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A TEN-DOLLAR prize is awarded each month for the best letter published in this department.

Editor, the Forum:

WRITING POETRY FOR FUN

The first rule of writing is to be optimistic, and I am not going to violate that rule. But, keeping one's eyes tightly closed at all times, is not optimism. Every young man should hope and plan to become President. This is optimism. But this does not signify that when he begins buying furniture, he should purchase red furniture and blue furniture to match the red room and the blue room in the White House. So with the young poet; he should hope for the best, but if he is going to depend on poetry for his living, he had better learn how to drive a Ford rather than a Rolls Royce.

Arthur Guiterman is very encouraging in his advice to young poets, but says, "He should get some sort of regular work so that he need not depend at first upon the sale of his writings." Either Mr. Guiterman is a master of irony or his memory is poor. Do not depend AT FIRST upon the sale of your poems for a living! Can anyone who has written verse for years read that through without a smile? or, shall I say a tear? I have written poetry ever since I was a child. This is a confession, and not an apology; but this is the day of confessions. We have magazines full of them. Otherwise, my life has been quite circumspect. I have nothing else to be specially ashamed of except that I have practiced law for a number of years. I will now give some of the statistics as to the income tax I have paid on my earnings from writing poetry. Without reference to my account books, I can state off-hand the exact amounts paid me for my poems, because when the checks came they caused me such a shock, that I have never forgotten them or ever fully recovered.

Once I received $3.50 for a few greeting card verses. Later on, the editor of the Los Angeles Herald paid me $5.00 for a Fourth of July poem. A couple of months ago I received a check for $4.00 for two poems, and last month another dollar for a quatrain, and $6.00 for a short poem from the Christian Science Monitor, just received. Balanced up against the amount I have paid out in stamps to mail out poems, these amounts would shrink until they vanished entirely.

My first great grief in the writing of poetry aside from that perennial sorrow of receiving returned manuscripts was when I spent $35.00

to have a pamphlet of my verse printed. I was then suffering from a severe and prolonged illness, and I never had looked with delight upon the thought of having my name carved on a stone, so I hoped to perpetuate my memory by leaving these immortal verses. As my physical condition was critical, I thought perhaps I would die and the poems would live; but as it turned out, I lived and the poems died, and they were safely and unostentatiously buried. I mailed about a hundred copies to friends and a few of them conscientiously responded with words of faint praise, but I waited "weak and weary" for recognition which never came.

Then followed a number of years of illness, during which I was just well enough to enjoy reading poetry and writing occasional verse. I diligently studied poetry past and futuristic, learned intricacies of triolets and diatribes, sonnets and heroic verse, and familiarized myself with the entire anatomy of the poem, particularly its feet. Altogether I wrote hundreds of things that rhymed. The time I spent on these would have brought in perhaps a thousand dollars if I had been spading in a ditch. Some of them appeared in daily papers which I believe had circulations approximating half a million.

These little fairy poems come dancing before one's eyes day or night. They seem so exquisite, so dainty in form, rhythmic in movement, and eloquent in words! They plead for a chance to come out into the world and show their beauty. They say to the poetaster, "Write me up into a beautiful poem. See how wonderful I am! I'll make your name immortal with my beauty and grace;" and then, remembering the gems of lovely thought which have come down the ages and brought immortality to others, the aspiring poet struggles to capture all the grace and elegance of their form and color and to crystallize them into enduring words which will give perpetual delight to posterity.

As far as monetary reward is concerned, I am not "lonely as a cloud," for only the other day I read the following by a poetress of such distinction that her work appears in those, to me unattainable magazines, the Big Four. She said, “If I receive $100 a year from the sale of my verse, I feel I have done well." So in thinking it over, I decided to take an inventory and to see just

how much it had brought me. During those years of illness, it provided me with a delightful and easy occupation, which did something at least toward strengthening the thread of life and preserving me from the weariness and monotony of despair. It has added greatly to the extent, variety, and scope of my vocabulary, taught me something of how to pack a large load of thought into a small vehicle, and unquestionably it has purified and exalted my ideals and tastes.

