On the art of writing fiction

by Unknown

A STORY TO TELL

Louisa Parr

The first essential

To feel that you have a story to tell, seems to me a primary essential for a novice in the art of novel-writing, especially with beginners young in years and experience. I know that there are masters in fiction, who tell us that their method is to create one or several characters, and round them build up a story; but I doubt if this applies to first efforts, unless those efforts are not made until the writers have gained that insight into men and things, which only comes with years of life and observation.

Now, to any beginning under conditions such as these, the few suggestions and remarks I shall offer will not apply. My object is to be of service to young beginners, and to try and give them some little help and encouragement to surmount the difficulties which usually appear when we first venture to commit our fancies and ideas to paper. I feel somewhat timid in undertaking this task, because its success seems to me doubtful, for the reason that no hard and fast rules can be laid down for the fictionist, who, generally, leaves on each production the impress of individuality. Frequently it is individuality, when combined with originality, which is the charm of a new writer, and gives to a story which we have had repeated a dozen times, and to characters whom we have met again and again, the freshness of a new setting.

A story to tell

To start, then, we will suppose that you are the possessor of a story which for some time has dwelt in your mind, and has taken such a hold of you, that you are engrossed with the plot and the actors in it. These creatures of your brain become so familiar to you, that they stand out in your imagination like real persons. You give them names, you invest them with qualities, you decree that they shall be happy or miserable, and, having sealed their fate, you are seized with the desire to make others acquainted with them. Then comes the eventful moment, when success is imperilled by over-anxiety and a distrust of your own powers.

Faults of beginners

Too frequently the young writer is not content to set down what is to be said with the straightforward simplicity that would be used if this story had to be told vivâ voce. There is a desire to explain, to digress, to elaborate. It is thought necessary to tell the reader that this person is very clever and witty, that that one is stupid and odious, much in the same way that a child draws some strange creature, under which it writes, “this is a cow—this is a horse.” We smile at its being necessary to inform us of what we ought to see for ourselves. Yet it is the same in fiction—the dramatis personæ of your tale should themselves discover to us their idiosyncrasies, and by their actions and conversation reveal to the reader their dispositions and characters. Young authors often write very good dialogue, there is a freshness, a crispness about it which more practised hands may seem to have lost. In this form the new ideas of the rising generation come pleasantly to us, which is seldom the case when they give way to digression, explanation, and the dissection of motives and propensities. The novel of character—the able study of an inner life—is almost always the outcome of deep thought added to the gift of acute observation. This is not to be expected of a young beginner. Indeed, for my own part, were I to learn that one of these clever analytical studies was the work of an author young in years, I should be filled with regret. If you possess the capacity, the fitness of age will come all too soon, and, believe me, when it does come, you will not regret that you have not forestalled the proper time.

How to write

Thus you will see that my theory is that the young should write young. We all know the pleasure we derive from the fresh, natural, unaffected conversation of an unspoilt girl. Well, then, I want you to write as you talk, and remember this does not mean that you are to have no ambition; on the contrary, aim at the topmost point, or you will never rise. Neither do I mean the slipshod scribbling of ungrammatical nonsense which would offend the eye as much as it would the ear; but, starting with the supposition that you have well thought out your plot, have conceived your characters, and some of the situations in which they are to be placed, my advice is that you endeavour to give a graphic relation of your story in words to a friend, so that you may hear how the arrangement of the incidents and events stand, and bear in mind while doing this that it is not done so much for your friend’s criticism as it is for your own. And while dealing with this part of the subject, let me say in parenthesis that I know of few exercises more useful to the would-be novel-writer than the telling of stories. Many writers of romance have been distinguished in the nursery and in the schoolroom as delightful story-tellers, and most of us can recall some dear long-lost magician who kept us spell-bound with romances for which we had petitioned. “Make it up as you go.” We need not tax your imagination to this extent, it will answer every purpose if you repeat a story that you have read, and you may gauge your success by the interest which your hearers show. But to return to our embryo novel; suppose that from circumstances connected with your surroundings or your temperament you are not able to carry out this suggestion, then I would say, write out your plot as a short story, and so have clearly before you what you mean to tell. This done, try to divide it into chapters, and arrange your incidents and your dialogue; always bearing in mind the different dispositions and natures with which you invested your characters at starting, and endeavouring, as much as you possibly can, to let all they say and do push the story on to its climax.

The story completed

About the length of a novel it is best that you should not trouble. When you feel that you have told all you have to tell, the book should come to an end. New pens should know nothing of padding, which is distasteful to every good writer and reader. Later in your career the demands of a magazine or a circulating library may compel you to give a greater amount of copy than your story has strength to bear, but at starting you are not bound by any of these trammels, and, as a rule, young brains are very fertile and brimming over with incidents and plots, therefore you can afford to be generous. And now we may suppose that your story completed lies before you in manuscript, clearly and carefully written with the pains we bestow on a thing we value and feel is our very own. If you are a true author your creation will have become very dear to you, and in launching it into the world you will suffer a hundred hopes and fears, and, perhaps, disappointments. Your friends may have judged your efforts with their hearts rather than their heads. Few beginners are good critics of their own work, and true talent and modesty generally go hand in hand. The clouds of distrust are certain to cast their shadows over you, but if you have the assurance that you have spared no pains, that you have given your best, do not fear that they will overwhelm you; there is a moral satisfaction in having done good work which no one can rob us of. A dozen other reasons than want of merit lead to a MS. being rejected. Have patience and courage, and some day, when perhaps it is least expected, the success I heartily wish for all earnest young authors will most surely come to you.