This Fiction Business E-Book

Bedford-Jones H.

• Herausgeber: Midwest Journal Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

Learn from one of the early Masters from the pulp magazine Golden Years.
H. Bedford Jones routinely wrote over a million words per year and made the equivalent of possibly a 7-figure income in today's money. All by writing and submitting stories to publishers.
Yet he also wrote the handbook for high-speed, high-quality writing production that anyone can follow.
His "This Fiction Business" has been combined with two of his finest novels so you can hear from the "King of Pulps" not only how he did it, but read the results for yourself.
On the original book cover, Bedfor-Jones left this note:
"To the literary snob, who shudders at the word "commercial," and sneers at popular tastes, while starving unknown in a garret, Mr. Bedford-Jones has nothing to say in this volume on fiction writing as a business. But to the writer who has no such exalted dignity at stake and frankly wishes to make a comfortable living out of fiction writing, Mr. Bedford-Jones discloses some of the priceless secrets of the trade, gathered from extensive and highly successful practical experience."
H. Bedford-Jones also wrote about the title book:
"This book is not to be regarded as tyro. Under his own and assumed an authority on story-writing; by no means should it be read by anyone who aspires to literature, for, like Socrates, it will assuredly corrupt them and lead them into the worship of strange gods. It is destined only for those who desire to make a living by writing stories, in the hope that it may be of some benefit to them.
"As may be imagined, the author is superbly assured of his competence to admonish, divert and perhaps assist the names, he has something like forty books, of divers natures, to his discredit, and well over a hundred book-length novels, with as many novelettes and some hundreds of short stories. At one time he even made verse pay him a living wage. With the exception of perhaps half a dozen stories, he has sold all he has written, and he writes prolifically."
This Collection also contains two of his most respected and popular novels:
The Mardi Gras Mystery
The Mesa Trail
Henry James O'Brien Bedford-Jones (April 29, 1887 – May 6, 1949) was a Canadian historical, adventure fantasy, science fiction, crime and Western writer who became a naturalized United States citizen in 1908.
After being encouraged to try writing by his friend, writer William Wallace Cook, Bedford-Jones began writing dime novels and pulp magazine stories. Bedford-Jones was an enormously prolific writer; the pulp editor Harold Hersey once recalled meeting Bedford-Jones in Paris, where he was working on two novels simultaneously, each story on its own separate typewriter. Bedford-Jones cited Alexandre Dumas as his main influence, and wrote a sequel to Dumas' The Three Musketeers, D'Artagnan (1928). He wrote over 100 novels, earning the nickname "King of the Pulps". His works appeared in a number of pulp magazines. Bedford-Jones' main publisher was Blue Book magazine; he also appeared in Adventure, All-Story Weekly, Argosy, Short Stories, Top-Notch Magazine, The Magic Carpet/Oriental Stories, Golden Fleece, Ace-High Magazine, People's Story Magazine, Hutchinson's Adventure-Story Magazine, Detective Fiction Weekly, Western Story Magazine, and Weird Tales.
In addition to writing fiction, Bedford-Jones also worked as a journalist for the Boston Globe, and wrote poetry. Bedford-Jones was a friend of Erle Stanley Gardner and Vincent Starrett.
Scroll Up and Get Your Copy Now.

Leseprobe

THIS FICTION BUSINESS

With “The Mardi Gras Mystery”

and “The Mesa Trail”

H. Bedford-Jones

(April 29, 1887 - May 6, 1949)

While every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this book, the publisher assumes no responsibility for errors or omissions, or for damages resulting from the use of the information contained herein.

THIS FICTION BUSINESS BY H. BEDFORD JONES

First edition. February 16, 2019.

Copyright © 2019 H. Bedford-Jones.

Written by H. Bedford-Jones.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

THIS FICTION BUSINESS

THE MARDI GRAS MYSTERY

THE MESA TRAIL

YOUR WORLD IS FILLED WITH STRANGE SECRETS

RELATED BOOKS OF INTEREST

REALLY SIMPLE WRITING & PUBLISHING SERIES

Sign up for H. Bedford-Jones's Mailing List

Further Reading: Learning from the Pulp Masters

About the Publisher

To all our many devoted and loyal fans - 

We write and publish these stories only for you.

(Be sure to get your bonuses at the end of these stories...)

THIS FICTION BUSINESS

Preface

FIRST PUBLISHED IN 1922 and now enlarged and brought down to date, this book does not presume to tell “how to write.” The author refuses to believe that anyone could be told “how to write”; in his opinion one can only learn by experience, practice, and the innate qualities which make up a story-teller. That is to say, if one expects to make a living by writing.

These pages try to tell the rudiments as the author sees them, informally, avoiding all scholarly vagueness and solemnity. Between you and me, the real sin against the Holy Ghost is that of taking ourselves seriously. I am afraid very few writers have discovered it, so I give you the information for what it is worth. It is actually the most valuable bit of information in the entire book, though in this you may disagree with me.

This book is not to be regarded as an authority on story-writing; by no means should it be read by anyone who aspires to literature, for, like Socrates, it will assuredly corrupt them and lead them into the worship of strange gods. It is destined only for those who desire to make a living by writing stories, in the hope that it may be of some benefit to them.

As may be imagined, the author is superbly assured of his competence to admonish, divert and perhaps assist the tyro. Under his own and assumed names, he has something like forty books, of divers natures, to his discredit, and well over a hundred booklength novels, with as many novelettes and some hundreds of short stories. At one time he even made verse pay him a living wage. With the exception of perhaps half a dozen stories, he has sold all he has written, and he writes prolifically.

Therefore, when the theories of the author sound unorthodox—as they will—they will at least bear consideration, being justified by their success in his own case. And, brethren, if you find any practical and useful hints in these pages, accept them with the sincere good wishes of

H. Bedford-Jones

Chapter I - “Can I Write Stories?”

CAN YOU WRITE STORIES?

