The Art of Writing F yERY week at least a thousand
contributions— a articles, letters and poems—pass through these editorial offices. Recently, owing to our Short Story Competition, the number was increased and a new note was imported into these literary excursions. This has prompted us to set forth for our readers a few general considerations on the subject of writing for the Press.
We have already expressed our surprise (in the review which prefaced the winning story) that those who desire to write for the public do not pay more attention to the details of what is a very subtle art we pointed out then that the great writers of both past and present revise and recast their manuscripts time and again, and hinted that what was lacking in the essays submitted was critical ability rather than inventive power or literary facility. The reason for this is simple : the average reader is hurried. - His attention must be arrested. He must be . told clearly what he is going to read about and, if possible, the conclusions you expect him to draw. If you are not prepared to do this in submitting articles to editors as an unknown contributor, and rely alone on the importance of your subject, you will rarely see yourself in print.
In short stories the beginning may be different from that necessary for articles on serious subjects. In fiction you should adumbrate your setting and characterize the actors at once, but you should keep the reader guessing what is going to happen : it is, of course, a matter of infinite subtlety. Good writing induces expectancy : that is the reason why adjectives and phrases which are worn by over-use are hated by every good editor. A couple of cliches will spoil an otherwise competent article. But beyond this, there is something more mysterious. The stuff of life must be in your prose, a kind of literary ether permeating it and giving it cohesion. This binding quality, this invisible catalyst, is some indefinable quality which works its magic between writer and reader in ways unknown. Unless you know exactly what you want to say and feel strongly and simply and clearly about it, your sentences will not hold together : they will be dead. things : your article will be a skeleton. You must inform your words with life from your own source of Life. Style, in short, is the character of the writer. A truism, perhaps, but one which beginners should remember. Know your own capacities, then, and write of what you know and on subjects on which you feel strongly. And do not write at all (unless you have long experience of the craft) at times when you are feeling ill or worried. A sluggish habit of body ruins writing as much as sluggish emotions.
Having dealt with the introductory paragraph, and with that one virtue of language without which all else is dead, we come to certain tricks of the trade which anybody may acquire. It would seem unnecessary to point out that typescript must be definitely black and properly spaced, and the pages must be fastened together so that they may be turned over easily, yet such details are continually neglected. Then there are punctuation, cliches, sing-song rhythms, and lack of objectivity. Anyone can learn to put in commas, anyone can avoid " such is not the case " or " the vast majority of people " when he means " this is not so " or " the majority," and phrases which need a rest, such as " England's green and pleasant land." As to rhythm, if the article be read aloud, anyone with an average ear can detect unpleasing cadences. Send nothing to the Press until you have read it aloud to some victim.
As regards objectivity, many articles might be written on the value of a direct approach in journalism. The reader must be amused or interested by the human appeal of names and facts and concrete instances, which he can apply to his own experience. Abstractions bore him, so do titles. Obviously " Mr. Baldwin thinks " is vivider than " the Prime Minister is of the opinion that," yet we find the greatest reluctance to give names and facts in articles dealing with subjects of any complexity. Often, no doubt, this is due to a desire for accuracy. Particular instances must sometimes be qualified in order to present a true statement. While admitting this, we should remember also that generalities poison the wells of conviction. They arouse a subconscious opposition in the mind of the reader instead of waking his sympathies.
The best style amongst amateurs, we have often noted, is to be found amongst the men or women of action. Nor is this remarkable, in view of the foregoing. Enthusiasm and courage will out in all forms of self-expression.
What marvellous stories could be written if the talk of adventurers could be written down as it is spoken by many a fireside ! Unfortunately, the adventurer, pen in hand, thinks that he is attempting something beyond his powers in telling a plain story. He attempts to philosophize or analyse his feelings, or becomes self- conscious, and is lost. But this pen panic might be overcome perhaps if he were to dictate his story to an enthusiastic and intelligent listener. In describing an incident there should be a verb to almost every dozen words and a very minimum of adjectives.
The end of an article or short story should present little difficulty, for it must have been clearly visualized before ever the beginning is written. In other forms of author- ship it may be different ; a novelist, for instance, has room to allow his characters to take their own way, and their unfolding may be as fascinating to him as it is to us. Within a limit of a few thousand words, such develop- ment is impossible. You have something to say, a mood to convey, a moral to point, a cause to urge : having said what you can and must, do not add a single sentence in support. A phrase too much is fatal.
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