If one writes poetry as an interesting diversion or hobby, if one thinks of his poems as flowers planted in a cool fragrant garden for the pure pleasure they excite in him and for the delight of his friends, giving little heed to their market value then I believe that the laborious yet happy hours spent in their cultivation are altogether profitable. Vinton A. Holbrook.

Los Angeles, Calif.

AVAUNT, REALISTS! OKLAHOMA AND NEW YORK JOIN IN PLEAS

Editor, the Forum:

I hate beating about the bush, so I'll tell you right at the outset why I have come carrying my empty basket across all the long miles between Jones, Oklahoma, and Boston, Mass.

I want a story!

I can hear the rocking-chair, magazine-reading brigade exclaim in astonishment: "A story! Why, in all the history of the world, stories were never more plentiful."

Ah yes! Too plentiful - but not of the type I'm hungering for. My days are long and tedious. At the end of the day's work, if I hasten through the evening meal, there are two hours, all mine, for reading. But I am too fagged for deep reading or study. I want to be entertained, brightened up, lifted into a different atmosphere. Where shall I turn for the small favor I ask - surely not to the much-talked-of stories of recent years. Every town has its subdued, mediocre old maids, living with silly married sisters, pouting mothers. and repulsive brothers-in-law. Main streets abound everywhere. Babbitts walk even our village streets. In the story I picked up this evening, a lonely, homely little girl, child of two invalids, has a miserable, starved childhood, and a wrecked womanhood. I go to bed more depressed than when I came in from my day's work.

I don't want these wonderful, true-to-life stories -if this is life! I want the old style storywith good, beautiful women, strong, chivalrous men, happy children, homes full of content and peace. If there aren't any such things any more. give me some fiction. I'm tired of the truth! That is, if truth must be all drab, and unlovely, and disquieting.

In years gone by. I had the habit of browsing about in the bound-volume section of the home town library, finding the sort of story I craved. But the home town is a thousand miles away from Jones, Oklahoma. The nearest library is twenty miles away, and my hours off duty are also the librarian's- so what am I to do?

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The world is fairly seething with authors. Won't some of them take pity on me? Can't some of them be beguiled into leaving the true-tolife type long enough to spin me a tale that will wipe out the pettiness of the day, and send me to bed with a song in my heart, to sleep the sort of sleep which helps with the next day's pettiness? If ten of you would write one such story each month, that would almost supply me with restful reading, for often my two hours must be taken for mending or darning. I could mend or darn to memories of bright stories read at other times.

I wonder how it would work to capture about seven of the world's best writers, shut 'em up, treat 'em well, feed 'em yeast, shredded wheat, fish, any or every kind of known brain food, and then say unto them, gently but firmly: "NOW WRITE! Give us love stories, with the love left in, give us stories of employers who do not fall in love with their stenographers, give us stories of married life without the triangle, give us stories of parents and children, with parents in the ascendency! Do you get my idea? Write something fittin' for tired folk to read."

If some of you readers will go in with me on this venture, we will organize at once, and call the body "A society for the prevention of trueto-life tales." We might take for our emblem the frying pan. In the background a ball and chain, couchant, in the foreground, a pair of wings, rampant! This would indicate to the world of writers that we will no longer submit to being chained to the commonplace. We might take for our slogan: "All birds who can sing - but only croak shall be made to sing!"

We really don't want to adopt such strenuous measures. We'd much rather have you volunteer to write real cheering fiction.

I'm not asking much—just a few cheerful stories not true to life, if life is all gray and sordid, and its characters all commonplace. I WANT A STORY! Jones, Oklahoma.

Lulu Linton.

soul that there is a righteous and good God, whose order no human folly or crime can destroy; and who will say so, very clearly, simply, valiantly, and reverently.

Novels today are mere dumps of lurid incom

patibilities, thrown together as into some witch's cauldron, and generally so vague as to mean little or nothing. Human foibles, shockingly caricatured, are revolting, silly, and tiresome reading. Give me a list of even ten novels, written within

Editor, the Forum:

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HOW AN EDITOR'S SUGGESTION HELPS

What writer has not sensed that keen feeling of despair on receiving a manuscript back, believing honestly it is good but without the slightest hint as to what was wrong? The merest mention of the reason would be more welcome than the mute, inglorious "thank you" that tells nothing and leaves no encouragement.