Of course you can. It's the simplest thing on earth to do. Anyone can write stories, and everyone does, from a schoolgirl to the inmate of a veterans' home. In the old days, every newspaper man had a play in his trunk, ready written —but why limit the matter? Nowadays, plays are legion, but stories are everywhere and the sky is the limit.

The milkman, the baker, the rancher, everyone writes stories! The street-car conductor writes stories—one of them got a Nobel prize for his work. Not long ago a neighbor of mine who is a miller, handed me a story of 100,000 words he had carefully written out on both sides on thin onion-skin paper, all rolled up in a wad that would have choked Jonah's whale. "He wanted me to sell it for him—maybe to re-write it, as if I had nothing else to do.

Yes, it is simple to write stories. We are taught to do it in school, and we keep right on doing it. In it, most of us find the outlet for a great craving which is usually repressed yet none the less insurgent—the craving to create something. His need for hunger and love satisfied, man then seeks to create, being fashioned in the image of God; and if he can make his creative work supply his needs, if he can make his imagination pay his bills, he is in the seventh heaven.

Usually, however, he cannot. This is a sad but insistent truth, my brethren of the typewriter. Even in these days of wild prosperity, when magazines flood the news-stands and new ones appear weekly, it is a very difficult matter to sell stories—because every one is writing stories. To break into print is an extremely hard business. I have already granted that you or anyone else can write stories—

But, can you sell them?

We are talking, remember, of plain commercial stories; stories not written because you have a message or want to say something but written to sell. Commercial stories, not literature. Stories such as appear in the fiction magazines—pulp-paper prints. Stories such as are sneered at by literary folk who won't stoop to write them, or who can't. Stories such as provide a comfortable and pleasant living for their writers. Can you sell such stories?

The answer depends entirely upon you, and upon nothing else. You certainly would not hope to become a doctor or lawyer without a long training. You would not hope to take up any profession ignorantly—you wouldn't have the nerve. So it is possible to write stories and to sell them too, but not ignorantly. You must know something about the game, and the rudiments of the business; it is a business, I can assure you, as keen and cut-throat as any other, in which a few at the top are successful and famous, and a great many struggle along on a living wage. And, as in any other business, success and fame can drop away in an hour's time.

This book attempts to set forth some of the rudiments of the business, without any of the hypocrisy so often attendant upon such an enterprise. It is an extremely difficult thing to do, and you will see why upon looking into any of the various textbooks about writing. No two teachers look at the affair from the same viewpoint, perhaps for the reason that those who cannot write, teach. Or so it is said. As a matter of fact, teaching requires a special aptitude, and I do not claim to be a teacher.

The textbooks are unconsciously humorous, from the angle of commercial writing. The little gods of Plot and Character and Dialogue and so forth are all nicely modeled and set up on the shelf before our eyes. The Rules of Conduct are neatly framed and hung upon the wall. Then each professor steps back and proceeds to look at the Gods and Rules from a different angle, and says what is in his heart with much reverence and solemnity, for he takes his gods very seriously.

Bosh! I find it much simpler to break all the gods, which are graven images of clay, and to erase all the rules, which are writ in water, and then to say: “Get to work!” This business of fiction has no tables of stone and has no Moses either.

Can you succeed without education?

This depends on your definition of the word.  Book education is an asset in any business, yet - it amounts to little as compared with the education of experience. Often it isn't knowing how to do things that counts—it's knowing how not to do them, and this is particularly true in writing. Jack London's story is known to everyone, and he had no sheepskin. There is a very clever writer, a woman whose stories appear continually in the magazines and who has published several books; and she has no education at all in the accepted sense of the word. Ours is the profession of democracy, brethren.

Do you expect me to tell how to write, how to sell, how to become rich and famous? If I could make a good bluff at all this, I would soon be rich and famous myself—on your money. I don't believe in it for a minute. All I can do is to set forth simply and plainly much of what I have learned about the game, which is much less than you may yourself know; to give all the pointers in my power; to tell how the work is done by myself and others, and not to take the damned thing too seriously as I talk. But—to tell you how to do it is an entirely different thing.

Why? Because we are men and women and no two of us, thank heaven, are quite alike. Your success in writing will depend absolutely upon you, yourself—upon your character, your personality, your experience. No profession permits anyone so much freedom of choice, so much chance for specializing, as this one. No profession is so dependent upon the character of the practitioner, and upon his individuality.

Schools are not famous for catering to the individuality of pupils. Therefore, I believe that any certain course in story writing might do you no good whatever, although it, might develop certain things in you and lay bare many minutiae of the business. Typewriter oil and experience and will-power form the best school.

Correspondence courses are not useless things; quite the contrary. You may learn vastly from them. Many of them advertise that their pupils have accomplished high things and have achieved much success. Some of them are conducted by eminent gentlemen. I have recommended one or two whose courses would have much aided my early struggles. At the same time, let me make a confession in strictest secrecy. I have the inner conviction that, were I about to learn the violin, I should go to a violinist for my teaching and not to books. Violin playing is predicated upon certain rules which no two teachers interpret alike, and is an entirely individual thing. Just so with the fiction business.

Why is no school for writers conducted by some recognized writer—why don't I start one myself? Because I can make more money and have more fun in writing than in teaching. Ask me something hard. Besides, there are a dozen angles to writing—fiction, verse, advertising, trade journals and so on. We are in this business to make money, therefore we concentrate upon one angle alone—whatever angle best suits us. The ideal school for writers would have a successful literary gentleman to handle literature, a successful fictionist to handle fiction, a prominent poet to handle verse, and so on—but I have not heard of any such school.

True, England has certain schools for “literary aspirants”—yes, just so—which are supposedly conducted by well-known writers. This may be the case; never for a moment would I be tempted to believe that a writer, even an English writer, would merely allow his name to be used in such a connection, receiving fat fees in return. No, such a thing were beyond credence. At the same time, until the ideal school for writers comes to pass, I shall continue to doubt that anyone can be told how to write stories.

