UNWRITTEN STORIES.
By EDWARD ANTON.
WAS recently with a man who narrated to me some of his dreams. The dream-teller is usually a pestilential bore, but this dreamer was out of the commoti.
By one of those freaks for which there is no accounting he had got the habit (or the gift—eall it what you will) of dreaming dreams of amazing interest ; dreams which had in them, in some cases, the stuff of which stories are made. I am almost tempted to pirate my friend's dreams.
I shall say no more about dreams ; it is not a greatly cdifying topic. But, having been regaled with such interesting matter, it set me wondering how much good material for the writer is daily running to waste, and how many fresh and original stories remain unwritten because the people who tell them, or those of whose lives the story-incidents form a part, have never thought it worth while to commit them to paper.
It is rather depressing, at times, to pick up a popular magazine and run through its stories ; so many of them are poor variations of worn-out themes and plots, weakly Lonceived and badly put together. And if, at the same time, you consider how many dramatic, romantic, humor- ous or mysterious " stories " are daily occurring in the lives of many of us, you will probably feel a little im- patient, as I do, and wish that people would use the material which comes at first-hand to them instead of wasting time in flogging "dead muttons."
I have often said, and I still maintain, that story-telling a much more widely-diffused gift (or art) than is com- monly supposed. Each of us, in our own way, has some faculty of relating things which we have seen, felt, heard or experienced.
I frequently travel to town with a former ship's captain who, albeit somewhat deliberate in speech, has the art ,d the perfect narrator. I don't suppose he has ever o ritten, or dreamed of writing, a single line for print ; but he could do so if he chose. There are many like him.
I sat on a High Court Jury last year with a Master- Baker and we took lunch together at the same bar for three days running. During these . hasty meals he told me a variety of excellent" yarns," and humorous anecdotes connected with his business. Printable stuff, every one Di them ; but I don't imagine he will ever print them. It doesn't occur to him to attempt it. Even amongst those who do write—or try to write— here is the same neglect of first-hand matter and the (ieble endeavour to imitate the work or style or themes of abler writers. You see evidence of this everywhere. I wonder how many aspirants have spoiled their chances y insistently turning out flabby unconvincing" romances" n the style of popular authors, instead of using the good aterial which is under their very noses. " Atmosphere " 1' a very essential element in the making of good stories, hut you cannot get the right " atmosphere ' when you are writing about people, places and times to which you are a stranger. These things are obvious to common-sense, and it is ('`Illally obvious that the great majority of new writers ignore them. It is a queer state of affairs. Here, on the one hand, we have editors asking for new stories—stories 111th something real and original in them—and -there, on 1/le other hand, is the would-be • contributor mewing limself up in some back room and laboriously " thinking- rut " stories instead of going into the world—the every- lay world—and securing them first-hand. That editors urgently want good stories is not to be lenied ; that the bulk of stories submitted is of the imitative" variety which I have described, is equally incieniable. Let aspirants consider, those facts. • I am confident that in all.I have said. here I shall be warmly upported by thy friend, Mr, Max Pemberton. He and S colleagues at the London School of Journalism have, Oeed, done much to reinforce the ranks of literature Y the production of writers of refreshingly new stories ad articles.. It is to be regretted that the School does c't publish the names And the 'work of its successful students, for I think it would "open the eyes' of a good many who are interested in Journalism and Story Writing.
Here, for instance, in Blackwaod's Magazine I note a series of contributions by an " L.S.J." man ; there in the Spectator I find another of Max Pemberton's young men occupying a prominent position. Another famous weekly " stars " an " L.S. J." contributor in its contents bill. In The Times is a special article of abounding interest by another, and amongst the " best-sellers" of the season I note the name and work of still another of Mr. Pemberton's students. In short, they are found everywhere and in all the best periodicals of the day. If these successes—with hundreds of others—were available for publication in the announcements of the London School of Journalism it would illuminate the public mind as to the reality of the tuition given, through the post, from no, Great Russell Street. But I realise that publicity of this kind might be objectionable to the students concerned, and moreover would be in violation of that rule of privacy which the School has always observed.
To return to my main theme, however, I hope that some literary aspirants will follow my device and look for material around and about them. I think it will profit them, and save much rejection and dejection—especially if they couple it with my oft-repeated advice to those who wish to make a successful appearance in the Press of this country—that is, to place themselves in the hands of Mr. Max Pemberton and his colleagues with a view to achieving mastery of that technique without which no writer—whether of articles or stories—has ever yet succeeded in establishing himself in the proper sense of the word.
The demand for bright articles and good new stories steadily increases, and the prices paid for acceptable work are sufficiently attractive to make it worth one's while to devote time and effort to the acquisition of that knowledge of the craft without which none has ever achieved anything more than a spasmodic success.
EDWARD ANTON.
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