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politicians, teachers, social leaders, physicians; sometimes just plain home-bodies.

Just one essential characteristic they hold in common. All of them have lived, and learned life from some individual angle before they have come to answer the curtain-calls of our four oftmentioned magazines. And most of the curtaincalls are for women who have learned life in generous outline. Travel seems almost a concommitant of present-day publication for women. There are of course notable exceptions but the world is so shrunken by automobiles, steamship lines, radio, and air-travel that one can seldom interest even mere Americans in dialectic thought. Dialect is permissable, sometimes sought for

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Elsie Singmaster gives us that, to our delight but, before it nurtures a Quality brood, it has to be based on the cosmic intelligence of its canny creator.

If this has been tedious, and undiverting, it has sufficed if one kind of profit was derived. The kind of profit which, caused by the facing of facts, will encourage the deduction in the minds of many current women would-be writers that cluttering the mails at 353 Fourth avenue, 8 Arlington street, 597 Fifth avenue, and 49 East 33rd street, is futile until they, too, have lived and learned and artfully translated life in human-interest vernacular. And may they do that very thing soon! Waco, Texas. Claude Eager Johnson.

AMATEUR OR PROFESSIONAL

Have you ever considered the question of "When is an Amateur"?

In sporting parlance, one ceases to be an amateur with the first dollar he earns by his physical prowess, but authors may not be so simply classified.

One may have received dozens of checks for literary matter and still remain an arch amateur, while another may acquire all the characteristics of a professional before having had any matter accepted.

To me the amateur is one who cries or swears - according to sex or temperament - over the returned manuscript; stores it away in the pigeonhole of a desk; and takes it out at intervals, mournfully questioning what is wrong with it and wondering ineffectively where it might be sent with some prospect of sticking.

Personally, I have endeavored to climb out of this class and have in a measure succeeded, although writing is still only an avocation with me. Incidentally, I find that the method I pursue saves me an enormous amount of time and many heartaches.

When I finish a manuscript, unless there is some very special reason for haste in the marketing, I lay it aside for several days, then I go over it most critically, emending and improving according to my skill. Next I read it aloud to myself very attentively to determine whether it "listens

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good." After, perhaps, one more critical reading, without further question, I pronounce it goodthat is good from my present stand-point of ability, and I type it neatly.

Next I write the title at the top of a card for filing, and below it inscribe the names of twenty or so possible markets as divulged by my interested study of THE WRITER and of current magazines. The manuscript is then started on its merry round with never a sigh cr hesitation between trips. I merely examine it enough to know that it is still presentable, put it in another envelope, and intrust it to Uncle Sam. When it needs recopying, I sometimes go over it once more, improving where possible, and immediately send it out again.

When the manuscript is at last marketed, I erase the penciled title and substitute instead that of another effort in the same line, and now the already prepared list, duly revised if need be, serves a good turn for it may be used again and again. Generally, however, I send first to the periodical which accepted the last manuscript, if the new one is not too similar.

Naturally, on these cards, I have collected much very personal information, for sometimes I receive letters instead of rejection slips, and the cards now constitute a very considerable asset. J. K. Goldwater. Los Angeles, Calif.

WRITING FOR PAY

Necessity is a Spartan Mother. She makes life interesting for thousands and provides an incentive for endeavors that often bring to us our richest blessings. When life lacks the urge of a great need we are in danger of being encompassed by commonplace trifles that hinder the growth of individual effort and invention.

Having dabbled in literary pursuits most of my time without any pay, I recently determined to work at writing from a financial standpoint. The lack of ready cash was the spur that drove me on. The reporter's column in a daily paper brought

meager returns for much labor. Then a clerkship relieved the situation, and I was able to continue writing as a "side-line."

When the American Magazine gave me first prize for a 400-word story I felt that I had made a good beginning. But, of late the returns have been in self-addressed, stamped envelopes. Not much money in that.

As I am not easily discouraged I began a closer study of the markets. A very attractive advertisement by a Publishing Company got my check. It held out alluring bait in the promise of expert revision, correction, and selling of manuscripts

for a good-sized fee. Imagine my disappointment, when the envelope came back, to find the story just as I had mailed it, no corrections, changes, or suggestions. The company did say the story was "excellent" and advised mailing it to the list of newspapers enclosed; any one of them would do. I was sold, if my story was not.

By this time I had written songs and in the market advertisements, was one that merely said; "I want your song." No promises, and no requests for money. This looked very different from the others, and I mailed the song. The answer was that upon receipt of thirty dollars the song would be set to music, but not made ready for the printer; more money would be required for that.