Nor do I intend to attempt the impossible. If, however, you are still interested in how to go about the business of fiction, read the next chapter.

Chapter II - Going About It

LET US ASSUME, IN THESE chapters, that you know nothing about writing—that you want to know all i can tell about it. This naturally assumes that I know something worth telling. No other writer, reading these lines, will grant such an assumption. He may be envious, or he may believe that I know mighty little about his line of work, and this may be entirely true. Occasionally one of us reads the other fellow's story, and then we either wonder how he managed to do it so well, or how he got away with worse than murder. Everything is highly individual in the fiction business. No two men with the same type of stories—very long. Well, then, how are you to go about taking up this alluring profession of no work and all play, not to mention fame and fortune, as it is generally regarded? My advice, which may be worth nothing at all in your own particular case, is very simple.

First, get it firmly in your head that this is only a matter of straightforward business. Take it up in business hours and by business methods, if possible. There is plenty of time for artistic neckties and moonshine after you can afford to make a fool of yourself. You may have to be born with imagination, but you can't be born with inspiration—this, as Edison said, is only perspiration. It is no divine afflatus, producing suddenly a story in your head. Real inspiration comes from thorough knowledge of the business, combined with an ability to put this knowledge to account and get ideas out of it.

The man who makes out the daily schedule of cars in a Pullman office, as I used to do under John Seese in the old Chicago Western, uses inspiration every minute. He must know just where each car is in the division, where it has been, its present condition, and so forth. That is inspiration: the ability to combine details, and the judgment that will set them to work coordinately.

Facing the matter squarely, as a business proposition, you now take up the details. What branch of writing do you want to follow? There are many branches, all of them sub-divided, and in these days of savage competition, each branch demands special skill. If you sell railroad tickets you may be a railroader, but you can't belong to the Brotherhood. You may write for trade journals or do cable re-writes, hash up beauty columns or turn out radio one-act dramas; but what we are talking about in this book is fiction. We are talking about fiction because, in all honesty, I don't know anything else worth talking about.

Thanks to the individuality of each writer, fiction is divided into a great many commercial lines, and few writers can turn out more than one line with any great success. The man who does adventure or mystery stories is not apt at love or humorous or society yarns. Of course, the exceptions do prove the rule. William Wallace Cook can write an Arizona mining story, a wild Jules Verne tale, a fine historical novel, or a humorous—sentimental book to make you laugh and cry at once. How does he do it? By inspiration, naturally—about forty years of it.

You may fall into your own niche, into your own branch of writing, by predilection, but the odds are even that chance will guide you or experience take you by the hand. Of one thing you may be fairly sure; the knack of it will come slowly, for you get out of this game only what you put into it.

Newspaper work has started countless men in the writing game, both in the field of literature and in that of commercial writing. For this there is a very definite, common sense reason. A reporter is trained to the details of the business; the chief detail of his and our business is words—a vocabulary. He must know how to string words together, using one here, another there, to best impress the reader; he learns how they look when rightly strung, and learns their value—how to make them felt.

Thus the reporter tries fiction with a big advantage, for words are the tools of the trade and he has mastered their use. He knows "how to write.” That does not mean style or grammar or construction; it means the use of words in combination. This is the fundamental of fiction writing. A story where the words are well placed is half sold.

Yet, newspaper work is no essential to the fiction game! It is merely one way of going about it. You learn what is actually the hardest part of the game, the sense of word—values, and earn your living meantime, if you survive. If you don't survive, if you can't hang on to a newspaper job long enough to learn about words, try the ten-cent store by all means.

Other ways of going about it: Read everything you can find on the subject of writing, and be doing it while you read. If you can find some friend who has the ability to detect weak points in a story, you have a great aid; the friend need know nothing about writing—merely about stories. Many writers have found enormous help in this manner. Jack London did; I know a man down in Texas now, who had the honor of criticizing the “Sea Wolf” before any editor ever saw it.

Then, of course, there are plenty of books about writing. I have tried to read many of them, but could not find very much that was comprehensible in the text, for I am a simple sort of person, unable to absorb great ideas and sound theories, and content to drift along in my blissful innocence. This does not prevent me from advising you to read all these books, for they can do you one distinct service: they can give you an idea of what constitutes a story, and this is something I have never learned. They can teach you all the rules of the game.

Nor does this prevent me from believing that there are no rules whatever in the fiction game.

A story that breaks every accepted rule and axiom may be a world-beater—why? Because the writer has character, individuality, which shows up in his words and fairly shines through his whole story. The rules are made for those who cannot observe them, and we are not compelled to follow them. Once you have learned them, you can well afford to forget them. Sit down and write your own story by whatever rules seem good to you.

Once you obey the laws as a matter of course, you then begin to make certain laws for yourself. Otherwise, you have no chance for originality, which comes by discarding accepted precedent.

So now we come to the end of our general theorizing. These things had to be said, for this business of fiction is rather a difficult matter to explain. Any college professor can tell you how to write stories, but I am not so certain how many fiction magazines send professors checks for accepted work. So be patient, and if you are inclined to discover what chance the amateur has in the writing game, read the next chapter.

Chapter III - The Amateur's Chance

HAS THE AMATEUR REALLY a chance? You bet! When the magazines say they're looking for new writers, they mean it. They are looking, and looking hard. One reason is that they don't have to pay new writers so much money, which evens them up on the amounts they pay well known writers. An amateur, too, will swallow the old patter about having to edit his stories and cut out a good deal, and so forth.

The amateur, however, must be able to write.

Aside from the cynical reasons above, the magazines welcome and get in active touch with anyone who can do their kind of work, because they desperately seek originality. They seek it chiefly in subject-matter—something fresh. If you want an example, you have it in Hugh Wiley's “Lady Luck” stories. Any amateur with a story to tell, who can tell a story, has every chance to break into the magazines.

