It is impossible to write in order to be popular. Trying to be popular is the first step to absolute failure.

It is probable that the young writer will meet this statement about the formulæ of successful fictionists. It is true that most writers for the millions can be accused of a pattern deeply imbedded sometimes in their work, sometimes all too near the surface. The formula, however, is as definite a part of them as their face or feet. It discovered them. They did not discover the formula. Write what you really feel, and it is probable that there are a certain number of people in the world who will recognize this feeling. Once you learn to transmit your real emotion to paper, and you may turn to a study of the proper form in which it should be given to the public! You may then discover yourself to be an H. G. Wells, or yet again a Harold Bell Wright; but, for the class of reader you reach, you will be authentic.

To be popular a novel must have for some large group of people the aspect of realism.

Even so fantastic a book as Christopher Morley's "Thunder on the Left" strikes many readers as interpreting in a vivid way the real problems of mankind. Yet this book will fail to reach so large a public as, for example Edna Ferber's "So Big," because the problem of fitting one's dreams to reality is not so generally recognized as that of the concrete failure of a mother's ambitions for her son. The most widely read writer of adventure or mystery stories is always the one like Mary Roberts Rinehart or E. Phillips Oppenheim whose characters are carefully drawn, whose events are, no matter how unlikely, shrewdly documented so as to seem, at least at the time of reading, believable.

It has been apparent to any person following the trend of modern fiction, that the willingness of the public to accept stories which deal with life in its more brutal phases, in other words, realistic stories in the common use of the term, are becoming more acceptable to an enlarging group of readers. Even in the romantic novel, which has, of late, had

a recrudescence of popularity, the modern reader demands probability in larger measure.

Only today, realizing full well that it is dangerous ever to advise a writer, I wrote a letter to an author of swinging adventure yarns, who has a great gift of story-telling, and a most unusual knack for the invention of odd event. "If you are to reach a public of more than ten thousand," I wrote, "You must re-write your stories tying up your plot in such a way that unusual events are explained, and the reader lays down your book with the feeling, not only that he has been held breathless, but that he has not been fooled."

There are, in my opinion, two reasons for this change in the reading public. First, there is the attitude of mind which preceded the war, but was intensified by the war, which led to a great questioning of existing standards and conventions. The war forced multitudes to face the grim side of living. It made the fairy stories of life seem less real to all of us. Today the popular religious novel must take cognizance of a change in religious feeling; the thought behind the later novels of A. S. M. Hutchinson is startlingly different from that which motivated the early stories of Harold Bell Wright or of Ralph Connor. The novelist who embodies in his story some preachment, or propaganda, must either be preaching with his time or ahead of it, else he will not find his audience receptive. Even Dickens seems dated when we find him preaching for prison reform, and such a play as John Galsworthy's "Justice," great as it is, will date with the swiftly improving methods of courts and prisons.

Today so earnest a realist as Charles Norris becomes rapidly a nation-wide best-seller. He writes of life as he sees it; so does Mrs. Norris. How differently they observe. Yet they give us as nice a contrast in emotional background as can be found among American writers. For Mrs. Norris, life is far more romantic than for her husband. Even in "Certain People of Importance" we feel her fundamental belief in the resilience of the

human spirit, in the drama of small event and the highly dramatic value of elaborate circumstance. Mr. Norris, on the other hand deals with day-to-day existence, with the slow, poignant movement of life. Both, however, meet the test of reality, for to some folk Mrs. Norris's heroines are perfectly real, while to others, her husband's heroes are psychologically unbelievable.

Just as we have been forced to contemplate the seamy side of life by changing belief and violent circumstance, so we have been educated in the practical details of realism by the motion picture and the radio. Have you ever heard around you in the motion picture theatre the comments on a fake picture. "Oh, I know how they did that. It is n't real." and so it goes. Whatever violence the motion picture may do to the realities of life in plot, it offers, after all, the reality of photography. We actually see the hero jump from a moving train into an automobile, or hang perilously over the canyon. We learn, too, how a great storm tears a ship to pieces, or how the folk of India move and have their being. Over the radio we hear the news, views and songs of the time. We are becoming more aware. We demand faithful background as opposed to hastily sketched or imagined scenes. We are much less easily fooled by the popular romancer. This condition does not seem to me so much to limit the imagination as to demand greater powers of invention and a more sedulous regard for detail.

ous outlines must be there, and the more closely he follows them, the greater unity he will achieve, and the more definite his impression will be on the reader. In re-writing a story, the effect of reality is often lost by an attempt to juggle with the bones of the plot. Scenes or characters may be strengthened, minor situations changed; but a variance from the original vision of the whole, is often fatal. This brings me to a discussion of theme.

