THE WRITER'S DIRECTORY OF PERIODICALS THE fourth printing of this Directory — which is constantly being revised and enlarged · began in THE WRITER for July, 1922. The information for it, showing the manuscript market and the manuscript requirements of the various publications listed, is gathered directly from the editors of the periodicals. Great pains are taken to make the information accurate and the Directory complete. Before submitting manuscripts to any publication, it is advisable to secure a sample copy. (Continued from May WRITER) U. S. NAVY MAGAZINE (M), 764 State st., San Diego, Calif. $2.50; 25c. Frederick W. Fish, editor. Uses short stories, general articles, poetry, plays, humorous verse, and jokes, all on naval subjects; but no novelettes, and no serials. Sets length limit at 5,000 words, buys naval and travel photographs, and pays on publication. VANITY FAIR (M), Condé Nast Publications, Graybar Building, 43d st. and Lexington ave., New York. $3.50; 35c. Donald Freeman, managing editor. Uses general articles of limited range, short, satirical, and humorous, short one-act plays, and poetry, but no fiction, and no jokes. Buys photographs, and pays on acceptance. VARIETY GOODS MAGAZINE (M), 812 Huron road, Cleveland, Ohio. Harry E. Martin, editor. Circulates among dealers in popular-priced merchandise, needs practical, detailed articles covering all phases of buying, selling, display, and handling of such merchandise, as well as descriptions of methods whereby small-town, variety, and chain-store managers cut cost, give better service, and successfully meet the problems of competition. Names of stores should be given, and wherever possible the name of the manager or some other executive who supplies the data. The same publishers issue Store Operation, the magazine of store management, service supplies, equipment, and maintenance, and will pay a cent a word for authoritative articles on these subjects, on publication. VIOLIN WORLD (B-M), 125 West 42d st., New York. $1.00; 15c. August M. Gemunder, editor. An educational journal, published in the interest of the stringed instrument family and their players. Uses short musical stories, and prints anything of interest to violinists. Sets length limit at one page of two columns, does not buy photographs, and pays, at the rate of two dollars a page, on acceptance. VIRGINIA QUARTERLY REVIEW (Q), University, Virginia. $3.00; 75c. James Southall Wilson, editor. Uses articles on economic, social, or any theme interesting to "thoughtful people," that is new in content and well written, some poetry, and perhaps an occasional short story or play of imaginative beauty, or a finely presented idea that is "outstanding." Does not buy photographs, and usually pays five dollars a page. VOGUE (S-M), Condé Nast Publications, Graybar Building, 43d st. and Lexington ave., New York. $5.00; 35c. Edna Woolman Chase, editor. WALLACE'S FARMER (W), Des Moines, Iowa. $1.00; 5c. Henry A. Wallace, editor; Donald R. Murphy, managing editor. Uses only agricultural matter, with illustrations. Articles should not exceed 1,000 words, and should be of particular interest to the farmers of the corn belt region. Buys farm photographs for cover pictures. Very little contributed material is being used just now. WAR STORIES (M), Dell Publishing Co., 97 Fifth ave., New York. $2.00; 20c. Eugene A Clancy, editor. Interested in fiction stories of the big war, but uses stories dealing with any modern war. Stirring entertainment is wanted, as well as rough soldier humor, but the magazine wants no propaganda of any kind, no hymns of hate, and no stories depicting the horors of war. Uses short stories and novelettes, but no serials, general articles, poetry, or jokes. Sets length limit for short stories at from 5,000 to 8,000 words, and for novelettes at 30,000 words, does not buy photographs, and pays, at a minimum rate of two cents a word, on acceptance. WATCHMAN-EXAMINER (W), 23 East 26th st., New York; 525 Tremont Temple, Boston. $2.50; 5c. Curtis Lee Laws and Austen K. de Blois, coeditors. Uses matter pertaining to religious life and thinking, denominational (Baptist) concerns, literature, and family life. Fiction must have a religious or a moral meaning, or convey a lesson, direct or indirect. Sets length limit at from 1,500 to 2,000 words, and does not buy photographs. Uses few articles for which remuneration is made, as most of the paper is filled with contributed matter. WATCHMAN MAGAZINE (M), 2119 Twenty-fourth ave., N., Nashville, Tenn. $1.75; 25c. Robert B. Thurber, editor A religious publication rarely publishing articles written by others than its own denominational writers, sent on request. Uses general articles, doctrinal articles, and health articles, but no fiction, and no poetry. Sets length limit at 2,400 words, buys photographs, and pays at the rate of two dollars, on publication. CONTINUED ON INSIDE BACK COVER CAN AUTHORS' MONTHLY FORUM Ja Volume 39 BOSTON, June, 1927 Lindbergh's Flight BY THE EDITOR LESSONS For Creative Writers in a Great News Story UNDREDS of thousands of newspaper HUNDREDS of of newspaper pages have been given over to the story of the attempts to win