A friend of mine, who doubted this, tried it out: not long since. He wrote half a dozen stories, signed a fictitious name, and sent. them to as many magazines—they went to the editors from a totally unknown writer, with no pull. Every one of them sold, nearly all at the first try. The fictitious writer is still getting letters asking for more of his work.

Even though the story be crude, the finish imperfect—let character shine through it and it will sell. By this I mean the personality of the writer, which is bound to be reflected in his work. It is the man who can hold down another job, and hold it down hard, who can make good at writing. Why? Because he has force of character.

The chief puzzle of the amateur is what to write about. Most of the textbooks say: “Write only about what you know best, whether persons or places.” fiction editors hand out the same advice, because if you send one an Arabian story, he likes to be sure you know about Arabia.

What bosh it is! What arrant nonsense! When Moore wrote “Lalla Rookh,” when Sam Coleridge wrote “Kubla Khan”—what did they know about it all?

This nonsense has discouraged whole flocks of writers—another wall built up around them by stodgy people who don't know how. One editor who lays great stress on this rule, some time ago published a long yarn about the New Orleans carnival, which proved conclusively that the writer knew nothing about Mardi Gras down there and had not even bothered to be accurate. That was fine poetic justice; the editor had no right to make rules. Can a person who has lived in Madagascar write a better story about Madagascar than you can? According to the rules, yes; according to actual facts, no! Not for a minute.

I am not trying to look smart by breaking the rules. When they are broken, there must be a logical, common sense reason. Let's go into the matter on a common sense basis, and you may realize that the only good rule about what to write, is to write about what you like.

As a matter of cold fact, the very hardest thing or place to write about, is that which you know best; I find this to be true with the majority of writers. You know so many details about it that your imagination is frightfully cramped and limited. If you want to write stories with success, you must have imagination, plus. We are talking, understand clearly, with commercial fiction alone in mind, for this type of writing demands clarity and pictures.

You must be able to picture scenes and places in your own mind, seeing them as it were in a moving picture, and then transfer them to paper—making your characters talk and act naturally. Go to live in China for a while, and you'll find it hard to write stories about China; come back home, get a proper perspective, and you'll catch the highlights and be able to write about them. You may be able to write even better about them if you've never been to China.

Don't get me with reverse English, now. I do not advise you NOT to write about what you know. If you know the west, you can certainly write about it more readily than otherwise. But knowledge of it at first-hand is not an essential—not in the least. The finest descriptive work is done when you actually know whereof you write; however, commercial fiction does not call for great descriptive work. A few sentences in a story give all that is necessary, a few words can convey atmosphere.

Local color? You can get it from travel books galore, if you have imagination and an accurate eye for details. Accuracy is essential. I find the simplest plan is to pick upon any part of the world which appeals to me personally, study it from maps and charts and books, and then write about it. Then I do it better, put enthusiasm and verve into it, because I like it. And usually I make fewer mistakes.

A case in point is a story of mine in Adventure, laid in San Francisco, where I lived when the story was written. It mentioned a certain corner at the intersection of two streets which are actually parallel! The blunder occurred—how, I have never known. None of the readers caught it either, in this case, for no kick ever came in about it.

My first long fiction story was laid in Algeria, and was sold to an editor who had served in the Foreign Legion there. He bought it because the local color was accurate—and could not believe I had never been there. I have been there since, with the story in mind, and have marveled at my own accuracy. A recent story in Short Stories deals with an interior city of China which is described in no guide book, which the author never saw, yet which is pictured accurately and with detail—the local color was gained from some letters or other source. So there you are. To get across with this sort of thing, naturally, much study and hard work are required, and imagination. The same is true of anything worth while, isn't it?

After all, what we write about is merely human character, brethren, regardless of location. We must visualize what people will do under certain conditions, how they'll do it; and our hardest task is to know when our written words “sound right.”

I know a woman whose husband sells automobiles and knows nothing of writing. He listens to her stories, he knows human nature, and when her characters make a false move or a false speech, he spots it—and she benefits by his criticism. This is the only kind of criticism really worth while, in the long run.

You may write best about what you know, or about what you don't know; it depends on you, and no rule can be laid down for individuals. Zane Grey has been much criticized for inaccuracies in his western stories; yet years ago, on the Arizona border, I ran across Mr. Grey's trail and met some of his friends. That he knew his west was indisputable. Perhaps he reported inaccurately. What matter? The story's the thing!

Anything goes, if the story is good. If you're wrong, somebody is sure to praise you for being right. If you're right, someone is sure to kick about your mistakes. That is one beauty of fiction writing, and if you're interested in seeing how some of us do the actual work, read the next chapter.

Chapter IV - Doing the Work

I SUPPOSE YOU, LIKE everyone else, want to know just how the work of writing is done the actual work, in detail. How do the wheels really go around?

Famous writers only work of mornings – they always say it in interviews. Perhaps a few only does work of mornings so far as the act of writing is concerned, but he is always thinking about his work. It is with him all times. And if he had not been scribbling for ten or twelve hours per day before becoming famous, he never would have become—take it from me!

No two writers work in the same manner, for they are creating something out of their own characters and individualities, and each one goes about it in his own way. William Wallace Cook is one of the most prolific and successful of fiction writers, whose every tale is replete with fine little touches of artistry. He has every detail of a story laid out in his head or on paper, before he goes to work. He has more plots mapped out than he'll ever write, and they are exceedingly ingenious, too.

Believe it or not—I haven't; nary a plot nor a scheme. Instead, I have followed a system of my own for the past twenty years; it just happens to be my own way of writing a story, that's all. Recent examples of my system, or lack of system, were stories which appeared in Adventure during 1929—“The Four Black Moons” and “The Pirate of D'Arros.”

Here is my own recipe: Put a sheet of paper into the machine, start writing, and go ahead. The chances are that you can get a flying start with a good bit of dialogue or a fine situation. After a few pages, stop and study your characters. Go on writing from page to page, and let the plot form itself as you proceed. If you like, have a climax to write up to; otherwise, let the climax come of itself. Plot and climax will come as you go along.

