Editor, the Forum:

I have found an effective scheme, which saves both postage and time, in preparing a form, typing several copies on thin paper at once, as follows:

Name and address in upper left corner, and the words "For Regular Rates" in the upper right.

Address it "To the Editor." Make a statement that below you are listing the titles of some of your manuscripts (available or in mind, as you can prepare any on demand), and if his magazine would be interested in any of these subjects, please to check any he will look over. Also, that if he desires, please to show the number of words and any particular emphasis on the article.

On the left half of the sheet list your subjects, explaining each with a brief scope of its contents. To the right of this, make a line for the number of words and the emphasis the editor may wish to indicate. Thus:

I enclose these listings of my available stock-intrade along with manuscripts submitted, or send one alone without a stamp, as I figure that if the editor is interested, it will come back marked.

The list may include articles suitable for several classes or lines of trade journals.

Be sure the carbons are bright and clear. Sometimes I pencil-check particular articles which might appeal to the particular magazine to which I am sending the list.

This also saves the editor much reading and turning over MSS. Regina Emmerich. Sausalito, Calif.

Editor, the Forum:

One often hears an expression like this: "Oh, I'll just dash off a line and send it in. They will put it in shape in the proof room."

Or this:

"That circular of mine cost a lot of money. Can't imagine why there should have been so much expense in printing it. There was n't much to it; I just threw some stuff together, clippings from different books, and wrote in a line or two."

So on and on, writers who prepare copy for the press, generally speaking, preface, or end their preparations with criticism of the other fellow.

An authority says, “Many of the errors that appear in print and much of the expense incurred in making printers' changes would be avoided if the original copy were prepared with sufficient care."

There is one rule in proofreading that should be adhered to strictly, "Follow Copy." But, alas, what madness would prevail all along the line should a proofreader do that always. I'm speaking now from a proofreader's viewpoint, in both newspaper and job-printing proof rooms, of the general run of original copy. Of course there is an occasional bit of copy about which one feels absolutely sure that every word and mark is meant to be where it is and the way it is in the original.

A proofreader must be equipped with good eyesight — with excellent glasses if eyesight is poor a good education, an imagination, common sense, an abundance of patience, and the faculty for working hard and earnestly, early and late.

What makes proofreading such a hard, responsible position?

It is because writers, authors, editors, reporters, and advertisers do not prepare original copy with sufficient care. Even the compositor should come in that list for he frequently says:

"I can't make out that name - I don't know how to divide that word. I'll let them go. The proofreader will catch them and straighten them out."

Some writers think it is quite the thing to get their chirography to the point where it is distinctively unique, decipherable only by a few intimates, and then complain when their stuff is horribly mangled "all on account of that careless proofreader." Several writers "never were any good at spelling" and, of course, have no time when they are fired with enthusiasm over beautiful constructive work, to look up the correct way to spell those high-sounding, unusual words. And those words flow and pour, glibly incorrect, into the original copy for the proofreader to look up and spell correctly. Another inspired one writes along with thoughts running pages ahead of the actual writing. So, of course, the proofreader has to dip into the great reserve box and sprinkle over each galley proof a handful of commas, colons, periods, question, exclamation, and quotation marks. The inspired one's thoughts do not seem to have the same meaning when printed that they had as they streamed from the pencil to the manuscript. I wonder why? Then there is the scientific and research writer

who sends manuscripts out in typewritten form. But this particular writer has a hit-or-miss way of typing so that no one can really decide, without referring to an authority, about the correctness of his little known terms and expressions. Time was lost and unnecessary expense incurred on all sides because his original copy was not made absolutely correct and in shape to be followed to the letter.

Why should n't writers be as keen to have their plans clean-cut and accurate as are architects? Certainly, an architect prints in legible style his specifications and dimensions and he does not leave it to the discretion of a contractor and carpenters as to where the windows, doors, halls, and stairways shall go. Those fine points of meaning, shadings and expressions of a home, are given much thought and are indicated on the original copy. Woe be unto the contractor and his carpenters if they miss one or put one in the wrong place!