the Orteig prize, offered for the first non-stop flight between New York and Paris. Almost every editorial writer in the country has tried his hand at pointing out the effects on international relations and the future of aviation, of the series of events which lead up to the landing of Charles Lindbergh in Paris on May 21. And every experienced fiction writer and dramatist has marvelled at the dramatic unrolling of the events leading up to this climax, as interest and suspense have been steadily driven up to higher levels. It has been often proved that truth is stranger than fiction, but never in modern history has it been so clearly revealed that accident or chance may write a connected story beyond the powers of the imagination of the greatest artist. Most curious, in this extraordinary news story, are the order and tempo of events, which have wrung from it every last drop of possible dramatic interest, intoxicating the imagination of the world as only once before in the memories of living men: in the World Number 6 War. In the latter case, it must be remembered that there were millions of actors in the drama, that almost every human being had some definite reason for being personally interested in the outcome. But in this only a few knew personally any of the actors. Our interest is that of spectators as much as if we had bought seats in a theatre to see some production of the human imagination. For this reason, the Lindbergh Saga stands alone as the supreme news story of modern times. Aside from the strangely perfect sequence and timing of events, it is notable that characterization, contrast, suspense, surprise, and restraint are so combined to produce an artistic whole, which would be the despair of any story-teller. The story begins with the offering of a prize of twenty-five thousand dollars for a non-stop trip from New York to Paris. A desultory public interest develops in the plans of various individuals to make the attempt. The difficulties of the flight are suggested in the discussion of experts. Interest begins to rise slightly. Captain Fonck's plane is wrecked and burned at the take-off. Two men die. Two American aviators perish on the test flight in a plane which they were to use in an attempt to make the flight. Then two of the world's greatest aviators take off from Paris. They are lost. Up to this time, the real hero has not made his entrance. We are not yet in the body of the story, but the situation is being driven home to the reader slowly, laboriously, painstakingly, and impressively. He is being made to see two things: first, the worth-whileness of the thing that is to be accomplished; and second, the difficulties which must be overcome to accomplish it. Why is the flight worth making? The winner will receive twenty-five thousand dollars, but that is only a symbol, as it were, of the real accomplishment of him who succeeds in making the flight. Before the public can be intensely interested, it must be persuaded that there is something far more than money involved. Yet the larger objective is almost indefinable. The Journal des Debats of Paris attempts it: "What is the value of this flight?' may be asked by certain obstinate minds." "Firstly, noble gestures, even seemingly without utility, must always be honored because they are equivalent to works of high art, making for man the finest qualities and aspirations of the race. Lindbergh's feat, in a certain sense, is comparable to a great monument or a great book. It is a masterpiece, deserving admiration. And besides, from the viewpoint of athletics or sport, it is a magnificent record." The worth-whileness of the objective, since it is in the higher realms of imagination, cannot be absolutely defined. That gives it its great power over the imagination. Six men have died in futile attempts to accomplish it. We are convinced of the nobility of the objective even though perhaps because -it transcends any literal, commonplace view of the comparative values of life and death. Not only is the nobility of the objective brought home to us in the preliminary exposition to the real story, but the forces an tagonistic to accomplishment are forcefully portrayed as vast and menacing. They are clearly illustrated in the fate of Nungesser and Coli. Difficulties of the take-off, the hazards of weather, possible mechanical weakness of the plane, and that greatest of all dangers, arising from human frailty, sleep. Anyone who has read the newspapers has now a perfect background for a complete understanding of the action which is to follow. Now the minor characters of the drama are shown. A spirit of rivalry develops. Two planes are ready for the hop, one commanded by a man who has been much in the public eye for his flight over the North Pole. Then the hero enters. It is a superb entrance. No one could have planned it better because it could not have been a more complete surprise. He literally drops from the skies, unheralded and unknown, after spanning the continent in two long jumps. The real story begins. But he does not take flight at once weather interferes. It raises a hindrance to the action. This delay, for curious reasons, heightens rather than