to tell them that which they know already);
information calculated to increase their knowledge of the ways in which
we waged the great war for the world's freedom, and also to give them a
new interest in these wonderful birds. Bearing all this in mind, it will
be seen at once that the preamble about the Ark would be quite
unnecessary, since it would convey no new information whatever.
Mere recapitulation of ancient well-known facts is never desirable,
outside a text-book.
[Sidenote: Keep an Eye on Topicality]
Topicality has often much to do with the acceptance of an article; but
the beginner seldom takes this point into consideration. The finest
article one could write would be turned down if the subject were out of
date--and twenty-four hours make all the difference. We move at such
express speed, and events hurry past at such a rapid rate, that the
article an editor would jump at to-day may be useless to him to-morrow;
the book that would be marketable this season may be unsaleable next.
Of course this does not apply to every MS., but it does to a good many,
and particularly in regard to articles for periodicals. If you think
your subject will have special interest for the public at the
moment--send it at once, and if it is the burning question of the day,
send it to a newspaper rather than to a magazine, remembering that
magazines have to go to press some weeks before the date of publication.
If a magazine editor receives your MS. January 1st, the very earliest he
could get it into his magazine would probably be April, and the chances
are he would have everything planned and set up until May. In the
_Girls' Own Paper and Woman's Magazine_, for instance, the final sheet
of the September number has to be passed for press the first week in
June.
Bearing these facts in mind, you will realise that it is useless to send
an article on a Christmassy subject to an editor in November. His
Christmas number was probably put together in August, and by November it
is travelling by train or steamer, bullock-wagon or native carrier, to
distant parts of the world.
[Sidenote: Articles that are not Wanted]
And I must mention another fault common with beginners. It is useless to
offer articles that are nothing more than a _rechauffe_ of encyclopaedic
facts. Any schoolboy can string together text-book information, and
compile facts from other people's works.
If your article is on an old-established theory, or some well-known
theme, you must contribute some new personal experience, if it is to be
of any worth. Readers will not pay for books or articles that contain
nothing but what they could write themselves, given the time and the
works of reference.
Then, again, it is useless to choose a subject merely because it appeals
to you personally; if there is no likelihood of its appealing to the
majority of the readers, it is valueless to an editor.
[Sidenote: Study the Readers' Preference no less than your Own]
The business of writing is like every other business in that
self-effacement may contribute much to success. The good business man
does not spend his time talking about his own tastes and achievements
and preferences; he keeps an eye on what interests his customers and
talks about that.
The good writer does not write merely to air his own likes and dislikes
and grievances, or to impress people with his own attainments and good
fortune; he keeps his eye on what interests his readers (who are his
customers) and follows this up in some degree in his writings.
This need not mean any relinquishing of personal ideals, or pandering to
cheap tastes. The readers' ideals may be as high--or even higher--than
yours; their tastes may be quite as refined--but they are not
necessarily the same as yours. Therefore, study what will interest them
to read rather than what it will interest you that they should read.
Think it out, and you will find there may be a world of difference
between the two.
[Sidenote: Send Suitable Articles to Likely Magazines]
Writers are often told to study the type of articles appearing in the
magazine in which they are anxious to see their own work published. This
is very sound advice. The unsuitabilities that are offered at times are
past counting. A man wrote recently to the editor of a prominent
Missionary Monthly: "I notice you have no chess columns in your paper. I
could supply one regularly, and I assure you it would help your
circulation considerably." For the _Woman's Magazine_ I have been
offered murder stories of the most lurid and revolting character;
articles on "Seal-hunting in the Arctic as a Sport," "Curiosities in
Kite-Flying," "The Making of Modern Motor Roads," and others equally
outside the range of women's activities even in these days of wide-flung
doors.
[Sidenote: Editors do not want Repeat-Subjects as a Rule]
Avoid offering articles on subjects that have already been dealt with in
a periodical. Unless you have unique and valuable information to add to
that already given, space cannot be spared to repeat matter. Moreover,
the public does not want to pay twice for the same thing--and that is
what it would amount to.