I'd like nothing better than to see every writer, who sends things directly to the printer in unfinished shape, serve in the capacity of proofreader on his own stuff and others as bad, for at least one month. It would be splendid training for the writer. Afterward, "original copy" would be prepared with care and the proofreader could adhere to the rule "Follow Copy," with confidence. Neal Wyatt. Defiance, Ohio

Editor, the Forum:

The development of the critical attitude toward art destroys the creative capacity. The critic and artist are separate entities, and like oil and water, cannot blend. Criticism is convention and form. Creation follows no law but its own. The artist joyously shatters all patterns and moulds. He is individual. The critic rigorously adheres to the conventional pattern. He views the work of the artist with the eye of established custom. The critic is static the artist-fluid. And yet, the critic is a creator in his way, for he destroys and re-moulds according to convention. The development of the critical mind is a fascinating and egotistical pleasure, but it trends towards conformity and kills creative expression.

True, art must have form. The artist needs the critic to give him balance and sanity, but the artist cannot be a critic, nor the critic an artist. As humanity needs law and order to keep the world from falling into chaos- so the artist needs the restraining hand of the critic. Each is dependent upon the other, but they travel widely divergent paths. The artist is the soul of humanity, while the critic is

the body. The artist is the concentrated dreams and wine of the world, while the critic is the bread!

He who creates lives in a world totally unlike that of a normal person. To be able to express, he must be keen to receive. Every nerve and sense is vibrating to a thousand waves of light and shade! The people upon the street are not mannikins; to the artist, they are beings with strange and fascinating histories! Color, music, rhythm, odors, the surge of the elements-all of these are vitally necessary to the sensitive soul of the artist. His is a world of sensation and color. Out of agony and tears comes all creation; and the artist suffers to a degree of intensity unknown to the normal person. Creation is not a normal condition. As in the forming of worlds, eons of gathering together of natural forces were necessary · -so in the artist's world of creation, there have been generations of thought, experience, and agony, all fused into concentrated form to produce a creative work!

This constant living in the world of sensation is dangerous to the artist, unless he has a sense of balance. Nietzsche, Beethoven, and Berlioz, are but a few of the men whose creative ability drove their

bodies like a ruthless Daemon, and brought them madness and intense suffering. The tragic end of the great Nietzsche, Beethoven composing under the handicap of blindness, and deafness, the struggles and suffering of Berlioz, and the strange perversions of Wilde and Baudelaire-all are an outcome of colossal genius and a lack of balance. History is full of these pitiful, immortal figures. They wandered in a world of imagery and fantasy. They gathered strange flowers, and drank of wine given only to the Immortals. They swept the heavens with their wings, but fell to the earth-broken Genius gives to the world, but at what a cost! But, the artist has compensation far above that of his suffering the immortal ecstasy of creation! While creating, he lives in a fever. It is not normal, it may be madness, but there is no joy equal to it. Was it not Romain Rolland who said "To create, is to ride triumphant over death!"? So the artist tastes immortality in creation. The fever possesses him wholly, - a devastating flame lifts him, and then drops him to earth, merely human-pitiful and spent! The critic lives in a world of safety and convention. He is normal and sane. The more critical,

the less human he becomes. He views the quivering heart of the artist calmly, then writes a criticism that is more of a tribute to his penetration than a recognition of the artist. He can hardly help himself, for in his way he is making or unmaking an artist. His word is the ultimatum of public opinion. He is the arbiter of mass thinking. He is the approval of the world. He can interpret or misinterpret the work of the artist and the world will follow in his wake. Who can blame him for deeming himself even superior to the artist?

There are men, however, whose essays and criticisms are works of art. The works of James Huneker, Arthur Symons, Walter Pater, J. A. Symonds, G. B. Shaw, and George Moore are masterpieces of color, subtlety, clarity, wit, and thought. But these so-called "critics" are more artist than critic. They understand and interpret with sympathy the works of their brothers. They are the bridge between humanity and genius. Such men as these give an inestimable service to art. Artists themselves, they give art its true valuation. Eleanor Allen. Portland, Ore.