Most popular novels have a theme as well as a plot and this can practically always be expressed in a short sentence.

Take a few of our recent successes as examples.

"The Sheik" overpowering love.

Every woman dreams of an

"Main Street" - The small town is inimical to intelligence.

"If Winter Comes" It is a Christian and loveable characteristic to suffer without complaint.

"Red Ashes" - Love triumphs over fate. "The Perennial Bachelor" - Man, after all, is a mighty selfish animal.

"The Private Life of Helen of Troy" There is a little of the wanton in every

woman.

So it goes, and they are themes which we can weave into our own lives. The quality of recognition is what brings book and reader together. We must see ourselves, our dreams, our friends, in the books we read in order to

No writer ever reached a great audience who did not have an innate sense of how to tell a story. A definition of a good story would involve much vigorous argumentation. A purely autobiographical novel such as "Jean Christophe❞ may be considered a good story if the events of the life revealed or the emotions of the characters involved are strong enough. I believe that no novelist should sit down to write his book until its plot details are as clear as crystal in the mind. He may rearrange them as he proceeds; but the vigor

weep with the characters. A novel with a weakling hero is never so widely read as that in which a strong man moves to triumph. It is true that the theme, as I have called it, is far less obvious in a writer like Zane Grey than in the case of Margaret Pedler; but with Mr. Grey it is the persistent belief that mankind lives by reason of his love of the open and of the strong deeds that recommend him to the millions.

Having touched lightly on a few of the characteristics which seem to me to make for popularity in fiction, I should like to say a

word or two about the method of reaching a public for a writer who has obvious qualities of popularity. In general, the fairly slowly building sale of the novelist who is able to write with steadiness is the safer and more logical method. The sudden success of a first novel is in some ways greatly to be feared. It may come before the author is steadily aware of his own technique, and throw him off the path of his own abilities. It may be due to some curious freak of circumstance which makes it unlikely that the writer will ever repeat his success, and have great difficulty in finding a loyal public to support in even steady smaller quantities his later books. The ideal success, is the one which starts to a modest but firm sale on a first novel, preceded perhaps by the gaining of a magazine audience, then maintains or increases this sale so that a certain assured public is always waiting, and, on occasion, this public may suddenly expand. Sinclair Lewis is a good case in point. He was an experienced fictionist before the advent of "Main Street." He is a shrewd journalist. That he is also an artist is beside the point of this article; but it undoubtedly strengthens the power of his journalism. He may never again have books which will reach so wide a public as "Main Street" or "Babbitt," but he will always have a large and enthusiastic following which knows that he cannot write a book in which they will be entirely disappointed.

The greatest danger lies in wait for the author who tries to repeat a great success in exactly the same vein. Yet the public is often cruel in this respect and will refuse to accept anything but a repetition of general theme and plot from its favorites. When Gene Stratton-Porter turned to historical romance, her greatest public did not follow her, and when she essayed poetry she was hurt to find that she pleased neither the critics nor her faithful millions.

To the man or woman who is writing a first novel, there are a few definite words of advice to be given. If you feel your own story so strongly that you must write it, either dis

guise it, or write it and put it away in a bureau drawer. It is more than likely that your second novel is the one which really ought to be your first to be published. On the other hand it is a good thing to allow some publisher to see your first novel. If it has any promise, you will find willing advisors. It may be that, while perfectly publishable, it does not have exactly the quality which is needed. for a fiction debut. Patience at the start may affect your whole career as a writer.

I think that only a few novices in fiction realize the immense importance of a reasonable success for a first book. By this I mean only a moderate sale with perhaps little financial return, either to author or publisher; but a sale which means that the copies distributed to the bookseller have actually been sold and are not lying about on the counters or the shelves, when the next book is ready from the presses. Great harm can be done by over-selling a first book. It is far better for the novelist that the bookseller should order and sell one copy of his story, than that he should order twenty-five, sell five, and have twenty staring him in the face. Perhaps this type of detail may seem sordid to the highminded young author; but, believe me, it is a very real part of the career of a writer who wishes to make a living by his craft, or to establish a reputation.