It is no recommendation to write to an editor, "I see you have an
article on 'Glow-worms as a Hat-Trimming' in your last issue; I am
therefore sending you another article on the same subject." Unless you
have some new and really informing data to contribute, the probability
is that you would only be covering the same ground as the previous
writer.
Neither are you likely to get your MS. accepted if you write, "I have
read the article on 'Glow-worms' in your last issue, and disagree with
many of the statements made therein. Far from glow-worms being things of
elusive beauty and suggestive of fairyland, as your contributor calls
them. I regard them as noxious pests. I have written my views in detail,
and hope you will be able to publish the article in your next issue to
counteract the wrong impression that the other one conveyed."
Now, an editor to a large extent identifies himself with the views
expressed in the pages of the paper he edits. And had he not approved of
the statements made, he would not have been inclined to print them in an
ordinary non-controversial paper. Is it likely, then, that he would want
another contribution calmly informing his readers that the previous
article was entirely wrong and unreliable?
[Sidenote: On The Subject of "How to----"]
Most editors are overdone with the usual "How to--" articles. The public
has by now been told "How to" do everything under the sun, I am inclined
to think; but if you feel it laid upon your soul to impart still
further instruction--try to find a fresh form of title.
Do not choose too big a subject. "Heaven," "Human Nature," "Eternity,"
and kindred themes are beyond the powers of any mortal--much less the
beginner.
Get right away from hackneyed phrases and allusions. So many MSS. are
peppered throughout with such expressions as "all sorts and conditions";
"common or garden"; "let us return to our muttons"; "tell it not in
Gath"; "but we must not anticipate."
If you feel drawn to write an essay on "Friendship," it is not necessary
to start with David and Jonathan; they have already been mentioned--more
than once, in fact--in this connection. Neither is it desirable, when
writing about Jerusalem to quote, "a city that is set on a hill cannot
be hid."
Variety is always pleasing, and editors do like to come upon something,
occasionally, that they have not read more than a dozen times before.
Suggestions for Style
If you are writing with the object of giving information, avoid the
indefinite style. Either make a clear, decided statement (if you are
competent to do so), or leave the matter alone. You not only weaken the
force of your statements, and smudge your meaning, by beating about the
bush and walking round your subject, but you cast doubts in the reader's
mind as to whether you are fully qualified to write about it at all.
Here is an extract from an article sent to me on "The Cultivation of
Broad Beans." Speaking of blight, the writer says: "I would not presume
to dictate to the experienced gardener, who doubtless has his own method
of dealing with the black blight that is so common on these plants; but
for the benefit of the novice I would say that, personally, I always
find it a good plan to nip off the tops of the beans so soon as the
black fly appears. And, failing a better plan, the amateur might try
this."
Articles written in this strain are fairly common, and are often the
outcome of modesty on the part of a writer who does not wish to appear
too dogmatic, or "to take too much upon himself." But from the utility
point of view they are poor stuff, and are suffering as much from
"blight" as the unfortunate beans, since each statement seems to be
disparaged in some way by the over-diffident author!
Either the remedy suggested for the black fly _is_ a remedy, or it
isn't. If it is a remedy, then it is as applicable to the bean owned by
the experienced gardener as to the one owned by the novice. In short--if
it be advantageous to nip off the tops of blighted broad beans, the
writer should have said so in simple English, without apologising for
his temerity in making the statement, and thereby discounting all he
says.
[Sidenote: Ambiguity must not be Allowed to Pass]
Aim at writing with accuracy, clearness and precision. Ambiguity should
never be allowed to pass. Any sentence that you feel to be in the
slightest degree uncertain, or obscure, as to meaning should be reworded
so as to leave no doubt whatever as to your meaning.
If, on re-reading your article, you are not quite sure what you meant
when you wrote any passage, take it out altogether. Do not leave it in
to puzzle the reader, even though you add a footnote--as Ruskin
did--explaining that you have no idea what you meant when you wrote it.
In order to avoid an ambiguous style, two things are necessary: the
ability to think clearly and concisely, and the ability to write down
exactly what one thinks.
[Sidenote: The Subject Should Regulate the Choice of Words]
The choice of words should be influenced by the subject of your writing.
A dignified subject calls for dignified language. A racy subject calls
for racy language; and so on.
