On the art of writing fiction

by Unknown

A good rule

To me it seems, as a rule, that in writing stories for either old or young, the great thing is to make the acquaintance of your characters, and get to know them as well and intimately as you possibly can. Some of course take much more knowing than others; some are quickly read through; some are interesting because they are meant apparently not to be thoroughly known, and in this light you truthfully depict them, though this last class is hardly the type of character to be introduced into a story for children. I dare say you will think me very childish myself, when I tell you that I generally begin by finding names for all my personages. I marshal them before me and call the roll, to which each answers in turn, and then I feel I have my “troupe” complete, and I proceed to take them more in detail. I live with them as much as I can, often for weeks, before I have done more than write down their names. I listen to what they talk about to each other and in their own homes, not with the intention of writing it down, but by way of, as I said, getting to know them well. And by degrees I feel them becoming very real. I can say to myself sometimes, when sitting idly doing nothing in particular, “Now whom shall I go to see for a little—the So-and-so’s, or little somebody?”—whatever the names may be that I have given; and so day by day I seem to be more in their lives, more able to tell how, in certain circumstances, my characters would comport themselves. And by degrees these circumstances stretch themselves out and take vague shape, which like the at first far-off and dimly perceived heights above one in climbing a mountain, grow distinct and defined as one approaches them more nearly. I seldom care to look very far ahead, though at the same time a certain grasp of the whole situation is, and has been, I think, there from the first. It never seems to me that my characters come into existence, like phantoms, merely for the time I want them. Rather do I feel that I am selecting certain incidents out of real lives. And this, especially in writing of children, seems to me to give substantiality and actuality to the little actors in the drama. I always feel as if somewhere the children I have learnt to love are living, growing into men and women like my own real sons and daughters. I always feel as if there were ever so much more to hear about them and to tell about them if I liked to tell, and my readers to hear.

Unexpected suggestions

This general rule, however, of first getting to know your characters is not without exceptions. There are instances in which the most trivial incident or impression suggests a whole story—a glance at a picture, the words of a song, a picturesque name, the wind in an old chimney—anything or nothing will sometimes “start” the whole, and then the characters you need have to be sought for and thought about, and in some sense chosen for their parts. And these often entirely unexpected suggestions of a story are very valuable, and should decidedly, when they occur, be “made a note of.”

Remembrances of one’s own childhood, not merely of surroundings and events, but of one’s own inner childish life, one’s ways of looking at things, one’s queer perplexities and little suspected intensities of feeling, it is well to recall and dwell much upon. Not altogether or principally for the sake of recording them directly, for a literal autobiography of oneself even up to the age of twelve would be much fitter reading for a child-loving adult than for children themselves (the “best” and most amusing anecdotes about children are seldom such as it would be wise to relate to their compeers); but because these memories revive and quicken the sympathy, which as time goes on, and we grow away from our childselves, cannot but to some extent be lost; such reminiscences put us “in touch” again with child-world. And constant, daily, unconstrained intercourse with children, even if the innocently egotistical inquiry, “Are you going to make a story about us?” may be honestly answered in the negative, is indirectly a great help and source of “inspiration.”

But if you have any serious intention of making stories for children a part of your life-work, beware of “waiting for inspiration,” as it is called. You must go at it steadily, nay, even plod at it, if you want to do good and consistent work, always remembering that your audience will be of the most critical, though all the better worth satisfying on that account. And rarely, if ever, does work carefully and lovingly done meet with a sweeter reward than comes to the writer of children’s books when fresh young voices exclaim how interested they have been in perhaps the very story which had often filled its author with discouragement. For this “flattering unction” we may lay to our souls—neither Nellie nor Tom—assuredly not Tom—will say so if he and she do not really mean it!

ON THE HISTORICAL NOVEL

Prof. A. J. Church

The historical novel

I must confess to having experienced a certain feeling of astonishment, not unmixed with alarm, when I was asked to write a paper on the “Historical Novel,” for the series “On the Art of Writing Fiction.” The phrase had an impressive sound. It reminded me of Ivanhoe and Quentin Durward, of Hypatia and Westward Ho! It seemed idle to think of such humble ventures as I had launched upon the world, in connection with the masterpieces of Scott and Kingsley. However, I comforted myself by reflecting that the very humility and limitation of my experiences might make them useful to beginners.