“I would be the last person to warn the ambitious from literary endeavor, providing they would rather write than do anything else in the world; providing, also, they were equipped with three qualifications. Determination is the first; a hide at once sensitive and impervious ranks second; an hour—at least—a day to devote to the pursuit of their purpose. I say devote advisedly; the true lover is never niggardly.... If added to these virtues, one has a quiet room and no telephone, half the battle is won.”[4]
[4] Ellen Glasgow writes behind locked doors; Gertrude Atherton “rings down an iron curtain” between herself and the world.
And, further, by way of emphasis on work and study, hear Burton Kline: “As an editor I have a feeling that some of the writers who should be railroad presidents or bank directors are getting in the way of real writers that I ought to be discovering. In the long run it is probably better to have all the writing we can get. The wider the net is spread, the greater the chance of something precious in the haul. The teaching of writing, even if it finds only a few real writers, helps to sharpen the critical taste of the others and whet their appetite for better writing. And I believe that sharper appetite and more discriminating taste is beginning to be felt.... In the creation of a literature, an audience is as necessary as the performers themselves. And the more critical the audience, the more likely we are to have great performers. The opportunity invites and develops them....”
Speaking from the critic’s and teacher’s point of view, I not only believe that one can “learn to write”; I know, because more than once I have watched growth and tended effort from failure to success. Many would-be writers drop by the way; the telephone to pleasure is too insistent, or the creative process is not sufficiently joyful. Some students, however, need only an encouraging word and sympathetic criticism. Harriet Welles is an example of this sort. Her stories have been running in Scribner’s for some months; she worked only a year in my class at Columbia before producing finished narratives. Others must labor and exercise patience in order to accomplish a few—perhaps one or two—worthy specimens of the story-teller’s art. I refer, for illustration, to another student, Elizabeth Stead Taber, whose “Scar” attracted favorable comment and drew from Mr. O’Brien high praise in his volume of 1917. Others write prolifically, turning out story after story, before attaining the highest publications and prices—but not of necessity before attaining excellent construction and style. Marjorie Lewis Prentiss comes to mind as an earnest and careful writer of this sort, who is improving as steadily as she writes and publishes regularly. I need not refer to Frederick S. Greene—now in France—who has become well known through his stories, and who felt that he worked best under class criticism. He studied as he wrote, and his published stories, with only two exceptions as I recall, were produced, first, for the class-room audience. Even those who succeed only once, or who never succeed, have learned to evaluate the content and the manner of the printed narrative, and have added to the body of the intelligent fiction-public.
The great artist, let me add, hews his own way. But—! Gutzon Borglum once said that in his opinion there had lived only three great masters of art: Phidias, Michel Angelo, and Auguste Rodin. If these are the great names in sculpture and pictorial art, who are those in the world of fiction writing?
[5] Dodd Mead & Company, 1917. Third Edition, 1918.
[6] In quoting, I have used “short story” or “short-story” as written by the various authors. It will be seen that the forms are usually interchangeable.
To the student, I would emphasize the fact that studying these “Yearbook” stories, valuable as such study may become, will not make of you a writer; but from them, this little book, and the wealth of detail which Mr. O’Brien has accumulated, you can apprehend the elements of technique and learn, at the same time, what is successful from an editorial point of view. For every short-story writer must be both an artist and a man of business. If his work is not published, it is not. Much of it, early in the exercising stages, should die. But at the last there must be evidence of labor and of genius. Only one evidence is admissible: the product.
While you are learning, then, do not try to publish. “Do” your exercises, and practise much; master the principles, and express yourself. When you have become full-grown, put away childish things, and forget that you ever heard of technique.
Blanche Colton Williams.