If your theme be a lofty one, do not "let down" the train of lofty
thought it should engender, by introducing some word or phrase that
induces a much lower--or a different--plane of thought and ideas. It is
a backward policy, to say the least of it, to weaken, or obliterate, by
ill-chosen language, the ideas you set out to foster in the reader. It
is no extenuation to plead that the jarring phrase is particularly
expressive; if it actually counteracts the ideas you seek to convey, it
cannot be expressing your meaning.
The beginner often gets himself tied up in a knot with negatives; and
even if he steer clear of actual error, he is apt to overdo himself with
double negatives. It is better to make a direct statement in the
affirmative if possible, than to involve it in negatives.
Instead of saying "a not uncommon fault," it is clearer at first sight
if you say "a common fault," or "a fairly common fault." I know it does
not always follow that the exact reverse fulfils the purpose of the
double negative; a fault may be "not uncommon" and yet not exactly
common. Nevertheless it is always possible to get the precise shade of
meaning in the affirmative; and until a writer is quite fluent, it is
better not to risk confusing the reader's mind by the introduction of
too many negatives.
[Sidenote: The Tendency to Use Involved Sentences]
In the praiseworthy desire to use fine English, the beginner is very apt
to get a sentence such a mixed-up maze of words that there seems little
hope of the meaning ever getting out alive at the other end!
I take this from a MS. just to hand:--
"Not that her parents would have entirely agreed with the supposition
that there might have been that in his character which, had he not felt
himself unequal to the task which affected him not a little in its
apparent issue, even though actually simple in its ultimate object, it
would have been possible for him to utilise to such an extent that he
might not have entirely disappointed their none too sanguine estimate
of his ability."
I admit that all amateurs do not rise to such cloud-wrapped heights; but
many are nearly as bad!
Then, again, I have known the idea the author had in view when he
started a paragraph, to get lost half-way through! This is due to the
fact that the mind has not been trained to sustain consecutive thinking,
but is permitted to veer round to all points of the compass like a
weather-cock.
[Sidenote: "Every Why hath a Wherefore"]
If you enunciate a problem, see that you give the solution. If you start
to elucidate some theory (or the reader is led to believe that you are
going to elucidate it), do not forget all about it, and switch off to
something else.
If you have no solution to offer, it is wiser and more satisfactory, as
a general rule, not to put forward a problem at the close. A sense of
incompleteness--or of something still awaiting fulfilment--is as
disastrous to the success of an article as it is to the success of a
book.
[Sidenote: Undesirables]
Beware of labouring a thought. If your point is only a slight one, do
not reiterate it in various forms or over-embellish it.
If no big idea lies behind your sentences, no amount of impressive,
ornate language will make your writing great.
People sometimes think that a fanciful style of writing will hide
defects; whereas, on the contrary, it often emphasises them.
Avoid using many quotation marks and italics; they make a page look
fidgety. Also they indicate weakness. If your remarks are not strong
enough to stand alone, without words or phrases being propped up by
quotes or underlinings, they are no better when so decorated.
A lavish use of extracts from other people's writings is undesirable. As
I have said elsewhere, neither the publisher nor the reader is keen to
pay for what they can read--and probably have already read--elsewhere.
A pedantic style of phraseology, and a desire to let other people see
how much one knows, are amateur failings.
Some beginners go to the other extreme, and adopt a slangy,
purposely-ungrammatical style, with the beginnings and finals of words
clipped away, and a cultivated slovenliness that they imagine gives a
picturesque quality, or an ultra up-to-dateness, to their writing.
But no good work is ever built on such foundations. The first thing to
aim for is clarity, and the ability to express yourself in an easy,
natural and concise manner, always using the fewest and the best words
for the purpose, and employing them according to modern methods.
[Sidenote: Improbabilities, misnamed "Imaginative Writing"]
Amateurs often lean towards the improbable--calling it imaginative
work--partly because they fancy they are less hampered by rules and
restrictions than if they take everyday, mundane subjects. Yet--paradox
though it may seem--the improbable must be bounded by probability in its
own sphere; and imagination must be kept within definite limits and work
according to definite forms--else it is no better than the gibberings of
an unhinged mind.