Editor, the Forum:

It has been said there is no such ecstasy in the world as that experienced by the creator of a poem just two minutes old. Anyone who writes knows a little about it-the thrill of having put what has perhaps not been quite clear even in one's mind before one's eyes to be cherished and read.

Just there is the secret of keeping the ecstacy, even if such be unjustified. Cherish what you write and read it over. Sometimes it is an utter surprise that "one small head" could have produced such wisdom, such beauty of expression, such deft use of a word, or such piffle. It is only after the dying of the fires of the passion of creating that the production can be studied in cold judgment that should be fair.

It is said of Tennyson that he polished and repolished and the sometimes precise exquisiteness of his poetry evidences the care thus bestowed upon it. To write a lovely poem, a well-turned paragraph, and be satisfied with a weak spot in the structure is an evidence of indolence that is more deplorable than lack of perception of faultiness. The ability to perceive a flaw is a discernment that writers should crave, even if it sometimes seems impossible to supply a remedy.

from reading what one has written aloud, or perhaps having someone else read the offending part aloud. I have found it part of the process of writing many poems, this reading over of lines from the very beginning, in order to keep the rhythm perceptible to the ear of the mind. No two poems come into being in quite the same way. This may be due to the different sources of inspiration existing in the world. At any rate, the formation and production of a poem usually is attended with so great an absorption the process is almost indescribable. "No One Can Capture a Singer" writes Amy Campbell in a poem of that name ending with the statement

"No one can snare a singer
Aloof, glad, and strong
In the exquisite rapture
Of making a song

"I seldom compose in my head," writes Amy Lowell. "The first thing I do when I am conscious of the coming of a poem is to seek paper and pencil. It seems as if the simple gazing at a piece of blank paper hypnotized me into an awareness of the subconscious."

"I believe that writing poetry is a process of listening," states Anna Hempstead Branch. "It is difficult to describe the state of delicate attention which alone makes it possible to hear and to remember that interior voice which sings, chants, or speaks the poem. Where the voice comes from, whose it is,

But the making over of weak spots comes with quiet brooding that is separate and apart from the passion of creating. Clarity of vision into the choice of structure comes with re-reading, and very often

for what reason it comes, and why it addresses itself to one's consciousness at that particular minute, are mysteries."

With a process unnameable, and full of such delicate wizardry, is it any wonder that in the "listening," the yielding to an "exquisite rapture," there are apt to be instants of inattention, or absorption, leaving a gap in the creating that must be weak because it was really not part of the process of creation? Or is there anything but justice to one's inspiration in the discipline of keeping one's products to re-read and re-adjust, if necessary?

In her very comphrensive and exhaustive book, "The Way of the Makers," Marguerite Wilkinson has given a wealth of insight and incentive to young and old writers. She includes in one paragraph one of her own poems, entitled "Songs I Sang Long Ago."

Editor, the Forum:

While the business hours of every other member of the family are respected, the unlucky wight who takes to writing is supposed to be contented to find a place somewhere around the house and get along as best he can. The tools of his trade are too often designated as "clutter," and, if he is so fortunate as to have a whole room to himself, it is invaded on the slightest excuse. It takes a patient lifetime to train the family that a brief incursion in search of the lost coal shovel, or what not, is as fatally destructive to a morning's work as a prolonged interview. Every writer knows the shattering effect of "I only wanted to say-"; "I don't want to interrupt you, but-"; "Just one moment, dear"; or, "Ss-s-sh! he's writing!"

The only practical solution to the writer's problem is to take a regular office. It adds dignity to your status, and the discipline of regular working hours acts as a wholesome restraint on the fluctuating artistic temperament. Both quality and quantity of work is benefited. The long, regular hours induce a system into the routine and the mechanical tasks of wrapping, weighing, stamping, and irksome "getting it off," fall into their natural place and their irritation is minimized. The system reacts beneficially on the health. Not only must meals and exercise be allotted to regular hours, but the freedom from petty irritations which always go with "home" solitude is quieting to the nerves. When the office is locked up for the day, he can with a clear conscience devote the evening hours to relaxation or copyhunting. The necessity for taking advantage of every golden moment when "the folks are out" has been removed.