Laugh at that recipe if you like—they all do! Yet it suits me. One must freely admit that this is not a safe, sound and conservative way to write a story. It is not to be commended to the amateur, except as an experiment at which to take a whack. Of course, it may work all right with me and may not work at all with you. There are no rules!

Only the other day I was congratulating a friend upon an exceedingly ingenious story which had just appeared. He admitted that, after duly laughing at my recipe, he had tried it out in this instance, and had been astonished by the result. He found that, in not knowing himself what was coming next, he wrote the story in such a way that the reader was also unable to guess the next development. So, perhaps, the advice is not so wild after all! Try it for yourself.

Many able writers can sit down and type steadily, hour after hour, like a machine, day in and day out. Others cannot do this. Some men limit themselves to an hour's work a day, on the principle of producing quality and not quantity, and after the example of one or two great authors.

It is noticeable, however, that the gentlemen who limit themselves are usually limited. I met one of them the other day, and he wondered how on earth I could turn out so much work! He himself worked a couple of hours in the morning, and never, never wrote more than three hundred words per day. He whined about hard times, and wondered anew how I managed to make a living. The suggestion that hard work might turn the trick for him, fell on deaf ears. Not yet! His “art” might suffer!

An hour's work a day is all well and good when you get old and atrophied. Otherwise, ten hours of it every day is fine exercise. Look at Jack London ! How much a day shall you write?

It depends on how fast you can hit the machine. Go to it; turn out all you can. This grandstand play of a few hundred perfect words a day is all right for the elect, but you and I are talking business this trip. Art, flowing neckties, and free verse are all in a class to themselves.

Under pressure I have written 26,000 words in a day, a complete story and entirely original work. Recently, a stenographer stated that this was flatly impossible, that this amount of work could not be done on the machine in a day. When I convinced the gentleman that I could hit the keys a good deal faster than he could, he backed down. Having the training of a stenographer and the ability to write fast on a machine, is a tremendous asset.

The beginner cannot afford to work fast, until he is where he can work both fast and well. He must be content with working hard. He must afford long hours. It goes without saying that, working at a fast rate, carefully written copy cannot be turned out. Except when under pressure, I find that five to ten thousand words is a good day's work; but many writers exceed this, and do excellent work too.

Working hard does not mean working fast —not at all! Many writers sweat blood over a thousand words a day, and work all day and night doing it. As a matter of fact, a writer should not spend more than four or five hours a day at his actual work of writing; if he does, it is going to drain the vitality out of him at a fast rate. Four hours of intense brain-work and concentration is equal to a ten-hour day at hard manual labor. Your other work-hours can be devoted to reading or study.

Writing is curiously tiring work, both to body and brain. The mental stimulus of concentration will carry you to the end of a long story with culminating power, until you finish it up in a blaze of furious energy; then you are “all gone.” For some little time you will be fagged. Your brain demands rest and recreation, and at this period the moving picture is a great little invention.

Many fiction writers in this country are astonished to find that in England, for example, most writing is done by longhand in the first draft, and turned over to a typist. Most of our own writers work directly on the machine, and their brains are accustomed to this. Be your own typist, and you're sure of what you do, also.

The best advice on how to work, is to borrow a typewriter and beat it. The more you turn out, the more you'll have to re-write, criticize, and learn from. The more you do, the more you learn—and if you are interested in the further details of writing, such as plot, go ahead with the next chapter.

Chapter V - Plot

THE WORD “PLOT” IS one of the professional walls raised around the amateur writer. The term is dwelt upon with great unction and ritual. Plot is the all important thing—if he is going to write fiction, then he must strive for plot, plot, plot!

I most disrespectfully submit that this is absolutely B-U-N-K.

In the first place, let us determine just what the word plot means—not an easy thing by a good deal. I do not believe it can be defined more accurately than in the precise words of Pitkin: “Plot is a climactic series of events, each of which both determines and is determined by the characters involved.” There, in a nutshell, is the clearest definition of plot ever attained.

At the same time, few people entertain the same notion about plot. Poe held that a story had an excellent plot when none of its component parts could be removed without detriment to the whole structure; yet this is far from conveying the exact meaning. Poe's stories had very little plot, as the word is commonly understood among writers today. Therefore, I have actually seen him held up as a bad example in this respect—Poe, who made himself a classic in English, and whom Baudelaire made a classic in French! It is undeniably true, however, that the world's greatest men are usually held up as bad examples.

Howells, on the contrary, believed that any plot was constituted by a series of events which grew entirely out of the central character. This is the literary viewpoint, usually followed by great artists like Howells, and applies chiefly to novels. The didactic viewpoint, that of Pitkin as stated above, is entirely satisfactory, and is the belief held by schools and teachers and by many writers. It is the strict dramatic plot. Read over any good play, and you'll be able to apply Pitkin's definition and to understand it more clearly.

However, we are not dealing with literature or the drama; our interest is centered on the business of fiction—and the foregoing remarks have nothing to do with it. Therefore let us consider the horrible proposition: A Good Story Needs No Plot.

Reflect, brethren! Some of the best short stories ever written have very little, if any, plot. That is why some professors stuffily refuse to call them short stories, and apply other names to them. It is hard for a teacher to see any horizon—his spectacles are too strong. He wants to keep all young writers between two narrow and high walls—that is his business.

Look at magazine fiction. Has it any pretensions, any purpose, other than to entertain the reader? Absolutely none. A fiction magazine shuns in horror all propaganda, religious controversy, and bore-some highbrow effusions. Its business is simply to make its readers forget their troubles and come again for more. When it ceases to be entertaining, it ceases to have any existence.