Beginners frequently choose the moon, the stars, or the ether as the
background for their imaginary characters; or they revel in after-death
scenes that are supposed to represent the next world--either of
suffering or of happiness. And a favourite ending is something like
this, "Suddenly I awoke, and lo, it was only a dream," etc.
Avoid all these hackneyed themes, and obvious tricks.
It takes a Dante to lead us convincingly through the mazes of an unknown
world.
Perhaps you feel that you are a Dante? Possibly you are: greatness must
make a start somewhere. But in that case, there will be no need for you
to strain after effect; genius can be evinced in the treatment of the
simplest subjects.
Therefore experiment at the outset with everyday themes, and perfect
your style in this direction before embarking on a very ambitious
programme: we must learn to walk before we can run. The airman does not
start turning somersaults the first time he goes aloft (or, if he does,
that is the last time we hear of him, poor fellow).
It is a mistake to think that the undisciplined wanderings of an
untrained mind betoken imaginative genius. It is the way one handles the
commonplace that reveals the true artist; and style plays an important
part in this, though it is by no means everything!
The question of imaginative work is big enough to deserve a volume to
itself: much has already been written on the subject, and much remains
to be said--too much to make it possible to do it justice in a book of
this description. But I mention it here, in passing, to warn the
beginner against spending much time on work that is not imaginative but
merely impossible, until thoroughly grounded in the rudiments of his
craft.
[Sidenote: Pecularity is not Originality]
Literature seldom gains by peculiarities of style or marked mannerisms,
even though these are to be found in the works of certain writers who
are of unquestionable ability. Such devices tend to become monotonous,
and as a rule the public will only tolerate them when the subject matter
of a book is so good that it is worth while to plough through the
writer's mannerisms to get at it--_i.e._ mannerisms are put up with only
when the writer is great in spite of them: no one is great because of
his mannerisms; they are only superficial disturbances.
I am not saying this to discourage any attempt at originality of style;
real originality is usually most desirable; what I am anxious to impress
on the beginner is the fact that mere peculiarity is not originality.
Nor will it benefit anyone's work to copy the mannerisms of great
writers--since these are often their defects.
[Sidenote: Mannerisms are soon Out of Date]
It must also be remembered that many mannerisms are nothing more than
fashions of the moment, just as most slang is; and in these rapid times
they quickly become out of date, whereupon they give a book an
antiquated touch. And few things are more difficult to survive than an
atmosphere that is merely old-fashioned and nothing more.
It will be quite time enough, when you are expert at writing clear,
understandable English, to decide whether your genius can best find
expression in long and complicated sentences as used by Henry James, or
in such cynical scintillations as those favoured by Bernard Shaw, OF in
the paradoxical methods of G. K. Chesterton, or what you will. No limit
need be set once a person has ideas to give the world, and can write
them down in simple, direct, well-chosen language.
The Ubiquitous Fragment
Amateurs often think it is much easier to write a "fragment" than to
write a complete anything. The one who hesitates as to whether he has
the ability to write a long story, is quite sure he is capable of
writing a fragmentary bit of fiction--one of those vague scraps with
neither beginning nor ending that are always tumbling into the editor's
letter-box--and he feels that all vagueness, and lack of finish, and the
fact that the MS. gets nowhere, are sanctioned because he adds, as a
sub-title some such qualification as "An Episode," or "A Character
Study," or "A Glimpse."
In the same way a writer who is too diffident to attempt a volume of
essays, will feel perfect confidence in sending out a MS. labelled "A
Reverie," or "A Meditation," even though it be nothing more than a
rambling collection of platitudes on the sunset.
In most cases it is a distrust of his own powers that inclines the
amateur to embark on writing of this type.
[Sidenote: A Fragment may be Incomplete, but it should not be Formless]
Fragments may be exceedingly beautiful; they are really most acceptable
in this hurrying age when life often seems too crowded with work-a-day
cares to leave us much leisure for sustained reading. But they must
embody the fundamental principles of Form; and they must be constructed
with even more attention to artistic presentment, (or the means used to
captivate the reader), than would be necessary for a lengthier work.