Another publisher to whom I sent a song, said the song was meritorious and would be a "great hit," if I would mail them the money to have it printed. When I did not respond, he notified me that if I did not "sign a contract and mail them a check by a certain date he would destroy the song."

As I keep carbon copies of things I send out I was not troubled by the loss. Again I became an easy mark when I paid to become a "Staff Writer" for a concern for three months. The return for this investment was a list of papers and the ad

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vice to mail my stories to them. No correction or help of any kind, but the concern informed me that my connection with it would expire in three months. As I take magazines with up-to-date directory service in them I let the membership lapse. Having been for years in the service I felt no thrill upon receiving names of daily papers or magazines.

I am still receiving letters saying that if I do not remit, my songs will not be published and assuring me that the songs have great possibilities, but the concerns give no evidence of gratitude when I offer them the right to the songs; offer to relinquish my claim upon them in toto. Nothing but a check or money order appeals to them. For this reason the Markets no longer attract me. I pay dues in the League of American Pen-Women, and find there all the help I need, free to members. Miss Alice H. Drake is chairman of the poetry group where we can have our verse discussed and corrected. A Manuscript Service Bureau is in charge of Dr. Mary Meek Atkeson. In conclusion I am convinced no agent can place a story where the writer fails. An editor usually knows what he wants. He does not wait for an agent to tell him. Willa B. Young. Washington, D. C.

HOW TO KEEP TRACK OF MANUSCRIPTS

I am writing and sending out manuscripts at the rate of fiity or more each month. Many of them are short, but it is necessary to keep an accurate record of the trips made, in order to avoid sending a manuscript to the same place twice. For two or three years I have been experimenting with different systems of recording the journeyings of my brain children, the object being to eliminate unnecessary labor.

Trying to make an income that will necessitate the paying of an income tax (yes, I am willing to pay if I can make enough) means that I must turn out from three to five thousand words a day when I write; for there are lots of days between when I am collecting material and doing other necessary jobs as a householder. Last year I sent out over six hundred separate and distinct manuscripts and something like ninety per cent. of them were sold for cash. It is not a small task to keep track of all these offerings and figure out at the end of the year just how many have gone astray and just what percentage was not sold. My present system makes it possible for me to tell at any time just where a certain manuscript is reposing.

My assistants in keeping track of the manuscripts are an ordinary card system, with index, and a plain memorandum book. The cards I am using are ruled across the top with a red line and there are ten lines below, which give me room to record the ramblings of a manuscript, even unto the tenth trip.

The title of the article is written on the red line. Just below is the name and the address of the periodical to which the manuscript is sent. At the left, or before the name of the publication, appears the date of the first trip. If the offering comes back, the date of return is recorded at the right of the address of the publication. In this way, ten trips are recorded.

In order to avoid looking over the entire list of cards to learn what manuscripts are out, the book is kept. This is a book with horizontal ruling, opening flat. Two pages are used. Vertical lines are drawn. At the left is space for the date. Next comes a larger space for the title. Then appears a narrow space for the number of words. The fourth space is for the name of the periodical which eventually accepts the article, while a fifth space is left to record the fact if the manuscript is lost or finally unsold when the date of timeliness has been passed. Two more spaces are left, one to indicate the amount received in payment and the other to total up the number of words to date. I keep the last column for the purpose of checking up on the amount of work done. It is necessary that a certain amount be turned out each month if I would keep the checks coming and the lean wolf of hunger away from the door.

More elaborate systems have been tried out, but this seems to answer my purpose better than any other. The card system shows just where a manuscript is located. When it is sold and the money is received the proper records are made in the book and the card removed and placed in another

file. At the time the first record is made upon the card, the title of the manuscript and the number of words it contains are written in the book. When the manuscript is sold, the name of the periodical is recorded in the proper column, also the amount in another column.

The book tells me, without referring to the cards, just how many manuscripts I have on the road. This is important, for it is necessary that a certain number be out all the time. That is the only way to assure regular returns. When the manuscript is sold, the name of the periodical is set down in its proper column. If the check comes along on acceptance, the amount is set down and the record is complete. If it does not come until after publication, the amount will be recorded at that time.

In the kind of writing I am doing, largely for the agricultural press, I find it important that each paper and magazine be kept with a certain number of manuscripts under consideration. For instance, I have six weekly farm papers. These papers all use my material regularly and pay after publication. I find it advisable to keep five or six

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unpublished manuscripts in the hands of each at all times. In order that the supply shall not become too low and also that the editor may not be deluged with my offerings, I have resorted to the method of keeping a small memorandum book to indicate the number of manuscripts in the hands of each. I know about how long it would be before getting the manuscript back, if it were coming. When it seems likely to stick, the title is written in the little book. As fast as published, the titles are crossed off. This makes it necessary that I subscribe for the publications. It is a good policy to subscribe, anyway, for those publications which are using your work regularly. You are able to write more intelligently if you are familiar with the type of material used.

