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
encyclopædia, 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 Cæsar_, where Cæsar 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
encyclopædia--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 _réchauffé_ 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 rôle 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