Some writers are born with an instinct for placing themselves before the public. They discover this early. It is a gift not to be despised, but one which, if not controlled may often turn on itself and result in a sudden turning of the wave of popularity. Other writers, whose work is quite as good from a popular angle, have no ability whatsoever for popular personal contact. They are not so easy to convince. They should confine themselves to writing, and, finding a publisher they can trust, allow those who sell their wares to do all the ballyhooing.

For the man who must earn his living by writing, the ideal situation is one in which he finds himself with some means of regular support which leaves him vitality for the writing

of the thing he really enjoys. It is from the thing that he really enjoys as a rule that the greatest prosperity finally comes. If he does not need to worry about the success or failure of a particular piece of work, he will find that his mind is much easier for the construction of others. In other words, I believe that the fiction writer is much safer if he first develops a magazine market for his wares, then turns to the preparation of book material. It is a well-known fact that the best magazine serials do not often make the most successful novels, although the truth of this statement is questionable on the surface because most of the great popular novelists do not lack for serial markets. Looking into past history, however, you will usually find that the novel which made or crystallized their reputation was not a magazine serial, or, if it was, did not command a high price.

On one of our own publication lists for a season were at least five first novels. Perhaps a glimpse at the author's backgrounds will be useful in showing you how novelists are born. One of these books is by a woman. She has long been editor of a semi-literary journal, and a member of a, group of young men and women who talk much and read most of the current out-put of literary America. The story is her first attempt at novel writing; but her experience in handling the work of others has aided her in producing a well-knit story of her

own surroundings. Two of the novels are by men whose lives are very largely determined by their part in the war. Both of them had written stories of the war in which their own experienecs played a large part. Both had, in the past been teachers, one of them is teaching now. In both cases their earlier material passed through my hands and they were advised to wait. In one case, the author turned to a totally different genre, and produced a story of sophisticated historical setting, which has none of the air of a first novel. In the other case, the man concentrated his original material and produced a memorable picture of war which has a far broader appeal than he displayed in the original handling of the same material. The other man, whose means allowed him to travel widely after graduation from college, has written three other novels, none of which were submitted for publication. The maturity of his book led us to suspect that fact.

After all, the strongest advice anyone can give to the man who would reach the millions, is expressed in a sentimental line, which I have already expressed several times above and which, with the knowledge that it will be greeted with something of a smile, I quote from Mr. Shakespere in closing "To thine own self be true." or, as they say, "Be yourself!"

F the forty-nine pieces of fiction or narra

tive writing published in Scribner's Magazine for the year beginning with the August 1925, Fiction Number, thirty were written by what might be termed "young" writers. The year produced twenty-five individuals whose literary output is in its early stages. This does not refer, of course, to those who are not professional writers. It does include authors of articles as well as stories. Most of these made their beginning with Scribner's absolutely unheralded. Many of them saw themselves in print this year for the first time.

This is not an invitation to flood us with war or cowboy stories. It is an invitation to let us see records as true, as real. as expressively done as these. It shows that you can never tell what a magazine will take until you try. If you know the thing you're writing about and can make your prose live up to the experience, you need no rules nor any trick methods to win the editor's attention. Such manuscripts need no beating drum nor sounding title.

Due to the fact that we do not buy names and do not order stories, sight unseen, from those established in the craft, Scribner's Magazine is a particularly bright spot for the young writer. Lest that seem too rosy, let me add that we receive about twelve thousand manuscripts a year and buy approximately one hundred. Often we have to let competent stories go back because we simply have n't

room for them. But it is not seldom that we select a promising story from a young writer in preference to a formula story by some more or less well-known writer.

Usually after the stories are accepted, however, we find that these new writers have been plugging away for a long time. If anyone, in luring advertisements or elsewhere, tells you that you can learn to write in six months, blithely tell him he's a liar and go your merry way. It can't be done. Short story courses can tell you what not to do. As Edith Wharton says in "The Writing of Fiction," formulæ are like railings down a dark and unknown stairway. They are guides until you know the way. Some cling to them for life.

There are undoubtedly too many people trying to write today. Lured by glamorous tales of huge fortunes amassed by authors of best-sellers and by the stampeding language of advertisements, many people come to regard literature as a get-rich-quick scheme. Most of these ought to go into Florida real estate or plumbing. Writing is not a tradeone of the authors' trade-journals to the contrary notwithstanding. It is not an occupation like that of the grocer. Marketing is n't the chief problem.

Doctors and lawyers are not made in six months. They go through a long and hard apprenticeship. There are the elements of a profession about writing. Mastery is acquired only by effort. Such apprenticeship for the