happened; it shows the things happening. So that in presenting his Setting, his Characterization, and his Plot, the writer must do it wherever possible pictorially. The plot, of course, is a series of incidents arranged to present a series of crises. Certain things can be presented pictorially, certain things cannot. That which cannot be so presented is Explanatory matter. Yet not all Explanatory matter is incapable of pictorial presentation. Much of it can be presented pictorially, because pictorial presentation is simply "showing something happening." Therefore the writer who is master of his materials realizes that in regard to treatment they fall into three general divisions: (A) Explanatory matter not susceptible of pictorial presentation in characterization: Motive and certain elements of Setting. (B) Explanatory matter susceptible of pictorial presentation. (C) Crises susceptible of pictorial presentation. Pictorial presentation or "showing something happening" involves the action of a force, for example: "John dashed his hand roughly across his face," or "The moon rose in a glamour of soft amber light." For the purposes of critical nomenclature, such a "happening"- the single act of a single force is an "incident." When the incidents are combined together with explanatory matter which cannot be dramatized into "incidents" to form a meeting of two forces without clash, such a meeting is an "episode." When to this episode is added clash, we have another structural unit called the "encounter." But this encounter is not a complete Scene; it is only the Body of a Scene, which must have besides a Scene Beginning, and a Scene Ending. Scene and answer it in the Ending of that Scene. In Miss Sherwood's story each of the structural divisions of a story are in evidence:An incident: The single act of a single force "He hung up his hat" (Line 101). An episode: A character meets a force without a clash (Lines 1 to 72). An encounter: A character meets a force or forces; they clash (Lines 319 to 446). A Scene: A situation (Lines 73-318) An Encounter (Lines 319-446) A Decisive Act (Lines 447-452). Miss Sherwood's story will repay the painstaking analysis of any aspiring writer — and of many established writers for it meets the requirements of Style, Structure, and Significance. As an example of compression in style it will repay study. It is modern in treatment. Wherever possible, the Explanatory matter is shown pictorially; and of its significance there is no doubt. No one reading it can fail to say to himself: "It presents a problem which might confront me; it sets forth a standard of conduct for the solution of such a problem." Structurally it concerns itself with presenting a series of crises. From the point of view of craftsmanship, it shows how a competent artist can utilize technical knowledge. The nub of the surprise consists in keeping from the reader the fact that at the time of the happenings of this story, Alice, the wife of John Wareham, had been dead for five long years. Ordinarily in a story presented pictorially the reader is made aware of the personality of the characters in the following different ways: (a) By appearance (b) By analysis of the character's thoughts (c) By the speech of the character (d) By the actions of the character. In this story the disclosure could not have been postponed except by keeping the personality of Alice and not her appearance before the reader. Had Alice been the only one of the characters whose appearance was omitted the discrepancy would have been notice The mark of the amateur is that instead of having a Scene, he has an encounter with no narrative unity, because he does not state a narrative question in the Beginning of the able; so Miss Sherwood, being an artist, omitted all descriptions of appearances, because such omission accorded with her artistic purpose. Knowing the rules, she was greater than the rules. The story is a superb accomplishment. Note how carefully the author prepares for the dénouement. In the very first paragraph the reader becomes aware of the personality of Alice and its pervading influence in the life of John Wareham. On Line 10 he reads "the world stopped and Alice began." Thereafter that personality pervades the story. "In its serene and simple distinction it seemed to embody her" (Line 25); "The one on which Alice's red roses were blooming" (Line 46); "That threshold on which Alice had stopped to kiss him the day he had married her and brought her home" (Line 75); "It was Alice who spoke, with a little catch in her voice that sometimes came, halfway between a laugh and a sob" (Lines 204 to 207); "It must have been Alice who suggested this" (Line 306); "We ought to find him," said Alice (Line 318). Thereafter until the end of the story Alice is as real a personage in fact a great deal more realas any of the minor characters. It is just as if she had been described at the opening of the scene. So artistically is it done that the dénouement comes with the magnificent shock of complete surprise. When it comes, too, the feeling of the reader is not one of being cheated; instead it is a feeling of gratitude for being permitted to view this drama which could not have been so complete without that surprise. - flop round the earth till you're dead," and the only kinds of stimuli you'll find to which either you or a character in your story can react are an object, a setting, a person, a happening, a situation, or an idea. In Miss Sherwood's story there is an example of each of these. An object: "brook at the foot of the hill below his home" (Line 7). A person: "Just then came little Jack" (Line 84). A happening: "And so ran into a porch pillar" (Line 45). A situation: "He had invested his savings, etc. (beginning Line 53 to end of Line 72). An idea: "Is n't it a little quixotic." Equally worth knowing is the fact that there are only five ways in which a character may react to any stimulus, whether that stimulus be an object, a person, a