Now for the practical side of the arrangement. In

a town of 100,000 inhabitants a very respectable office can be had for twelve or fifteen dollars a month. In large cities, where every square foot is turned to account, it is still possible to find a nook at the back of some old buildings that are sandwiched in between the more imposing skyscrapers. For two years I gloried in a converted storeroom, a place twelve feet square that I found in the back of a general office building. The manager told me that he had no office in the building under forty dollars a month, so I suggested that the brooms and mops of the cleaning force were paying him no rent for that cubby hole on the third floor, whereas I was willing to pay him fourteen dollars a month for it. The room had a large window through which the sun poured all day long, it was remote from the noise of the street, and in many respects was much to be preferred to one of the office rooms.

Your office furnishing can be of the simplest. If you have as yet no typewriter, one of the rebuilt machines that sell for about forty-five dollars will answer your purpose very well for a start. As the beginning of your filing equipment, get an extra large letter-box file, cut off the alphabet tabs, stick on blank cloth tabs and write thereon either the names of the magazines to which your contributions are sent, or the subjects which you are covering at the time.

Furniture may consist of a table or desk, bookshelves, straight chair, easy chair, and waste basket. Most of these things you will already have at home and can easily transfer. A fire-proof cash box in which to keep your valuable papers is cheaper than a safe and will obviate the necessity of carrying insurance on your office equipment, as the whole busi

ness could be replaced for the price of a few premiums.

The cost of paper supply is reduced since, with a place to keep your equipment, you can buy in large quantities. A wholesale paper house frequently sells, as well as paper and envelopes, such matters as clips, erasers, pencil sharpeners, labels, etc., at a cost of less than half that of a retail stationer. Ink may be stocked by the gallon, also pencils by the gross. It does not pay to stock up on typewriter ribbons as

they are perishable. Unluckily there is no reduction in the price of stamps for quantity.

All this sounds, when set down, rather expensive, but you will find that after a few weeks in an office of your own the increase in quality and quantity of your work will so cheer up your income as to take care of this cost easily and leave a comfortable margin. Maristan Chapman.

Chattanooga, Tenn.

Editor, the Forum:

We all concede that the advice to "keep hammering" is good, but there comes a time when perseverance ceases to be a virtue and becomes a loss of time.

No would-be adviser can state definitely how many trials a writer should make to land his work with a given magazine. It depends on circumstances. Most fictionists have a specialty, a type of story that they write best, and if this kind of story has been offered to a certain magazine ten or twelve times without any encouragement, I think it best to shift the export to some other market. There are too many periodicals for any writer to be discouraged because he cannot make the grade with some particular one. It surely is better judgment to send your stories to a new place than to try writing something you cannot handle, with the hope of opening the unwelcome door.

But don't scratch those "impossible" magazines off your list. Some writers never seem to think of possible changes in magazines.

But the truth is that magazine policies have to be changeable. Life was never before so full and varied, and magazines are an expression of national life. Stereotyped methods, in most cases, are fatal, and the

editors of all important publications know this even better than the best writers.

And there are many reasons within the office. During the war when printing materials were expensive and hard to obtain many magazines reduced their bulk. Because your stories ran too long for "A-B-C" magazine then is no proof that you would still be "unavailable." A magazine that last year used no serials because of its small size may be twice as big now.

Changes in the personnel of a publication often mean a great deal indeed. No two persons are going to judge a story or article in exactly the same way. The owners of a magazine may lose their editor, and try to put in his place a man of the same ideas; but you can wager there will be a difference in the editorial judgment at that office - frequently enough difference to cause consternation among the old contributors!

I know a woman's magazine that had four or five different editors in one year, and a household periodical that had three in as many months. I wrote for one of these regularly, and I found it necessary to make some changes in my work to suit each new editor. L. E. Eubanks. Seattle, Wn.