When an editor gives a suggestion toward the improvement of a manuscript, it is like balm to a wound. I had such an experience with one of the most prominent western story magazines. Answering my query as to his interest in a certain historical event, the editor invited me to send the article. In a few weeks it came back with a request to cut it from 6,000 to 3,000 words and add two more articles like it, making a three-part historical story.

Aside from the greater cash profit received, that suggestion was invaluable for its instructive aid.

Cutting the story in half taught me much as to the merit of eliminating the unnecessary. The first thousand words, comprising explanatory narrative for the most part, came out easily. The second thousand were a little more difficult to get rid of. Then I began on the last thousand by extracting short paragraphs or portions of them. Five hundred additional words were deleted in this way. Then I began to cut out single sentences and to improve the conciseness of the story. That is where I got the greatest benefit from the editor's suggestion. It taught me how to eliminate, and how to reduce tedious, drawn-out sentences to brief statements.

When I had the story down to 3,200 words I thought I could reduce it no further without actually demeriting it. There seemed nothing left but the bare skeleton and if I took out any more even that would be incomplete. But I realized what an excellent lesson it was to me in acquiring brevity and I determined to cut out those additional two hundred words at any cost. I read and reread the story, critically. I deleted single sentences; portions of sentences. I chopped off every

superfluous word I could find, a great many of them adjectives. At last I had the story down to 2,996 words by estimated count.

I learned more from that process of elimination, suggested by the editor, than I have from any other means regarding the physical construction of a story, because it was actual practice. Superfluity gave way to brevity. The story was stripped of its irrelative statements, tedious sentences, unnecessary adjectives, leaving a tale that was replete from start to finish with vigorous, exciting action. For the first time I myself got a thrill out of it, for it had the gripping element that should characterize such a story, instead of the excessive, dull narrative that had bored me before. My reward was increased immensely when the editor's reply came, and the check he sent was considerably above what I should have received for my original composition.

I have just received an additional letter from one of the associate editors, inviting me to send another similar one!

Such suggestions as these enable the writer to recognize and eliminate the defects of his stories. It is a hard matter to cut out what seems so necessary and to remold into finished form the selected remnants. The writer must set himself apart from the story and forget what is coming, concentrating upon the quality of the story as it progresses. The ability to so examine it becomes one of his greatest assets in the matter of writing.

When one realizes that less than five per cent., sometimes not even one per cent., of all the stories an editor receives can be accepted, he will have a better appreciation of the quality those lucky manuscripts must possess in order to get by. He will then know how important it is to improve his work to the greatest degree possible, and not the least of the improvements is the elimination of every superfluous word, sentence, and paragraph.

Missoula, Mont.

Lamont Johnson.

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Manuscript Club Department

A REGULAR department which seeks to discover the value of the social group of writers as a critical guide to the work of its members.

Editor, the Writer:

There seem to be two classes of writers, in one of which the divine spark burns so surely that they lisp and the numbers come; but for the great majority, the way to the heights of success leads through mazes seemingly without outlet, often through the Slough of Despond, and up steep ascents where hold is uncertain and paths hard to find.

The thing the average writer feels he needs most, when rejection slip follows rejection slipwhen his story, or essay, or poem has seemed to him good, yet has failed to sell is some one to tell him what is the matter with it.

For this reason manuscript clubs have been formed. A successful club of its kind is the Boston Manuscript Club, which had as its nucleus a group of students in Professor Dallas Lore Sharp's short-story course at Boston University, who used to meet after class to discuss their manuscripts. The club started with forty members; it now has a membership of one hundred and ten, and carries out a program which might well serve as a model for other clubs.

The club holds two meetings a month, one an afternoon meeting, the other an evening session. Alternately, as far as possible, meetings are devoted to an address by a distinguished person, and to criticism of manuscripts written by members of the club.

