A. Moods! no indeed, if I had moods the public would discern them. I set myself a standard of uniformity and compel myself to attain it. When I wrote “Sweet Jingles Jangled” I set myself to please. Labored efforts never please. I said there shouldn’t be an idea in the book, and there isn’t. The mistake of the old authors was in thinking the public wanted ideas. It does not want to be bored with ideas. It wants smooth, flowing, soothing—what shall I say?
P. Stuff.
Mrs. F. No, there is a better word. (Thinks.) Dear me—for the present we’ll say stuff, that may be read any where at any time without the possibility of exciting thought or provoking tiresome discussion. That’s why the public likes Mrs. Fadd. It knows Mrs. Fadd is both safe and entertaining.
Q. Mrs. Fadd do you revise much?
A. Oh, never! I consider revision the rock on which many authors have foundered. The moment you begin to revise you break in upon that flowing smoothness which the public likes, and then your stuff doesn’t appear fresh. If you revise, your work is sure to show it, and that the public resents, says you are straining after effect. Why, we read of one of the old authors who rode round town for an entire day in a half demented condition, in a cab, to the great alarm of the driver. At last throwing open the door, he jumped wildly into the street, at the risk of his neck, exclaiming: “I’ve got it! I’ve got it!” The cabman greatly relieved thought he alluded to the fare and replied! “All right, sir! Seven hours, one dollar an hour.” (All laugh.) The author angrily replied: “You fool, I’m talking about a word I wanted. At last I’ve got it.” Now is it any wonder that authors who drove round in cabs looking for words were always in indigent circumstances?
P. A dictionary would be cheaper.
Mr. G. Decidedly! Now as to your personal life, Mrs. Fadd, the public insists on knowing those things.
Mrs. F. I’m sure I don’t object to telling.
Q. Do you take cream in your coffee?