[CHAPTER XXVI.]
AUTHORSHIP—WHETHER? AND HOW?
FROM MISS GRAHAM TO MAGGIE.
Tuesday. September 15.
DEAR MISS ROMILLY,—I am sorry that I could not write sooner about your MS., but work has been pressing.
I think I warned you in my last letter that if you would have an opinion from me as to your powers, it must be an honest opinion. That does not at all mean that what I say must finally settle the question for you. I may take a different view of the matter from somebody else; and I may be mistaken. But what I think I must say. It would be no kindness to lure you on with false promises, contrary to my real expectation.
You have sent me a good deal more than the few pages for which I asked. I have waited till I could look carefully through the whole: though twenty pages would have been enough.
The first question is respecting this particular MS., and I can unhesitatingly advise you not to offer it to any publisher: for no publisher will undertake to bring it out. There is a want of plot, a want of style, a want of care and finish, a want of force and interest, from beginning to end, which must tell fatally against it.
It is astonishing how few young people—or people of any age—have any clear idea of what is required in writing for the press. They have a vague impression that the best writers can "dash off" a thing effectively in a hurry, when required; therefore, they suppose, all that a young and unpractised hand has to do is to sit down when the fancy seizes him or her, scribble recklessly whatever comes into his or her head, and be sublimely sure that "anything will do" for a much-enduring public.
I do not deny that many experienced writers can "dash off" a thing well, or that the most rapid writing is often the best. But the rush of sudden power is generally the outcome of hard thinking, often of hard struggling up to it. I am not certain whether you will understand what I mean; and if not, further words will scarcely make my meaning clear. Of course there have been instances of hasty and brilliant hits from unpractised hands. These, however, are so rare that ordinary mortals—perhaps I should say ordinary would-be authors—have no business to count on any such possibility. In ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, to say the least, success presupposes hard work.
I have noted in pencil on your MS. a few of the more egregious errors in style and grammar. Some of them might be corrected by careful re-writing, if the story were worth further attention: which it is not!
Now we come to the second question,—as to your future. Is it, or is it not, worth while for you to set the vocation of literature before your mind as a distinct aim?
I am more reluctant here to give a decisive opinion. You are young still. You may have certain latent powers which might be worth developing. Carelessly as your MS. is scribbled, I detect a certain ease of expression, rather beyond that of the ordinary run of girls. The plot is no plot: and the characters are feeble: but about the little boy there is an occasional touch of reality, which deserves commendation.
You will not count this too encouraging, yet it is all I can honestly say: There are no such signs of marked talent, still less of any spark of genius, that I may venture to say, "Go on, and prosper."
It is for you to decide whether you will give up literary efforts, and be content to live a simple womanly life,—that may be busy and beautiful enough, if you will,—or whether you will prepare to enter the lists.
If you decide on the last,—mark my words!—it will not mean ease, or laziness, or self-indulgence. A successful literary career is no idle career. And the sooner you begin—not to publish, but to prepare for future publishing,—the better.
Though you cannot write yet for the press, you must write and re-write, for practice. You must read much and steadily. You must study life and human nature. You must go through the best authors, with careful noting of the style of each. You must bind yourself to habits of regular work, and not allow your plans to be lightly broken. Authorship is business, not play: and it must be treated as business.
It may be that your literary bent is strong enough not to be checked by all this: that you have in your heart a conviction of future success, which will nerve you to meet toil and failure undaunted until you do succeed: that you feel or believe yourself so distinctly called of God to this career, as to render it a duty for you to go straight forward.
If so, I would not deter you. Strive your utmost: and in time you will learn whether or no you really are called to it; whether or no, any measure of the gift is really yours.
But if you merely think it would be nice to write because a great many people write in these days; or because you want to make a little money, and authorship seems the easiest fashion of doing so,—then you had better give up the notion at once. That does not mean success.
One word more. You need not suppose, from what I have said, that a life of authorship is all toil or all difficulties. There are grand delights in it. I can say this from my own experience. I would not willingly exchange it for any other life. But there cannot be heights without valleys: and whether you know anything of the heights must depend upon whether it is the life that God has willed for you.
If you decide to pursue your efforts, send me a short MS. a year or two hence, and I will tell you how you are getting on.—Believe me, yours truly—
LETITIA GRAHAM.
FROM MAGGIE TO NELLIE.
Friday. September 18.
DARLING NELLIE,—I promised to send you the letter from Miss Graham whenever it should come; so I suppose I must; but you won't like it any more than I do. I think it's an awfully stupid letter, and I am sure she can't be at all a nice sort of person. I wonder if writing books always makes people get so disagreeable when they are middle-aged. That is two of them, and I dare say Gladys will be just the same by-and-bye, which would be three.
I am sure Gladys hasn't done nearly all that,—reading and studying and writing everything over and over again for years and years. Why, she just began straight off to print books the moment she wanted to. I don't mean that she hadn't done any stories before, but not in the way Miss Graham says; and I have written two stories. I don't see why I shouldn't begin to have books printed, when I like, just as Gladys has. I certainly shan't wait a whole year. And I don't mean to write to Miss Graham any more.
Miss Con seems getting on all right, only the doctor won't let her move, except just to be put on the sofa. I wish she would make haste and get well: and then Lady Denham could go back to the Farm and leave us in peace. She is so unkind to poor dear Millie, and seems to think it is all Millie's fault and mine that Miss Con fell down Gurglepool path. And that is so unfair: for of course we couldn't guess that Miss Con would choose to tumble in such a place. Millie says it was very stupid of her,—and so I think. And Millie is sure Miss Con likes being an invalid, and having a fuss made. But you mustn't let Mother see this, because she is fond of Miss Con.
I'm so very glad to hear such good accounts of darling Mother. It does seem almost as if the being downright ill had made her better. What does Father mean by saying that perhaps you will all come home soon? Is there really any chance of that?
Lady Denham means to have an excursion one day soon, now Miss Con is well enough to be left. There's a big cave, miles away, which we are to see. She and Sir Keith are going, and she wants to take the twins and Thyrza and me. I do think she might squeeze poor Millie in too, but she won't. I've half a mind to stay at home, if Millie does: only I want to see the cave.—Believe me, darling, ever your loving sister—
MAGGIE.
FROM THYRZA TO NELLIE.
PRIVATE September 19.