setting, a happening, a situation, or an idea. In this story John Wareham is shown reacting at some time throughout the scene in each of these different ways. This reaction may be shown by (a) the appearance of a character (b) the analyzed thoughts of that character (c) the thoughts of that character expressed in words (d) the subtle acts of that character (e) the violent acts of that character. In this story the reactions of John Wareham, the main character, are shown in each of these different ways: (a) appearance "His face lighted up with a smile" (Line 73). umph came to him" (Line 33). (c) expressed thoughts "Everything's the matter," he said wearily, "everything" (Lines 166 to 167). (d) subtle act "He closed his eyes" (Line 44). The aspiring writer who leaves this story (b) analyzed thoughts "a vexed sense of triwithout being aware of the craftsmanship in characterization is among the blind who will not see. Few stories which I have examined have made such complete use of technical facilities of this. Characterization is, as every artist must grant, the presentation of the reactions of a character to the stimuli of life. What most writers do not realize is that these stimuli can be easily classified. There are only six kinds of stimuli. To quote Kipling: "You may take up the wings of the morning, and (e) violent act "John flung him the letter" (Line 261). There are many more instances throughout the story. These will suffice. Two interesting discoveries emerge. The first is that the ex planatory matter which cannot be dramatized is only a very small proportion of the material which a competent craftsman will use. The second is that it is unnecessary to go behind the thoughts of a minor character to know that he is thinking. That thought can be expressed in words. Remember always that a story is the pictorial presentation of a character attempting to accomplish some object despite certain obstacles. For a strictly dramatic presentation those obstacles will be made to appear to the reader, just as they appear to the main character. He will not know what another character is thinking; he may surmise it; he may hear the character express the thought; he may deduce from the actions of the other character what is going on in that character's mind. In that case, the writer's task is simple. He can always use the words "He surmised," or from this "He deduced." The chief lesson that a writer may learn from an examination of this story is that as there are only certain stimuli to which any character may respond, so there are only certain stimuli to which any writer may respond; and his response will be successful insofar as he presents the result of it to his reader in SCENES. If he wishes to check his accomplishment, the way is clear. Examine the work of established authors to discover how they met the same problems confronting every creative artist in fiction. But no matter how many stories he examines, he will find few as rich in illustration as "The Clearest Voice." A The Juvenile Field By HENRY H. GRAHAM CTION, character-building, and senti- and maintains a definite schedule of work. ment are the features desired in fiction for the young. To be successful in this field, the writer must know young people well. I know a writer who devotes himself principally to stories for boys-serials and short. tales of varying length. He knows boys better than anybody else I ever knew. He has studied boys from all angles, at work and at play, in their serious moments and in their lighter, care-free ones. He leads a troop of Boy Scouts, teaches a Sunday School class, and mixes with boys during most of his waking hours, when he is not writing of them and for them. He knows their innermost secrets. They regard him as their confidant and adviser. He has four boys of his own, all husky, wide-awake youngsters, who love to romp and play. Does this man make juvenile writing pay? He does! How does he do it? In the first place, he is everlastingly at it. He keeps regular hours, at. The first drafts of his stories he reads to his IND Talks on Practical Authorship By RICHARD BOWLAND KIMBALL XIV - The Rewards of Authorship 'N CONSIDERING the rewards of writing as a profession, I think we might compare it with the profession of banking. The successful banker is regarded a little more highly than the successful manufacturer, and bank clerks have a higher social status than clerks in other lines of business. As a result bank clerks are notoriously underpaid, and it may be said at once that as a rule writers do not get a monetary return commensurate with their ability and labor. To compensate for this, writers have a certain honor in the community and the added satisfaction of doing work they want to do. We can imagine a plumber or a butcher being in business purely for the monetary reward, but a man who goes into writing without any love for it would be almost unthinkable. If the general run of writers make a pretty poor living-comparable to the meagre living of the general run of bank clerks - those of the next higher grade earn a living wage comparable to the salaries paid to tellers and cashiers in country banking institutions. Above this, and few in number, are the successful popular writers who earn fifty or a hundred thousand dollars a year from their various royalties, and undoubtedly this number forms a smaller proportion among writers than the hundred-thousand-dollar men among bankers. An unknown writer may spend a month of hard work over a story and sell it for a hundred dollars, or fifty, or less. Possibly he won't be able to sell the story at all. To depend upon one's pen for one's living calls for a peculiar kind of courage. To be a happy writer, one should either have a private income or write simply as an avocation in spare time, or else be possessed of a care-free disposition, capable of meeting actual privation with a smile. tions of writers force them to do their best work, but a pretty thorough investigation has proven