My work is done largely for farm, garden, and poultry publications. The rate paid for this material runs from one-third to one cent a word. Every minute counts, hence I have devised this plan of keeping track of my manuscripts. more than a year, the system has been used and it seems to be practical and simple.

For

East Barrington, N. H. Charles H. Chesley.

CHIMNEY-SWEEPS

"The bitterness of soot itself may be considered as sweet, when compared to those troubles and mortifications which surround the unfortunate creature who derives his poor and precarious support from the labours of his pen."

So says the introduction to "A Philosophical, Historical and Moral Essay on Old Maids" published in three volumes in Dublin, in 1786. The author gives no name, but styles himself as "a friend to the sisterhood," and expresses the hope that he may attain to "the hitherto unknown and unsurpassable title of Gentleman Pensioner to the Immaculate Community of Old Maids."

The complete text of his statement concerning writers, with the old "s's" represented by "f's" to suggest still further the quaintness with which the orginal is replete, is as follows:

"A celebrated philofopher of France (Mr. d'Alembert) has written a benevolent and admirable effay on thofe unfortunate beings called Authors; and a contemplative, indefatigable philanthropift of our own country (the amiable traveller, Jonas Hanway, Efquire, whose pen had been affidvoufly employed, for half a century, in the service of humanity) has, with equal goodness and pro

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priety, produced a treatife on Chimneyfweepers. Diffimilar as the refpective evils of thefe different fufferers may be thought, we may find on examination, a very ftriking refemblence between them, both in the fervices they perform and the hardships they endure. It is the bufinefs of an Author, if he underftands his profeffion, to fweep away thofe black and bitter particles, which form a lodgment on the brain, and to give that degree of cleanlinefs and comfort to the pericranium of his reader, which the brufh of the Chimney-fweeper fecures to the houfe of his employer. The rewards, which are ufually given to thefe fellow-labourers in the fervice of mankind, are equally deftitute of proportion to the benefit which the world rereives from their toil. The fate of both is bitter but the bitterneff of foot itfelf may be confidered as fweet, when compared to thofe troubles and mortifications which furround the unfortunate creature, who derives his poor and precarious support from the labours of his pen. Much credit is therefore undoubtedly due to the humane effayifts of France and England, who have endeavoured to alleviate the burthens which prefs fo heavily on thefe two afflicted claffes of mankind." Waterloo, Iowa. Doris R. Wilder.

PATIENCE IN SELLING

In at least two of Earl Derr Biggers' delightful stories the most engaging character is one Charley Chann, a Chinese detective, of Honolula. Charley

is quite a philosopher, and his favorite expression is this: "Patience are a lovely virtue."

I agree with the Honorable Chann, and if you will exercise "the lovely virtue" to the extent of

reading the remaining few lines, I'm sure you will agree, also.

At any rate, here is why I consider the exercise of patience a great virtue :

In June, 1924, I wrote a story and submitted it during the same month. It came back. It was promptly mailed out the second time. And that program has followed ever since-back and forth

for three years. Usually, rejection slips came back with the story, but occasionally a brief letter accompanied its return. One good-hearted editor was kind enough to say, "Keep on sending it out, for I believe it will sell." But I did n't need this advice particularly, for it would have traveled the same routes had he not given the advice. knew I had sold stories no better, and some not so good, so it was merely a question of finding the right berth.

I

Well, during the good month of June, 1927, this manuscript was accepted.

Casting backward and summing up, I find that it made thirty-eight trips. The postage amounted to some three dollars, the price received was onehalf cent per word, which left more than fifty per cent. profit.

Was it worth the time and patience?

I think it was. In fact, I think it was better to have sold the story after it had made the thirtyeight trips than to have sold it the first time out. Of course, if it had sold on its first trip, I should

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have had the price it brought three years ago, and should have saved the stamps and stationery. But, on the other hand, thirty-eight editors now know that I can write a salable story for it finally sold whereas if it had not made these rounds, only one editor would have known about this story. It has paved the way for other material. In fact, some of them invited me to submit other material. So when I knock at those doors again, they will at least say, "Come in," whether they do business with me or not.

