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    Fallacies in Fiction 197     Some Rules for Story-Writing 217     About the Climax 225     The Use of "Curtains" 229     On Making Verse 234     The Function of the Blue Pencil 252   PART FIVE: AUTHOR, PUBLISHER, AND PUBLIC     When Offering Goods for Sale 261     The Responsibility 286   INDEX 297

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PART ONE

THE MSS. THAT FAIL

In the Business of Making Literature, the only Quality that presents itself in Abundance is entirely untrained Mediocrity.

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The Lure of the Pen

Why They Fail

In the course of a year I read somewhere about nine thousand stories, articles and poems. These are exclusive of those read by others in my office.

Of these nine thousand I purchase about six hundred per annum. The remainder are usually declined for one of three reasons; either,

They are not suited to the policy and the requirements of the publishing house, or the periodicals, for which I am purchasing. Or,

They tread ground we have already covered. Or,

They have no marketable value.

The larger proportion of the rejected MSS. come under the last heading. They are of the "homing" order, warranted to return to their starting point.

The number that I buy does not indicate the number that I require. In normal times I could use at any rate double the number that I purchase. I never have an overstock of the right thing. I never have more than I can publish of certain-to-sell matter. No publisher or editor ever has.

In the business of Making Literature (and throughout these chapters I use the word literature in its widest sense) genius is rare. Nearly-genius is almost as rare. The only quality that presents itself in abundance is entirely untrained mediocrity.

It may be thought that this applies equally to all departments of the world's work; but it is not so. While genius is scarce wherever one looks, I know of only one other vocation where the candidates expect good pay at the very start without any sort of training, any experience, any specialised knowledge, or any idea of the simplest requirement of the business from which they hope to draw an income—the other vocation being domestic service.

For example: Though thousands of paintings and sketches are offered me in the course of the year, I cannot recall one instance of an artist announcing that this is his, or her, first attempt at drawing; all the work submitted, even the feeblest, shows previous practice or training of some sort, be it ever so elementary. Yet it is no uncommon thing to receive with a MS. a letter explaining, "This is the first time I have ever tried to write anything."

Then again, no one expects to be engaged to play a violin solo at a concert, when she has had no training, merely because she craves a public appearance and applause. Yet many a girl and woman writes to an editor: "This is my first attempt at a poem. I do so hope you will publish it, as I should so like to see myself in print."

And no one would expect to get a good salary as a dressmaker by announcing that, though she has not the most elementary knowledge of the business, she feels convinced that she could make a dress. Yet over and over again people have asked me to give them a chance, explaining that, though they were quite inexperienced, they felt they had it in them to write.

Nevertheless, despite this prevailing idea that we all possess heaven-sent genius, which is ready to sprout and blossom straight away with no preparatory work—an idea which gains added weight from the fact that there are no great schools for the student who desires to enter the literary profession, as there are for students of art and music—some training is imperative; and if the would-be writer is to go far, the training must be rigorous and very comprehensive.

But unlike most other businesses and professions, the novice must train himself; he can look for very little help from others.

The art student gains information and experience by working with others in a studio; it gives him some common ground for comparisons; where all are sketching from the same model, he is able to see work that is better, and work that is worse, than his own; and probably he is able to grasp wherein the difference lies.

The music student who is one of several to remain in the room while each in turn has a pianoforte lesson, hears the remarks of the professor (possibly a prominent man in his own profession) on each performance, and can learn a large amount from the criticisms and corrections bestowed on the others, quite apart from those applying to her own playing.

But for the would-be author there is no college where the leading literary lights listen patiently, for an hour or two at a stretch, while the students read their stories and poems and articles aloud for criticism and correction. Here and there ardent amateurs form themselves into small literary coteries for this purpose; but often these either develop into mutual admiration societies, or fizzle out for lack of a guiding force.

The difficulty with literature is this: It is the most elusive