that the contrary is true. A man under the spur of dire necessity may make a spurt and do something worth-while, but he does it at terrible expense to his sub-conscious reflexes. The ideal atmosphere for art to flower in would be where art and economics were utterly divorced, either because of a different economic system or due to subsidies paid the artist or an inherited competence. The only trouble with the old-fashioned system of patronage was that the artist had to please his patron. Artists have been called indolent, but as a matter of fact they have much more active brains than the average individual, and these apparent fits of laziness are really necessary periods of incubation. The true writer thinks of his work during practically every waking moment and dreams of it at night. In a previous talk I mentioned the late Amy Lowell as an example of a poet who worked as regularly as a member of any other profession. The same is true of Edwin Arlington Robinson, who enjoys the honor of having become a classic while still alive. A novelist necessarily must work regularly because of the amount of work he has to turn out to be a novelist. Howells wrote regularly from nine to twelve every morning, and this would seem to be almost the limit of time a man could profitably spend a day on new work, the rest of his time being spent in revision and polishing. Jack London wrote a thousand words a day under any and all circumstances, afloat or ashore, sick or well. He told me that he dictated this thousand words, and that it never took him more than two hours, often nearer one hour. Regularity, the habit of work, is what the literary artist must cultivate. If a writer determined to write only one page a day and Sometimes persons claim that the priva- did it, he would be surprised at his output at the end of a year-every year he would write a full-length novel. A successful novelist told me that when he started a novel he felt like a business man who is determined to make a million dollars. He was determined to finish that novel, no matter what might be the obstacles or sacrifices involved. If any one made it difficult through intruding on him or otherwise, he said he would cheerfully kill the disturber. Success in the writing profession is perhaps just as much a spiritual or moral problem as an artistic one. The writer must develop his will to work. If you are infirm of purpose, hand your typewriter over to some one else. Some talent, of course, is necessary, but it is remarkable how small a talent will suffice if you supplement it with untiring work. The man who has a great natural aptitude for writing is often impatient of self-discipline, and on the other hand there is a greater number of persons than is commonly supposed who try to write year in and year out and who show not the slightest particle of talent. There is a vast army of people who seem to have a genius for expressing things wrong. Nobody could learn to write so badly as they write naturally. Possibly once they sold an article to an obscure trade journal or got a prize in a local limerick contest and henceforth, having tasted ink, they are ruined people. Such persons should definitely renounce writing and seek their true vocation in life. If the monetary rewards of a professional writer average less than the rewards of most professions, the writer's pay in public honor is disproportionately high. Even an unsuccessful writer, one who has sold a story or two to a cheap magazine, is a "rare bird" in any community. There has been at least one protest against this adulation of authors. Stevenson has asked in one of his essays why artists should be held in reverence by the community. He compares the artist to the femme de joie. He says that every artist creates for the joy of the doing, and why, he asks, should other people pay him in money and honor for what it is his supreme pleasure to do? There was a good deal of the moralist in Stevenson and probably he had an idea that a person should be paid only for doing something unpleasant; but in one sense Stevenson was right. The true artist is repelled by fulsome flatterers, the professional tuft-hunters, although he is humanly and rightly responsive to discriminating praise. It is all very well for the artist to despise money and fame if he can, but I think that the public is well advised in its veneration for art even to the point of transferring this feeling to the personality of the artist. The writer, like other artists, keeps alive in the race the spirit of wonder, unlocks new visions for his fellowmen and at the worst saves humanity from unnumbered hours of boredom. When we realize that a story bringing to the writer a hundred dollars may interest thousands of readers of the magazine in which it is printed, and that if the story happens to be freighted with immortality it will go on delighting numberless people for years and years, we may well ask what the writer can buy that is one-half so precious as the stuff he sells. If everybody who has enjoyed a Chopin nocturne or a Beethoven sonata were assembled in one place, we should probably have a city larger than New York, and yet Chopin and Beethoven received little or no money for their compositions. Poor Poe, most miserable of men, continues to give delicious thrills to a multitude of readers with stories that probably brought him little or nothing when they appeared in print. The artists of the world are among the world's greatest benefactors. Why do writers stubbornly sacrifice comfort in order that they may write? They do it because writing gives them a kind of happiness that nothing else can give. The psychoanalyst might say that writing releases complexes that lie deep in the writer's subconsciousness. The psychologist might say that impersonation integrates personality. The philosopher with a mystic cast of mind might say that art restores the play spirit of the race, bringing back the mythic Golden Age before the Fall. Whatever the explanation, |