Very well, then. What is the most entertaining story ever written? What story has brought delight to the most millions of people and has been most widely read? Probably certain Chinese romances would fill the bill, but we are speaking of the western world; therefore, our answer would be: “The Arabian Nights.” Out of this collection of tales, the adventures of Sinbad the Sailor are perhaps the best known. They have not only been read for themselves, but have entered into fiction, myth, drama, all over the world. In the most erudite oriental studies, those of Berthold Laufer, you will find Sinbad and his adventures figuring prominently. And these stories have not the least vestige of plot. They are nothing but loosely woven incidents, which are controlled entirely by chance. So much for plot, as an essential.

On the other hand, we must not be blind to the value of plot in its strictest sense. It is highly essential to many forms of writing. To many commercial writers it is a great aid, and some of them depend altogether upon it. At the same time, it is another of those things which you must grasp and understand in order to disregard if you so prefer. It is another of the many walls around the writer, which his imagination may over-leap.

Certain magazines are strong for plot, and most editors assert with pathetic enthusiasm that they must have plot. As a matter of fact, none of them care a hang about it, and any of them will buy a good story without a plot, just as readily as they would buy one with a strong plot. Let me prove my point, brethren, by a little story just between ourselves, which must pass no farther.

Two editors of well-known fiction magazines were holding a lovely lodge of sorrow over me. They would like to use my stuff, but their magazines were famous for having strong and manly plots. Their readers wanted 'em, looked for them. As one editor expressed himself:

“Your stories are well written, but they're nothing except a lot of incidents strung in a row. They haven't a vestige of plot!”

I might have pointed out that the reading public seemed more or less satisfied with my yarns, and that other magazines were not kicking. Instead of argument, I submitted to each of these editors several stories under a pen-name, keeping carefully from sight my own connection with them. They were even typed in a manner entirely different from my own. And what happened? The gentlemen bought them and wrote enthusiastically for more with offers of contracts.

There are two possible explanations for this. One, that the editors themselves had only a vague idea of what they meant by plot, and had in mind merely a certain type of story. This is highly logical. The second explanation is that plot makes no difference whatever to a good and entertaining story. Take your choice, or combine the two.

Never accept the dicta of a magazine as to what it wants; never guide your work so as to make it fall in line with the “requirements” of a magazine. That is, naturally, unless you're engaged in some special line of hack work, as will be touched upon later. Aim only to turn out an excellent product. An editor would publish the Prophecy of Esdras if he thought it would entertain his readers—and is there not one newspaper, indeed, which is running a serial called The Holy Bible?

Without any desire to be critical, I am quite positive that to editors and teachers the word “plot” is merely professional patter—something to teach and talk about. An editor recently gave me the same old line about a story, said it had no plot, and he'd buy it if I'd put some good strong plot into it. I agreed. I changed the name of one character, deleted one word, had the story copied on fresh paper. And what did he do when he read it again? Bought it as being entirely satisfactory. Of course.

Studying plot development, you understand, will not corrupt your morals in any way, and if you're going into the writing game seriously, you must study plot with the rest. However, do not dally with the notion that plot is the one great essential to be mastered, that a good plot will carry off a poor story. Not by a good deal. Plot is really one of the subservient elements to entertaining fiction.

And returning, upon due reflection, to Edgar Allan Poe's theory, I am inclined to appreciate it more fully. He was one of the first of our commercial writers, and he knew his business down to the ground. When the gentlemen who gently scoff at him can turn out stories which will rival his, then by all means let us accept their dicta with reverence. Until then, let your story be so written that not a paragraph of it could be cut out without positive detriment to the whole yarn—and you needn't worry about whether it has plot or not.

If the story is in you, it will come out. And if, in writing it, you do not commit the deadly sin, you have an excellent chance of. selling it. If you're interested in hearing more about the deadly sin, go on with the next chapter.

Chapter VI - The Deadly Sin

MY FRIEND MAX CAME to me the other day with a story and a long complaint. First, let me give you a very brief portrait of Max, because he deserves it. He is a newspaper man of ability. For nearly three years, Max has sweat blood trying to write fiction. He has taken all the advertised courses in story writing, and some that don't advertise. He has overcome handicaps, has studied like a dog, has put into his work more real effort and agonized determination than anyone I know. And he never got very far with stories.

“What's the matter with this stuff?” said Max, handing over his story. “I can't sell it. Everyone says it's fine stuff—but fine words butter no parsnips.”

We looked over the story. The professional critics had called it excellent, had suggested a few minor changes, had nowhere come down to earth on it. They had led Max to think it would sell the tenth time out, sure! Yet any writer could see in two minutes why Max had not sold it and never would.

He had committed the deadly sin.

A high-sounding title, that, but a good one. Max had done the thing that nine out of ten inexperienced fiction writers do. He could handle words very well, he had a fine notion of how to throw a plot together, and behind him lay a burning and stubborn resolve to make good. What, then, had he done that was wrong?

In the first place, he committed a minor error which in itself damned the story. He opened up the tale with an incident which was well told; it was good stuff. But when it was over, the chief character in that incident dropped out of sight and never came up again. The reader, looking for his re—appearance, was disappointed. This was not the deadly sin, however.

Presently we located the real trouble. In two places, Max had hinged his plot on big scenes —well conceived pivots upon which the whole story swung. One of them was the climax, and it was an excellent climax. Each of these scenes should have covered at least a page of manuscript. Each of them, as Max wrote it, was compressed into a single short paragraph and the story was ruined.

There was the deadly sin. The lack of perception as to what must be emphasized, played up strong! Max was so absorbed in telling the story, that he failed to see things in their right proportion.

You read a story, get interested in the characters, find the plot absorbing and good, entertaining. When you come to the climax, do you want to be told that the hero “knocked the skipper into the scuppers, overawed the crew, and took command of the ship”? Not much.

You want the details of the knocking and overawing. You want to be on the inside, learn how the thing was done! In other words, you want to follow the emotions of the hero in detail.

Never forget that the reader, in general, identifies himself with the chief character of a story. He desires to see things through the eyes of that character. When the reader arrives at some crucial point in the tale and finds it glossed over in a couple of sentences, he is bitterly disappointed. He wants some analysis of emotions right there – some emphasis that shows him the bigness of the situation.