A manuscript is read by its author, selected in alphabetical order, and frank criticism is encouraged. As the ideal of the club is a fair give and take, a desire to put something in as well as to take something away, comment is candid. It remembers that the author wishes to be helped; that he wants a physician, not a mollycoddling neighbor to bring him roses and custards. The criticism is helpful to the writer and to all who listen. Moreover, by criticising others, one learns to judge his own work better.

The speakers-and Boston and its environs are fortunate in this respect, partly on account of

their nearness to many great institutions of learning are of the best. They include college professors whose specialty is literature; editors of newspapers and magazines, and authors of great repute.

Once a year the professor who is responsible for the formation of the club, and who is called the "Father of the Club," is given a reception, at which he rekindles ambition in old acquaintances, and offers inspiration to new members.

Once a year, too, to add zest to the program and to sound a call for best efforts, a prize contest is conducted, with small monetary awards. After the awarding of prizes, two meetings are given up to the reading of the best stories and essays submitted.

There is but one specific requirement for membership the applicant must be writing and sending out manuscripts. His name must be presented by a member of the club. He or she need have no publication to his credit, for the club is not so much for those who have attained the heights, as for those who are seeking the way. Many have found it, aided and encouraged and criticised by the club. Many may have found the way without its aid, but the seeking has been made pleasanter because it has been realized that others, also, have gone through the slough, and because others have applauded the little as well as the great successes, and have taken them for what they were worth.

Not all have attained fame. Some have. Many have one or two books to their credit; many have seen their names in prominent magazines; but nearly all have "broken into print" somewhereand the end is not yet.

The official staff of the club is a president, two vice presidents, two secretaries, a historian and a librarian, for the club has a small library, composed of volumes of aid in writing and marketing, and books by members. There are also program, hospitality, and social committees.

Eliza L. Carleton.

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The Manuscript Market

THIS information as to the present special needs of various periodicals comes directly from the editors. Particulars as to conditions of prizes offers should be sought from those offering the prizes. Before submitting manuscripts to any periodical, writers should examine a copy of the magazine in question. — MARGARET GORDON, Manuscript Market Editor.

How-599 Fifth avenue, New York, is the title of a new magazine to be issued the first of January. It will be published by Robert Collier, Inc., and edited by Robert Collier. The articles in it will be of an inspirational nature and will be written by the editors. But in each issue the editor expects to put three or four stories, for the most part reprints of such stories as "The Urge," by Maryland Allen; "Martin Garrity Gets Even," by Courtland Ryley Cooper and Leo F. Creagan; and the Cappy-Ricks type of go-getting, success-building tales. Stories showing the power of the subconscious mind will be especially welcome. One of the features of How will be a department called Short Cuts. In this will be featured short articles about men and women who have made a quick jump up one rung of the ladder of success, and incidents of this kind are especially wanted. Despite the similarity of name, the magazine has no connection with Collier's, the National Weekly.

and

of the general action-adventure type, but it is among Western stories that the greatest need exists. All stories should have real characters engaged in hazardous pursuits in romantic settings. The magazine can use a romantic serial, of from 60,000 to 80,000 words; a few good novelettes, containing about 25,000 words; and any number of worthwhile short stories, not exceeding 10,000 words. Mr. Corcoran says the magazine's rates are two cents a word for the beginner, and "more for anyone who will earn it,"

THE OPEN ROAD FOR BOYS-248 Boylston street, Boston, Mass., needs some very short stories, of from 2,000 to 3,000 words, for boys in their teens. Stories may treat of mystery, sport, or adventure, but must move rapidly from the first sentence, and must be reasonably true to life.

SELF-DEFENSE-1841 Broadway, Room 1103, New York, a boxing magazine published by the Ringside Publications, is in the market for fiction stories, containing from 1,500 to 3,000 words, and dealing with the fighting angle. Payment will be on publication, at regular rates of one-half cent a word, with

EVERYBODY'S MAGAZINE-Spring Macdougal streets, New York, of which William Corcoran is now the editor, is looking for some really good Western stories. The magazine still uses material

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