Also, though they are but fragmentary, they must appear to be portions
of a desirable whole, sections of a well-finished piece of work. Their
apparent incompleteness should seem due to the author having
insufficient time--not insufficient knowledge--to finish them.
What is set down must not only be good work in itself, but it must
suggest other good work as a completion.
You have probably seen some reproduction of a fragmentary pencil or
pen-and-ink sketch, by an experienced artist, showing only a portion of
a figure or a building; yet so suggestive that the onlooker
instinctively fills in the remainder, and constructs out of the artist's
unfinished drawing a picture complete and beautiful.
I have several such sketches before me on my study wall. One shows a
corner of a quadrangle in the precincts of a cathedral. In the
background there is a Gothic west window, a buttress, and a piece of a
tower; while a flight of steps in a corner of the quadrangle, a bit of
old-world stone-work around a doorway and window, a fragment of roof and
a cluster of chimneys, with half a dozen lines indicating an ancient
flagged walk, comprise the remainder. Only a few inches of paper and a
few pen-strokes--nevertheless instinctively the mind runs on, and sees
the whole of the cathedral in the shadowy background; the side of the
quadrangle past the old doorway; even the street beyond with its cobble
stones and market women. Indeed, you can visualise all the life of the
quaint sleepy, French town if you look long enough at the little
fragment; not because it is all indicated by the artist and left in an
incomplete state, but because what he did put down is so vital, so
suggestive, so fraught with possibilities, that the mind fills in all
the blanks, and fills them in with beauty corresponding with the
specimen he has shown us.
And while we are studying the sketch, it may be noticed that though this
is but an unfinished fragment, it is perfectly balanced, and shapely
and proportionate as it stands. The patch of light on the flagged path
is balanced by the shadow in the doorway. The flight of crumbling stone
steps, the most conspicuous feature in the foreground, has been drawn
with the utmost pains in every detail. Even the cathedral window looming
in the background has its exquisite tracery carefully drawn, no scamping
the work because it was only the background of an incomplete sketch.
In the same way, a fragmentary word picture should be properly
constructed, and absolutely accurate in detail (so far as that detail
goes), well proportioned, carefully balanced, containing distinct charm
in itself. The background may be only lightly indicated, but even so, it
should contain possibilities--(the cathedral may be in misty shadow, but
you must be able to see enough of it to know that it _is_ a cathedral,
and a great cathedral at that).
The central idea must be placed well in the foreground, it should be
clearly stated, and be something worth calling an idea.
The points you mention, but leave unamplified should be something more
than windowless, blank walls, or blind alleys leading nowhere; they
should open up fresh vistas of thought, and send the reader's mind out
and beyond the limits of your sentences.
Your word-picture must be satisfying in itself, even though one realises
that it is but a small part of a much larger whole that might have been
written, had time and space permitted.
Certain literary fragments extant are probably portions of large works
the authors had in view but did not finish; Coleridge's "Kubla Khan,"
for instance. The type of fragment I am talking about in this chapter,
however, is actually finished, so far as the author's handling is
concerned; but unfinished in detail and setting, or with only a
vignetted background.
Some writers have set down a few lines with neither introduction nor
development plot, yet such is the force and the revealing quality of the
sentences they put down, and the accuracy of their sense of selection,
that they have conveyed as much, and suggested as much, to the mind of
the reader as if they had written pages. The following verse of William
Allingham is an example Here is a volume of suggestion in seven lines.
Four ducks on a pond,
A grass bank beyond,
A blue sky of spring,
White clouds on the wing:--
What a little thing
To remember for years--
To remember with tears!
Tennyson wrote some beautiful fragments. "Flower in a Crannied Wall"
contains a world of thought, and could easily furnish a theme for a row
of ponderous books; "Break, break, break," has poignant possibilities.
William Sharp, as "Fiona Macleod," wrote some charming prose fragments;
but behind each you will invariably find a complete idea, and an idea
that suggests others.
Practise writing fragments by all means, but see that they are shapely,
and suggestive of greater space and a bigger outlook than can be
measured by the number of sentences. Above all, let each embody some
idea--and let there be no uncertainty as to the whereabouts of that
idea, no ambiguity as to what you are driving at.