One way of doing this is to quote the thoughts of the hero, which also serves to break up too many solid paragraphs of description. The reader wants the situation prolonged in proportion to its bigness, or at least emphasized; even though it passes in a moment's time.

Not true to life, you say? I don't know about that. A person's mind moves mighty fast in a pinch—it covers a lot of territory. In any case, your hero is bound to be something of a superman, so never mind whether it's true to life or not. It is one of the tricks of the trade—one of the little things that go to make a good story. In this case, however, it is a very large thing. If it were not for the prevalence of this deadly sin, I imagine that many manuscripts which now go into the “reject” basket, would at least draw a letter of commendation from the editor.

The amateur writer seems bound to commit this sin. He seldom realizes what points in his story he should lay most emphasis upon, and what points are least vital to his tale. It is a question of seeing the story in his own mind, of visualizing it, in its proper proportions. This perception of values, however, is something that he must come to learn unless he is to fail utterly. It is, undoubtedly, the great essential of fiction writing. It is more important than anything else, and I had proof of this point only a few days ago.

One of my friends startled me with the information that one of the most prominent publishers in the country had accepted a manuscript of hers for book publication. I had read the story in manuscript, with no great amount of interest. It was written in poor English – not even in good American—and was full of really absurd mistakes and general carelessness.

Upon reading the letters from her publishers, however, I came to understand the matter. The publishers had listed the technical errors for her to correct. They had undertaken to correct her grammar and spelling themselves. Because she knew intuitively just what to emphasize, just what were the big scenes, the story went through. Her sense of values had brought her to success. She had turned out a good story —even if it was badly written. And every character introduced was brought in for a definite purpose, not for the sake of telling an interesting incident. There may be no plot to a story, but it must have purpose in the characters.

This deadly sin, this lack of proportion in telling the story, is hard to avoid. It comes largely through experience, through being able to see the story in your mind something like a moving picture. And once you learn the knack of it, you have a grip on success. This sense of the right thing is in part dependent upon the construction of a story, and if you are interested in this phase of the business, read, the next chapter.

Chapter VII - Story Construction

THERE ARE, OF COURSE, all sorts of rule-of-thumb diagrams telling you just how a short or long story should be constructed. The only trouble with them is that they're like Sam Putnam's second-hand automobile—elegant to look at but not worth a damn to use.

No one can successfully tell you how to construct a story; there is no. definite framework or skeleton, except such as you make for yourself. You must get your own viewpoint on that, and express your own character in doing it. A story has a beginning and an end; keep the definite relation between beginning and end, and that's all there is to the trick.

At the same time, various elements enter into the construction of a story—in fact, have a direct bearing on its construction. You can pick up certain highlights which will perhaps be of help in this direction, and one of these is the highly important atmosphere.

If you want to know what atmosphere is, in its finest form, read “Merry Men.” Stevenson himself said that the story was written to express the sentiment inspired in him by a portion of the Scottish coast, and he produced a classic. Note, however, that he did not introduce any nature description merely to be pointing it; he had a purpose in each paragraph.

What the reader is after in a magazine story, is entertainment—bear this always in mind. He likes description of foreign parts, to a certain limited extent; just enough to place the story, lend it color. Mere description can be found in any travel book. And natural scenery is far from being entertainment, unless it is to have a direct bearing on your hero's state of mind, or upon the story itself.

Atmosphere can be created, too, with very little sheer description. There are other ways. James Francis Dwyer coined a very pretty method of injecting atmosphere into a story, in few words and without slowing down the action in the least. Something like this: “Her eyes held the same startling, vivid shade of blue that one sees embosomed in the Lu Wang lagoon.” Or: “Her voice had the low music of the little brass bells that one sees tinkling and chiming under the eaves of the Ting-ling pagoda.”

Such a trick, supposing the story to be laid in China, keeps impressing upon the reader all the time that the story is laid in China, without saying so. It is an excellent notion, when not carried too far. Any such trick can easily be carried too far—just as my friend Jack did with his notion.

Jack got the idea that repetition would carry him to fame. He knew, and rightly, that each word in the language has a distinct meaning, and that most of us are very careless about getting the right meanings. So he began to introduce phrases like this:

“Into the ray of light came a hairy am. It was hairy as the body of a spider, hairy in a reddish and horrible fashion, hairy beyond all description!”

That was pretty good. Jack swung along into many magazines on that distinctive way of writing. Then he extended the idea by degrees. Every time he wanted to impress the reader, he repeated in the same fashion. finally, he got to where, every time he brought a character into action, he would repeat word for word the sentences with which he had first introduced that character into the story! That was too much; it made his stuff unreadable, and Jack blew up. He had solved one problem of style, but he had carried the solution to extremes.

Aside from literary work, with which we are not concerned, most young writers get headaches over the word “style.” Now, just what is style? What makes it? Style is like faith—an impalpable and unseen thing, yet a mighty force.

In reality, it is the manner in which a writer's character and individuality shine through his words; it is the expression of himself. The textbooks may not define it that way, but so it is. You cannot point out definitely just what style is, of what it consists. You cannot consciously go after it, or get it down concretely. You cannot even know when you have it.

Perhaps style is largely caused by the way in which you handle words and sentences. In this connection, comes an excellent bit of advice from another writer. He says: “Use long sentences whenever the action is slow, as in description. When the action is brisk, as in a fight scene, make the sentences short. But never make them too long or too short.” That is good advice. Short sentences make fast, vivid reading. Long and involved sentences are never very necessary in magazine fiction; for, although they may be perfectly good English, they are very poor American.

Nearly every fiction writer has his own fashion of throwing words together and thus creating style. Walt Mason once poked some fun at us, saying that we all wrote alike and that all magazine fiction came out of the same pot. Now, Walt himself is an ardent fiction fan, and was merely having a bit of a joke. A lot of editors and writers, however, took him very seriously. They began to fill columns showing how the various magazine writers had distinctive ways of saying the same thing, and they really made their point good, of course. Everybody jumped on poor Walt, without any valid reason, having misunderstood his intent.

