James Oliver Curwood, Disciple of the Wilds

by Hobart Donald Swiggett

In September, following the completion of Jim Curwood’s freshman year at Ann Arbor, Professor Scott convinced him that there was an excellent opportunity in newspaper work in Ann Arbor.

So once more Jim began to write. He wrote stories he felt people would love to read—the type of stories that he loved to write. Jim wanted to write about nature, something which would appeal to the public in a big way, tales of adventure where the women were clean, pure and brave, and the men valiant and courageous.

From that time on stories of all types flowed from his pen and his typewriter. He wrote high grade adventure yarns which were slightly tinged with an air of romance. Jim even gave detective fiction a try but found that he was unsuited for it.

His stories were mailed to newspapers all over the middle west. Detroit, Bay City, Indianapolis, Toledo and many others were on his mailing list. At first they all came back with the usual rejection slips. Then out of a clear sky, checks began arriving. He sold a great many of his stories to Detroit newspapers and to various other city newspapers. His monthly earnings now began to total as much as seventy dollars and were never less than thirty dollars.

Jim’s ambition now was burning more fiercely than ever before. His desire to have millions of people read his stories became an obsession with him. His stay in Ann Arbor at the University was now assured. Henceforth Jim Curwood dropped all other college activities, for his writing and studies were taking all of his spare time.

The little room he occupied on State Street had now been turned into a regular beehive of activity. The throes of creative composition were swarming in his adventurous blood and write he must. Papers were strewn across the floor and completely covered the space all about his desk, the top of which was covered entirely with manuscripts, correspondence and tid-bits of notes. Jim was unceasingly racking his brain for new plots and new angles and different settings.

Detroit began buying more and more of his stories and it was all he could do to continue the steady output. He was producing stories of the great Canadian Northwest, stories that were so jammed with heart-stirring adventure that the newspapers to which he sold them were selling their papers by extra hundreds daily. James O. Curwood’s stories had selling appeal. People, as well as the editors, were beginning to wait impatiently for them. Jim was eternally grateful and thankful, in fact, more thankful than he had ever been before. He had been writing for the past twelve years and now at last some degree of success was coming to him.

It was during this terrific onslaught of writing fury that Jim strayed farther away from nature than ever before. He missed it terribly and yearned to get back to it. That urge was constantly burning within him, the same as was the desire to become a writer. Fortunately enough he was writing about the great open spaces, the deep, silent forests, and the many lakes and streams, and this allayed his longing somewhat. As often as possible, however, he would break away from his room long enough to take brief walks of an evening. Sometimes these walks would develop into strolls across the rolling ridges and hills and wanderings into the beautiful glens and forests that lay nearby. Atop these ridges on the outskirts of town he could look down upon Ann Arbor as it nestled among the many silently swaying trees. Even on cold, wintry nights he would sometimes climb to the tops of these ridges as the world lay asleep and look down upon the glimmering lights of the campus and town. Here he could see the lights twinkling and flickering through the light of steady downfalls of glittering, gleaming snow. Jim Curwood loved the falling of the snow. He loved it almost as much as he did the ever glorious arrival of spring.

All through the cold winter Jim worked feverously on his studies and on his writing. His mind and nerves were constantly on edge, so deep in his work was he engrossed. Still he turned out stories that eventually found a market and that was what he was searching for.

With the arrival of spring, Jim was still engaged in his free-lance newspaper work. But the proceeds of his writings were not yet sufficient to assure his staying on at the University, so he accepted a position offered by Professor Adams who had undertaken a huge railroad statistical job for the government and was in need of a few college men to assist him. Jim was to draw $75.00 per month, with room furnished. The job was to last all summer long. As this work was comparatively easy, consisting only of calculations, Jim enjoyed doing it.