To produce a good fragment you must do some intensive thinking, because
you have not space to spread yourself out. This will be a gain to all
your writing. The rambling, formless habit of thinking is the bane of
the amateur, and the type of MSS. resulting therefrom is the bane of the
editor.
Concerning Local Colour
Local colour can be a powerful factor in enhancing the charm of a story
or article. It may be introduced as the background against which the
scene is laid; or as a sidelight on the scenery, customs, and types of
people peculiar to a district. Anything can be utilised that conjures up
in the reader's mind the idiosyncrasies of a definite locality--only it
must be something that _will_ conjure up the scene.
One advantage of local colour is the opportunity it gives the writer of
a double hold on the reader's interest--he may captivate by the setting
of his theme no less than by the theme itself. Also it enables him more
effectually to take the reader "out of himself," and place him in a new
environment--an essential point if that reader is to become absorbed in
what he is reading.
Mere verbatim description of scenery is not the best way to work in
local colour; it is liable to become guide-booky. Neither is a catalogue
of the beauty spots of a locality any better. Usually the most
advantageous method is a judicious, illuminating touch here and there,
revealing outstanding characteristics, and emphasising the material
things that give "colour," _i.e._, variety and vivid distinction, to a
scene.
They may be topographical characteristics or they may be personal
characteristics.
Beginners think that local colour is primarily a matter of hills and
hedgerows, sunbonnets and smocks--the picturesque element that we look
for in the countryside. But conversation can give local colour to a
story without a single descriptive sentence. Pett Ridge can transport
you in an instant to the heart of Hoxton or the Walworth Road, by means
of some bit of cockney dialect. W. W. Jacobs will give a salty,
far-sea-faring flavour to the most untravelled public-house in Poplar,
in merely recounting a trifling difference of opinion between some of
the customers!
Local colour has justified the existence of more than one book that is
thin both in literary quality and in plot; _The Lady of the Lake_ is an
instance. But I do not advocate a writer aiming for success on similar
lines.
Some words and expressions open up a much wider vista to the mind's eye
than do others. Consider your descriptive passages critically, and see
if, by a different choice of words, you can, in the same length of
sentence, give the reader a larger outlook.
[Sidenote: American Writers excel in the Handling of Local Colour]
Some British writers appreciate to the full the artistic value of local
colour (Rudyard Kipling and Mrs. F. A. Steel can make one feel as well
as see India; Blackmore's books breathe Devonshire; Lafcadio Hearn--if
one can call him British!--envelops one in the Oriental odour of
Japanese temples; Shan F. Bullock's stories are Ireland herself); but
many ignore its possibilities and set the scene with a nondescript
society background, or an equally non-commital rural haze.
American writers make rather more use of local colour. And the reason is
clear: no other country presents so great a variety in the way of
climate, scenery, and human types as does the United States. An American
author need only sit down and write of what he sees immediately around
him, and, so long as he keeps away from such modern items as the
ubiquitous commercial traveller and advertisement signs, and devotes his
attention to natural objects and local paraphernalia (human and
otherwise), he is certain to be recording what is novelty to a large
proportion of his fellow-countrymen. Moreover Americans are more given
to dealing with things in a straightforward, unconventional manner than
are the British writers, writing of what they actually know and see
around them, unhampered by classical traditions and age-old literary
usages. Hence, there is often a freshness, a vividly-alive quality in
their descriptions, that can only be obtained by writing with a subject
red-hot in the mind.
The author who merely rushes into the country for a few days, or spends
a couple of weeks on the Continent, or sprints through the European
ports of China, to obtain local colour, for a story, usually gets about
as "stagey" and artificial a result as does the home-keeping,
middle-class girl, who has her heroine presented at the Court of St.
James, and draws the local colour from the Society columns of a daily
paper!
You must know your "locality" well yourself if you are to make the local
colour real to your readers; second-hand or hastily collected data are
no good.
The would-be author will do well to study typically-American authors,
with a view to observing their use of local colour--particularly those
who wrote some of their best work before the motor-car and telephone
exercised their levelling and linking-up influences.
To name one or two: Mary E. Wilkins and Sarah Orne Jewett have
specialised on New England village life; Charles Egbert Craddock (Miss
Murfree) on the Great Smoky Mountains of Tennessee; George Cable on
Louisiana; James Lane Allen on Kentucky; Amelie Rives, in her earlier
books, on Virginia; etc.