Yet, in one sense, Walt was dead right. A great deal of magazine fiction does come out of the same factory, because not every writer stops to figure out some way of making his product distinctive, branding it with his own name and trademark. They don't try to make or let the story express their own character.

Clarence Herbert New does it, largely in the way he constructs a story and tells it. Most of the story, for example, may be concerned with the preamble, even with the introduction of the characters. Very often the action of the story, the story itself, comes in a few paragraphs at the end. Sometimes he carries this trick to the point of danger—but a fine writer can run risks successfully.

Another element entering very largely into the construction of a story, is the depiction of character, and this is frequently a stumbling block to writers, small or great.

In several descriptive paragraphs, you can sketch the character of a man—that is, define him in the eye of the reader as good or bad. A magazine story, however, shies at several descriptive paragraphs to each character; it is poor writing. Or you may tell what his character is, tell what his thoughts are, and then show his personality in his actions ; in doing this, the chances are that you will have character study and not a story. Magazines seldom find character studies very entertaining.

Again, you face the problem of differentiating each character, so that each one will stand out clearcut and distinct in the mind of the reader. This simply must be done, yet it is a difficult affair to accomplish.

One learns with experience to do it fairly unobtrusively, as a part of the writing technique. But we are assuming that you have slight experience; so the best way to show how to do it, is to show how it is done.

Here is one way, perhaps the most common and easiest way. Introduce your character as briefly, yet in as vividly striking words as possible. “Stevens had close-set, nervous eyes, pinched features always at high tension.” Well and good. Now, all through the rest of the story, use those same adjectives on Stevens to merely introduce him once, and think the reader will remember his appearance!

Every time Stevens comes into the story, qualify him with one of those originally used adjective. “His close-set eyes blinked nervously.” “The strained, tense look of his pinched—”

One very good help in this respect is to choose names for the characters which will he very unlike; each name will then help to place the character in the reader's mind. And keep reminding your reader, very gently but continually, of some point about each character, some point that will help the reader to picture him or her.

The danger in all this is pointed. You are liable to the error of stamping each character with a certain label, to be retained throughout the story. One is seen as good, another as bad, and so forth. It is much better workmanship, when possible, to leave the characters of your actors to be expressed through the story in acts or words, while briefly describing their personalities A story in which the hero or villain is not labeled, is usually very fascinating, because the element of uncertainty is involved. The reader never knows what to expect.

To accomplish this is not easy—particularly as each character must also be made to stand out clearly in the reader's mind. Mr. De Bra accomplished it admirably in a Blue Book story, “Diamonds of Desire.” There, almost to the end of the novelette, the uncertainty is sustained; at the same time, the characters are well drawn. Yet artistically so. That of Westingham, for example, is never explicitly described, the man's personality is never shown in words. Yet the reader has it in mind all the while. Westingham is cleverly described without description, usually between him of dialogue.

Our problem is to present three or four characters in the course of a short story, and to make each of these personalities a vivid reality to the mind of the reader. The chief way of doing this, is by presenting the highlights of each character—surface indications merely. The meeting lips of one, the whimsical gaze of another, the calculating caution of a third. By thus opposing such indications, you are enabled to lend each person reality—make each different from the others.

Another worry to the beginner is the point of View, which will be more fully gone into in a later chapter dealing with the booklength. Shall we tell a story in the first person or in the third? Some editors give out that they do not like a story that is told in the first. person; why, I do not know. It is comparatively easy to write; the writer can much more readily imagine himself as the dominant character. For this very reason, it is perhaps difficult for the render to imagine himself the hero, which the reader likes to do,

A rather good way of experimenting, is to first write a story in the fiist person, imagining yourself the teller of it, and thus making everything very vivid. Then, in rewriting it, change the “I” to “he.” A third writing will polish off all the rough places and smooth down the alterations. In this way you get the benefit of first-person writing, and at the same time the benefit of the impersonal style. It is only a suggestion, but it has worked well in many instances.

Another thing—the “kick” at the end of the story, the unexpected surprise. Some advisors abhor it absolutely, some decline it a fine thing. Like everything else, it is excellent in moderation, and if done with a deft touch the reader invariably likes it. clumsily done, it is apt to be foreseen.

The kick is not essential to any story, And must not be too violent, but it due make an excellent climax. The best advice is never to strive for the effect—don't carry the surprise ending to extremes, and don't use it at all unless it comes logically. 

I have just mentioned rewriting a diary, but that demands a chapter to itself. There is a good deal of pose about this point, and the truth is hard to discover. “What is truth?" asked jesting Pilate; and it has always been a matter of infinite astonishment to me that people invariably seem to think this question remained unanswered, when as a matter of fact it received a most striking response. You will find it, if you care to look it up, in the “Apocrypha.” As we are now talking about fiction, however, you may be more interested in the concrete matter of re-writing—in which case, read the next chapter.

Chapter VIII - Rewriting

ONE OF THE VEXED QUESTIONS about this writing game of ours, my brethren, is the rewriting of manuscript. Most authorities advise that a story should be rewritten several times, and cite the example of the masters. Many authors give out sob-interviews regarding their enormous labor on every story produced.

It is interesting to read all this, of course, and to know that an author is painstaking and worn down to the paint of exhaustion by each story. However, being neither an authority nor an author, merely a moderately successful commercial fictionist, I find myself unable to accept the matter as viewed by others, and much prefer my own innocent standpoint and custom. If some of us had to re-write each story before selling it, we would not make money.

Although I seldom practice it, I do believe that re-writing a story once is always a good thing for the story. Here again, it depends hugely upon the individual—upon you yourself. If you are prolific, turning out quick work, it is liable to carelessness; rewriting is the rule for you. If you are slow and painstaking, if every paragraph makes you sweat blood, then re-writing will smooth down your whole manuscript.