If you write a really good story, I believe that the greater number of editors who read it, the better it is for the writer. I have deliberately sent stories to editors that I knew would not buy them, simply to see if they would express an opinion about them, and they did that very thing, in several instances; expressed favorable opinions, and in some instances invited me to come again. Therefore, my fellow amateurs, don't get discouraged if a story comes back. Be sure you have a salable story an interesting, neatly-written story and keep sending it out until it sells, for just so sure as it is clean and interesting it will eventually land.

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Now, are you in agreement with Hon. Charley and yours truly, that "Patience are a lovely virtue"? Robert O. Huie.

Atlanta, Ga.

WRITING TO SYSTEM

Discovering by experience that the evenings were never sufficiently long for the work I was planning to undertake, I divided my week into water-tight compartments. On Monday I devoted myself to topical articles; Tuesday was allocated to detective and mystery stories; Wednesday to humorous stuff; Thursday to the plain, unvarnished love-story; and Friday became a general clearing-up night when I revised the work I had already done, submitted the finished work, and attended to general correspondence.

This scheme has many points in its favor. Certainly it has paid me better than my former slip-shod habit of attacking whatever was uppermost in my brain.

It has the supreme merit of rendering one fresh for the work in hand. A week is a long time to a brain which must be somewhat agile if one is to deserve any success as a free-lance. It enables me to regard the weekend as a complete rest from the actual writing and the heart-breaking toil of revision. This is the period when I map out my work for the ensuing week; when the ideas are jotted down in my diary; when I ponder over

all I am going to make my characters say and do in the forthcoming story.

The main objection to this plan lies in the fact that one has to break off a story just when one is getting at grips with it. Some people asseverate that a tale written at feverheat is almost invariably a successful one. I have found it so only when one has become absolutely saturated with the theme and its characters; and, when such a desideration has been attained, it makes little difference whether the story is completed in three consecutive nights or in three nights of consecuive weeks. A story which lives with the writer cannot die in a week.

Topical and humourous stuff can invariably be started and finished the same night. Almost every story may be divided into three or four distinct sections and it should be the aim of the writer to complete one section a week. (This in particular applies to mystery and detective stories.) Lastly, the very fact that one has to spend the allotted two or three hours on clearly defined lines is an inducement to work; and, after a while, the habit of work becomes so fixed that any interruptions are anathema. Harry Bailey. Kingswinford, Dudley, England.

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LIFE OF EUGENE FIELD. By Slason Thompson. 408 pages. Cloth. New York: D. Appleton and Company.

Something infinitely more than an absorbing biography is this book about the most companionable wit and writer of his time. For in it is the record of a friendship, a comradeship between two fellow-workers that is as rare as it is stimulating.

Slason Thompson's close association with Eugene Field began in 1883 when they both joined the staff of the Chicago Daily News. But so well did Thompson come to know Field that the early chapters of his book give every impression of lifelong friendship. Briefly they trace Eugene's distinguished Vermont ancestry; describe his father's emigration to St. Louis, where Eugene was born in 1850, and give glimpses of his boyhood with relatives in New England, following the death of his mother. His education was fitful. Three years in as many colleges gave no indication that he would become a writer. He cared little for study but was a genial, sportive leader among boys. A comedian by instinct and habit, a born mimic, he would have followed the stage if his one venture had not proved a failure. A spendthrift by nature, he used in travel abroad the small fortune left by his father, until his early marriage turned his thoughts for the first time to earning a living. Money came to be an almost endless need, but nothing could change his love of fun and his disposition to tease.

What Mr. Thompson calls "the hobble

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How they burned the candle at both ends in those Denver days may be illustrated by the story of the first meeting of Field and Edgar W., familiarly known to fame as "Bill" Nye. How Field discovered Nye is thus told. Nye was what old-time printers call "plugging along," without setting the prairie on fire, on the Laramie Boomerang. His peculiar vein of humor caught the journalistic eye of Field, who wrote to Nye and got him to contribute a weekly letter to the Tribune for the princely stipend of five dollars per letter. This was raised to ten dollars when the letters fitted in with Denver's sense of humor, and when Field informed Nye that he was to be paid fifteen dollars a letter, Nye promptly closed his Boomerang desk and posted off to Denver to see what sort of a Golconda was squandering its shekels on him. When he appeared in the Tribune office he looked more like a bewhiskered western farmer than the bald-headed, clean-shaven humorist with whose lean features the American public was to become so well acquainted. Entering Field's office and introducing himself, he was promptly welcomed and waved to a bottomless black walnut chair, purposely set with a few exchanges to break the ice with casual and unsuspecting callers. Through this chair Bill Nye dropped into a lifelong friendship and association with Eugene Field.

After such an unceremonious introduction, nothing would confirm the entente cordiale between two such bon companions but a dinner

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