lowers the suspense. If he had hopped off the next day, the interest in the outcome would not have been one-tenth as keen. If he had waited too long it would have flagged. Higher and higher it mounts as the search for the lost Frenchmen emphasizes the power of the opposing forces. During the delay, swiftly, definitely, the hero is characterized. We see his mother, a school teacher in Detroit. We hear of his past exploits. Four times he has had to jump with a parachute from burning planes. He finds a kitten asleep in his cockpit and adopts it as a mascot, but he will not take it with him because he fears it may freeze to death. We see his picture and we like his face. His little actions reveal him as silent, modest, independent, and brave. In bold contrast to squabbling and wrangling in a rival camp, he works quietly and alone, saying little as he prepares his plane. There is a beautiful restraint in the action which saves it from melodrama and makes it purely heroic. His mother comes to say goodbye and departs quietly, refusing to kiss him for the newspaper photographers. In all this action building up to the climax, I am reminded of a line from Thoreau, "The little that is said is eked out by implication of the much that was done." The truth is so superbly artistic that even the merest dub of a newspaper reporter can't spoil it. The moving hand of fact is writing surely and gracefully. readers cry aloud for the answer to the narrative question as the world was crying on May 21? Or would you have started your story with the take-off and assumed that the reader would be interested in what happened thereafter just because you were writing the story? When you have proved to yourself why so many people were asking themselves so intensely, "Will he make it?" when Lindbergh took the air, you have learned the first lesson of narrative technique. Lindbergh's flight is a perfect example, too, of what most writers need to learn: hold your suspense, make them wait. If it were a matter of a few hours, the public would n't have been so intensely interested. But, for two long days, sketchy bulletins kept our suspense alive and drove it steadily to higher levels as we had time to think of the opposing forces Then the climax, the grand scene. It comes, like the entrance of the hero, a thunder clap of surprise. Although we have had reason to expect it, we have not been quite sure. With swift decision he climbs into the cockpit. The machine takes off. Disaster looms for a moment but he is finally in the air. The last act has begun. The fine, bold figure of Byrd stands there, frustrated in an attempt to convoy him part way. His mother goes on with her work of teaching chemistry. Her children anxiously refrain from mentioning the flight fog, engine, sleep, the unguarded Atlantic, in her hearing. Squabbling goes on among the rivals. The weather clears — but we remember that he has had only two hours of sleep during the night before. Bulletins begin to come in. In a few short days, an unknown lad has become the hero of the world. His name is on the lips of more people than any under the sun. His face etched in more minds than any living human. The narrative question of the story, "Will he make it?" is on everybody's lips, from president to beggar. I must pause here to point out that the real story has already been told. By that I mean that no matter what happens next the story is a truly great one. That is where so many young writers go wrong. If you draw from this only the lesson that people like to read about trans-ocean flights for a prize, you have failed to grasp the significance of one of the finest examples of narrative technique that you will ever read. Be honest with yourself. Would you have written the story this way? Would you have dared write with such restraint? Would you have shown so carefully the thing to be accomplished and the opposing forces to accomplishment so clearly and artistically? Would you have made your death. But the course was true, the machine capable; man's endurance held against the breaking point. Then the wild panorama of the happy ending, the beacons over the darkened field, and a hundred thousand halfcrazed enthusiasts sweeping aside every obstacle to greet the successful hero. In advising young writers of talent, my greatest difficulty is to persuade them that a happy ending to their stories is advisable. One said to me once: "But it is more artistic to make people weep than to make them laugh!" Hundreds who read this are failing to reach the public to which their talents recommend them simply because they hold to this as a sincere belief. To them, I say this: I would not for worlds destroy your artistic standards. But won't you recall and analyze your feelings when you heard that Lindbergh had landed. Did you laugh? Or was there a stinging sensation in your eyes? Would you have been any closer to tears if you had read that he had fallen in flames over the English Channel? No! A thousand times, no! It is in the story itself that artistry lies, not in the ending, and most of all in the part of the story that was written long before Paris rose in her emotional might to acclaim the hero. |