"I wish you would."
"You make the common mistake of thinking that anybody can write. Now, putting words together is not writing; making fine sentences is not writing; elaborating striking plots is not writing. Of all the arts, literature is the most exacting mistress. With some idea of the technique of painting, or music, coupled with a surface brilliance, you may paint or sing or play. With even less equipment, you may act; but to write, you must have lived, you must have suffered and known joy; you must be able to analyze people, to understand their motives, to love them. To write, you must have ideas and emotions. It is only when the sources of your own being run deep that you can bring up waters of refreshment for others."
He stopped to look at the girl, whom he had almost forgotten. Her face startled him with its eagerness. Her eyes were shining and he found himself commenting, subconsciously: "Why, she isn't so plain."
"Yes, please go on," she begged.
"Well, granted that you have learned something of the motives, the passions, the sorrows that rack us humans, then you must also have your medium in control. Have you ever thought about words, how wonderful they are, how precious?"
She shook her head.
"Most people fail to. We think of the hackneyed old phrases we use in the mechanics of living, but words are like little creatures that march and fight and sing. They are like extra hands, and brains. Think of the power of them! All the passions wait on them; they bring despair, hope, courage, love; they are the golden exchange granted to man. Until you get this sense of the choiceness, the fragility, the power of words, you are not ready to transcribe your thoughts."
"But how can I learn about words?"
"Read the best books, get the feel of them. Study style, add words to your possession as a miser adds coins. Have you ever studied composition?"
"A little in High School."