And it is worth while noting that such writers give, not only pictures
of the scenery about them, but also an insight into the native
character. Thus both Mary E. Wilkins and Sarah Orne Jewett depicted the
rigid pride of the New Englanders, as well as the poor but picturesque
quality of the soil. George Cable showed the temperament of the
Southerner as well as the tropical glamour of the Southern States. Owen
Wister has made us love the large-hearted, child-like, primitive cowboy,
as well as feel the vastness and the very air of the plains and the
mountains of Wyoming.
Such work is local colour at its best, since it gives us the human
traits as well as the scenic conditions predominating in a locality, and
enables us to form a mental picture of the people and the place as a
whole.
Closely allied to this, is that most fascinating study--the effect of
climate, scenery, and general environment on character. But as that
subject is outside the purview of this book, I merely suggest it to the
student as something well worth following up, if there be an opportunity
for first-hand observation.
For the novelist who specialises on temperamental delineation, it has
wide possibilities.
Creating Atmosphere
Have you ever seen a landscape painting that was one expanse of
correctness in detail, and yet seemed either utterly dead, or to walk
out of the canvas at every point and hit you violently in the eye? Such
a painting often has a bright-red tiled roof--every tile visible and in
its proper place; a violently blue sky decorated here and there with
solid masses of apparently unmeltable snow; grass an acute green; trees
emphatic as to outline, every branch clearly defined in its appointed
place; sheep standing out like pure-white snowflakes on the acute grass;
the smoke from the cottage chimney a thick grey mass suggesting a heavy
bale of wool; each brick, each window frame, each paling emphasised with
careful exactness.
The amateur who produces a painting after this style is usually very
pleased with it, and attributes any adverse criticism, that a competent
artist may pass upon it, to professional jealousy!
"What is wrong with it?" I have heard a student ask, when a master has
condemned such a canvas. "It was all there, every detail, exactly as I
have painted it."
Yes, it may have been all there, but something else was there which the
artist omitted to include, and the something else was "atmosphere." The
artist may put in every twig and tile, every plant and pane of glass;
but if he omit the play of light, the glamour of haze, the mystery of
shadow, the marvellous suggestiveness of the undefined, his painting
will be lifeless and wooden, or altogether unbalanced, no matter how
accurate the drawing.
Equally, the author needs atmosphere if his writing is to rise above the
dead level of the uninspired; but while one can define to some extent
(though not entirely) what is atmosphere in a painting, it is next to
impossible to give an exact definition of atmosphere in writing. It is
an elusive quality difficult to describe off-hand. So intangible is it
that you can seldom put your finger on a passage and say, "Here it is!"
yet all the while you may be fully conscious of there being--back of the
writing--something more than plot, or purpose.
The atmosphere of a book may appertain to matters moral or material; it
may affect the mind or the emotions; it may be beneficial or baneful; it
may give colour or glamour, light or shade; it may be mysterious or
mesmeric. But whatever its trend, in the main it lies in suggestiveness
rather than in definite statement. Like its prototype, "atmosphere" in
writing is an unseen environment, yet it permeates and influences the
whole, giving it character and even vitality.
[Sidenote: "Atmosphere" is Invaluable as a Time Saver]
In writing it is possible to suggest a great deal that could not be
described in detail within the limits imposed on you by the length of
your book and the consideration of balance. Moreover, the things
suggested may be of secondary importance beside the main action of the
story, and yet be very useful in furthering the idea you have in mind,
or in helping to convey a particular impression.
In such cases the introduction of atmosphere may do much for you. While
you give only a hint here and there, or a few sidelights in passing, you
may yet manage to convey to the readers a "feeling" that carries them
beyond the cut-and-dried facts you may be handling, or lifts them above
the mere working-out of a plot. It is the haze that may hide, and yet
indicate, a something in the distance, just beyond the range of
sight--and the suggestion of something still beyond is always alluring;
the infinite within us rebels against finite limitations, and welcomes
anything that points to further ideas, further possibilities.
Thus atmosphere is invaluable as a t
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